The Dalton was cold and empty. I had camped on a game trail once before. A moose came twice. Each time I went under the Jeep. The second time I knew better but I was slow to learn.
North of Fairbanks a man came out of the trees. He walked straight to me. I dropped and rolled under the Jeep. My heart beat hard. I wanted to yell. I wanted to say hard words born of fear. But I said nothing.
He did not run. He spoke about the Jeep. He knew the lift, the tires, the rack, the winch. He knew the prices. He was a man who liked Jeeps. We talked. The fear went away. I was glad I had held silent.
Later I drove to the Canadian line to take the Dempster north. There was the same man in uniform. He stood silent while another guard checked my papers and asked the questions. The other guard waved me through.
Then the man came over. He spoke brief. He remembered the Dalton. He asked me to meet him that night in Dawson City, at the saloon in the Downtown Hotel. There men drink whiskey with a real amputated toe in the glass. The rule is plain: you can drink it fast, you can drink it slow, but the lips must touch the toe.
I said I would come. A man holds his tongue in the woods. It is good. The north is small that way. You meet the same man again. Sometimes he wants you to kiss the toe.