Frozen Bones, a Whitehorse country-rock band, was setting up for the Saturday night gig. They had driven in from Dawson, four hours to the northwest. The road could not be that bad. We had a beer, and we then left for the one caf across the ice. There were two young women who served what seemed a hotel full of men. How they survived the endless surveying I will never know. One of them wore a sweatshirt that happily pronounced: "Canadian Women Rock." I believed it. So did Dave; he wanted to take it to his daughter.