So here I am at the brink of my first winter in the Yukon. Though it is only October, we have flirted with single digit thermometer readings, had a couple of light snows and had Thanksgiving. No turkey at this table. . .no siree. . .we had a black bear standing roast complemented with a platter of spruce and ruffed grouse breasts in a wonderful thick gravy and two slices of pie. After losing about 15 pounds over the first six months here, I am on a mission to consume calorie to better cope with the harshest of seasons.

Winter is the esteemed judge in determining if I am worthy of Knighthood in this land North of 60. To successfully “winter over,” in ecological terms, is to survive to spring, the season of rebirth. Whether it’s a tulip bulb buried with its stash of carbohydrates and sunshine, a fattened black bear, or the compulsive pine and spruce cones hoarder, the red squirrel, all measure another year by successfully wintering over.

My first Yukon winter will result in my receiving the ceremonial distinction of maturing from the newcomer title of “Cheechako” to “Sourdough.” Over the past four months I have become quite fond of the word “Cheechako.” The echoing “ch” sound has an exotic Latino countenance about it, especially if you whisper it loudly. I can barely contain my hips from wiggling when I say it.

Though the word “sourdough” might come with grander accolades in the northern hierarchy, its melody doesn’t dance off the tongue like saying “lily” or “marionette.” Instead it carries images of a fetid old wool sock left in a trapline shack.

I have never heard the prefix “sourdough” assigned to any other northern creatures. There are no sourdough ravens and there is no way I would call a spring grizzly a sourdough. They just go on surviving, demanding nothing, particularly attention. I suspect it has something to do with their egoless souls.

In fact my search for fellow sourdoughs often leads me to the Alpine Bakery in downtown Whitehorse. This is a genuine 100% organic bakery where loaves of breads and muffins are baked daily in a brick oven. The husky loaf of Alaska Sourdough bread is one of my favorites. Toast it golden, slather it in butter and spoon a good dose of blueberry jam on it and you will experience a preview of the Pearly Gates.

I think I inherently balk at the prefix “sour.” It is as if the bread itself is an antonym to its title . . .one is so good and the other elicits a look of disgust. The word “sour” is a short and harsh descriptor. In my mind it conjures up nothing that is worthy of a promotion. However I am fully aware that the word “sourdough” has a rich history in this neck of the woods. During the gold rush era breads, particularly sourdough breads were a mainstay to the diet of the Klondike stampeders.

You see sourdough breads are those breads that ferment and rise by capturing wild yeasts in the dough, rather than getting a boost from domestically cultured yeasts. This “more wild” bread cultivates a symbiotic relationship a group of bacteria referred to as lactobacilli and natural yeasts. Consequently the flavor is tangy or sour.

While on the trail to Dawson City, gold prospectors simply kept a small amount of “starter” dough, which contained the yeast culture. And just as they had to feed their dogs, they had to feed the starter batch with new flour, a pinch of salt and water. The new growth would provide the batter for the next loaf of bread and part of the batch was saved to repeat the process over and over. Some sourdough “bloodlines” have created hundreds and hundreds of loaves of bread. In fact there is a well-known bakery in San Francisco that has a uniquely tasting sourdough with a lineage that might match Abrahams of the Old Testament. They have used the same sourdough culture since it’s origin during the California Gold Rush in 1849.

Old timers, ironically referred to as “sourdoughs,” learned that keeping a sourdough culture warm was necessary for it to survive. They often carried a pouch of starter around their neck or on a belt, tucked inside their shirt.

It’s not the cold I fear as much as the lack of daylight that might trip up my march towards “Sourdoughdom.” Last week we had an energy audit done on the Outpost. Theo, the fellow doing the audit and a veteran of more than a score of Yukon winters, told us that he lives at Crag Lake, about thirty miles south of the Outpost. It is a beautiful spot, tucked between two mountain ranges that run east and west. He told us that when the sun is at it lowest, during the winter solstice, he and his family experience one and a half minutes. . .yes minutes. . . of sunshine! Good thing I will be home in Minnesota to see family and friends over the holidays and solstice.

Oops. . . the sun has emerged from behind the clouds. I’ve got to get outside and get a dose of needed sourdough starter.

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