In a land such as the Yukon, with its colorful past matched by its colorful characters, tales abound of the perils and adventures experienced by those hardy sourdoughs who first pioneered the country. Many are the tales that have been told in the still of the un-equalled splendor of a Yukon evenings while gathered around the campfire with close companions.

A group of men were sitting in the smoking compartment of a cross-Canada train, when the compartment was entered by another man who looked around and asked if there was anybody in the group from the Yukon. I am, said one of the men.
Good, said the newcomer, lend me your bottle opener, will you please.
It may be the harshness, at times, or the length of the winters, or any number of other indeterminate factors that make Yukoners different - a difference greatly appreciated by other Yukoners. And so it is with those of us who spend our lives in the high northwest. All these yarns have to do with men of the north. The stories are true. It is to be hoped that our stories will prove to be interesting and entertaining. The pity of it is that they cannot be listened to over steaming hot rums on a cold winter nights, rather than read from a book.

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