#GarrySowerby

Things didn’t sound quite right at the Pelly Crossing filling station in the middle of the Yukon Territory. The gurgle of the fuel I was pumping down the filler neck had a frothy note, reminiscent of the sound of filling up one of the diesel pick-ups I’ve owned over the years.

I smelled the nozzle before I hung it up and, at precisely the instant my nose processed the “Diesel-you-idiot” warning, my eyes focused on the word DIESEL on the side of the fuel pump.

To say I felt stupid was an understatement. The gasoline-powered Chevy Blazer I’d rented from National Car Rental in Whitehorse obviously would have to have its tank drained and the delay would cut the heart out of the six hours of daylight that mid-December offered at this latitude. It might even disrupt overnight plans at Bombay Peggy’s, a renovated former brothel in Dawson City, where Lisa had reserved the Lipstick Room.

“There’s a silver lining though,” I tried to be upbeat, as I confessed the fueling blunder to Lisa. “It’s Friday the 13th and this should be enough of a screw-up for clear sailing at Bombay Peggy’s along with my quest to be ordained into Captain Dick’s Sourtoe Cocktail Club.”