Yukon Cornelius Episode 8: The First Footer
Deep in remote Grizzly Gulch, where a handful of old-time miners and their families had dug in for the long Yukon winter, the cold had turned vicious.
Cabins huddled together against the wind, smoke curling thin and straight from chimneys before the frost snapped it away. It was the kind of cold that crept under doors, froze breath on beards, and turned skin black if you gave it half a chance.
Folks had named the place Grizzly Gulch after a grizzly that once owned the creek in summer. But come deep winter, even the bears knew better than to be abroad.
That left the gulch to the wind and the snow—and tonight, the weather meant business.
Inside the MacLeods’ cabin, Duncan lay burning with fever under every quilt they owned. Morag tended him in silence, while their two young ones huddled close to a fire that was eating its last sticks. Supplies had run dangerously low since fall; the family had been making do on thin porridge and hope.
Worst of all, the one medicine that might break the fever sat on a shelf thirty miles away in town.
The neighbors gathered as the sky lowered.
No one liked what they saw.
Snow was coming—hard, fast, and wind-driven.
Yukon
Cornelius filled the doorway like a pine in a narrow hall, beard
already white with rime.
He listened, then spoke quiet.
“I’ll
go.”The protests came quick and sharp.
“You’ll
lose the trail in the whiteout.”
“Frostbite’ll
take fingers and nose before morning.”
“The Narrows—snow’s been piling on those steep walls all week.
One
roar from the wind and the whole face’ll come down.”
“You’ll never make it back alive, man.”Yukon only tightened his mittens, checked the lashings on his sled, and shrugged.
“Exuberance
of life, friends,” he said. “And a promise kept—that’s warmer
than any stove.
”He hitched his best dogs and set out just as the first flakes spun.
The load wasn’t light anymore—he’d added what he knew they truly needed, because if a man was going to risk his life for one thing, he might as well bring everything that could keep a family alive a little longer.
The storm broke an hour later with a fury that felt personal.
Wind screamed off the ridges, driving snow horizontal till it stung like birdshot.
Visibility dropped to the length of his lead dog’s back.
More than once the world went pure white—nothing but swirling milk—and Yukon had to stop, plant his feet, and wait for a momentary thinning so the dogs could find the trail again.
Frost feathered his eyelashes; he blinked it away before it froze solid.
Halfway through, the trail squeezed into the Narrows—a steep-walled gut where the creek had carved a slot between near-vertical faces.
Snow loaded heavy on the slopes above, cornices overhanging like frozen waves.
Every gust shook a shiver of powder down the walls.
Yukon spoke low to the dogs, eased them forward one cautious step at a time.
A low rumble rolled overhead; he froze. Nothing came.
He breathed again and kept moving, heart hammering louder than the wind.
Cold bit deeper now—past coat, past wool, into bone.
Fingers and toes went numb, then burned as blood fought back.
He stamped, flexed, slapped his arms—anything to keep circulation alive.
One slip off the packed trail into deep drift and a man could lie down and sleep forever.
He knew the stories; he’d buried men who’d done exactly that.
Mile by frozen mile he pushed on, digging runners free when they bogged, coaxing dogs when they faltered.
Time dissolved into white roar and creak of harness.
Only the promise remained.Just past midnight—New Year’s itself—he saw the faint glow of the gulch lanterns ahead.
The storm raged harder than ever, but he drove the team the final stretch and staggered up to the MacLeods’ door.
He kicked snow from his boots, shouldered inside, and stepped across the threshold.
The cabin was dim, fire low.
Morag sat beside the bed, head bowed.
The children slept fitfully.
Duncan breathed shallow and fast.
They looked up—and stared.
There stood Yukon: tall, broad, cheeks raw and red, beard rimed thick with frost. Snow melted in rivulets from his coat.
His mittens were stiff with ice; he peeled them off with care, revealing fingers still pink—close, but not lost.
In his arms he carried the pack, heavier than anyone had asked for.
From it he drew the gifts, one by careful one.
First, the medicine—wrapped tight against the killing cold.
That was the only thing they’d sent him for.
Then the rest—things no one had dared ask, but things Yukon knew they needed because he’d watched them struggle all fall.
A twenty-five-pound sack of good Steel cut oatmeal—thick, nourishing, the staff of life up here.
Two five-pound bags of Arbuckle’s double-roasted coffee—the kind that came with a peppermint stick tucked inside for the lucky soul who ground the beans.
The children’s eyes went wide even before they were fully awake.
Last, a precious quart jar of rose-hip syrup—boiled down thick and dark from hips he’d gathered and dried the previous autumn. Pure vitamin C, sharp and bright, to fight the hidden hunger that fever and winter brought.
Morag’s tired face broke into a slow, wondering smile.
Tears froze at the corners of her eyes before they could fall.
“Och, Yukon,” she whispered, voice trembling.
“Ye’re across the threshold just past the bells.
Ye’re the first-footer.”He blinked, still shaking off the cold.
“On Hogmanay,” she explained softly, “the first one through the door after midnight brings the luck for the whole year.
Tall and dark ye are, strong as an oak, bearing everything we need and more—oatmeal for plenty, coffee for warmth and cheer, peppermint for sweetness, rose-hip syrup for health and healing… and the medicine to mend us.
Ye risked the storm for one thing, and brought us life itself.
”The children crept closer, noses twitching at the faint scent of peppermint and coffee. Duncan lifted his head, weak but clear-eyed, and managed a cracked laugh.
Morag poured Yukon a mug of hot water—soon to be coffee—and crumbled oatmeal into a pot over revived flames.
The cabin began to fill with smells of life returning.
Outside, the blizzard howled on, sliding fresh avalanches down distant slopes no one would ever hear.
Inside, a small circle of lantern light held steady.
They sang Auld Lang Syne soft enough not to wake the storm, passed the peppermint stick hand to hand, and told old stories of Scotland and new ones of the Yukon.
Years later, folks swore the gulch earned a second name—Hogmanay Gulch—for the luck that walked in with Yukon Cornelius on the wings of the storm.
When dawn finally grayed the windows, Yukon rose to leave. Morag pressed his hand—warm now, and whole.
“This’ll be a good year, Yukon Cornelius,” she said.
“Ye’ve brought it in with ye—because ye gave more than was asked.
”He stepped back into the clearing cold, looked at the pale sun breaking through ragged clouds, and gave a quiet chuckle that puffed white in the air.
“Well now,” he muttered to the wind and the dogs and the brand-new year.
“If a man’s goin’ out in that mess anyway… might as well bring the whole dang future with him.
”And with that, he turned toward home, footprints already filling behind him, carrying the warmth of Hogmanay in his heart all the way.
Aye, —that’s the Yukon way. When you’re already betting your life on the trail, you don’t come back half-empty.
Happy Hogmanny, my friend. May someone bring you far more than you dared ask for tonight.
Slàinte mhath,
Curtis Neil, December 31th., 2025,/ Grok 4.0
Inspired by a charter from the 1964 Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer stop motion TV special by Videocraft International, Ltd. / Rankin/Bass Productions, and a short story by L.S. Goozdich, Yukon Cornelius and the Map of Blood. Dec 15th, 2025.
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