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"  Recently, Davin Coburn headed to the Pacific Northwest to learn about one company&amp;#039;s revolutionary new build process for their high-performance kitplane\u2014and then to go for a test drive, to figure out what it was like 180 degrees from a midtown Manhattan office. Catch up with his journey by clicking here, then take to the skies below...  Rain has settled in over Scoop Lake, making it a great morning for a soft chair and another cup of coffee. Ted Setzer works the phones \u2014 unlike in the United States, all VFR flights in Canada require filing a flight plan. That requires us to figure out where we&amp;#039;re going \u2014 and when we&amp;#039;re liable to get there. A break in the weather after lunch provides our window, and we saddle up the Sportsman for a trip up the Alaska Highway, into the Yukon. As great as island hopping and bush-strip camping is with the Sportsman, Glasair also promotes the plane as a real cross-country hauler. So after a fuel stop at Watson Lake, in the southwest corner of the territory, we turn 300 degrees on the compass dial and square the engine (24 in. of manifold pressure, 2400 RPMs).  We drone through the majestic St. Cyr Range, to rolling valleys and the meandering Pelly River. The Yukon has a population just over 31,000 \u2014 and nearly 24,000 of them live in the capital of Whitehorse. For much of the flight we have nearly 10,000 sq. mi. of visibility, and there is zero sign of civilization. As we clear yet another mountain range and pick up the Klondike River, I like knowing that we&amp;#039;ve got a flight plan filed \u2014 and personal locator beacons in our survival vests.  After four hours of flying, we motor into the land of permafrost, where the rain showers become snow showers and the river inlets slow until they clump up entirely in blocks of ice. The sun won&amp;#039;t set tonight. We touch down in Dawson, Yukon, the last stop before the Arctic Circle. Sitting at the confluence of the Klondike and Yukon Rivers, Dawson is a good place to get drunk at 8:30 a.m. \u2014 a place where a shovel and a gold pan may well still represent a legitimate career path. Dawson is the former capital of the territory, and in 1898, two years after gold was discovered in the hills, the town was home to 40,000 people. Jack London himself lived there for a time. Today, official literature pegs the population at 1,800 (and twice as many in the summer, which lasts about six minutes).  We wander dusty streets (no one appears to use the sidewalks), and enter Diamond Tooth Gertie&amp;#039;s \u2014 which after decades still houses the town gambling hall and cabaret show. You know you shouldn&amp;#039;t sit at the empty table by the stage, but when the four of us arrive at 10:29 for the 10:30 show, we take what&amp;#039;s available. And sure enough, I get dragged onstage as part of the show. Call it a long story \u2014 but I left with a garter belt. And then there&amp;#039;s the Sourdough Saloon, at the corner of Queen St. and Second Ave. Through its swinging wooden doors, past the airplane wreckage on the walls, around the piano that hasn&amp;#039;t been tuned in 100 years, up the steps into the back... is a toe. A real, dead, disembodied human big toe, probably 3 in. long, prune-colored and wrinkled and straight-edged at the back knuckle, where it looks like someone disembodied it with a cleaver. The nail is mushy and broken, just begging to slough off. The Sourdough Toe is wrapped in cloth, packed in rock salt, and stored in a mahogany box. And taking a cue from the Robert Service poem, The Ballad of the Ice-Worm Cocktail, those wishing to prove their mettle (and intestinal fortitude) can order the &amp;quot;Sourtoe Cocktail&amp;quot;: Any drink you like, with that real-dead toe bobbing in it. &amp;quot;Drink it fast or drink it slow,&amp;quot; the directive goes, &amp;quot;but your lips must touch the toe.&amp;quot; The original toe supposedly came from a bandit who got frostbitten running from the law \u2014 but every few years, someone gets about nine pints in and knocks the drink back just a bit too hard, and the toe has to be replaced. This one may well have come from a cadaver, but regardless, it&amp;#039;s 11 kinds of disgusting. The Sourtoe is ordered rarely enough, in fact, the saloon keeps a list of people who do. Which meant I had to try it. Which started with picking the drink. (What goes best with a grizzled digit?) I settled on Old No. 7 \u2014 a stiff shot of Jack. The box opened, the toe was presented and splashed into my glass. I just stared at it, wondering how much the alcohol was doing to sanitize the experience (answer: not enough). But this is one of those things that doesn&amp;#039;t get any more pleasant by thinking about it. So I slammed the drink. Problem is, the toe was so bloated and soggy, it didn&amp;#039;t drain with the fluid. It hung there, glued (in some revolting way I don&amp;#039;t even want to consider) to the bottom of the glass \u2014 meaning once the drink was gone, I had to look up at the thing and shake the glass until it broke free... and fell into my mouth.  You only live once \u2014 but I&amp;#039;m sure that drink didn&amp;#039;t lengthen the experience. [Ed note: A week later, I still can&amp;#039;t think about it while I&amp;#039;m eating.] I climbed into a motel bed at 1 a.m. and reached over to kill the light. It was already off; my shades were open. \u2014Davin Coburn A Sourtoe Cocktail doesn&amp;#039;t get any better the more you think about it. "^^<http://www.w3.org/2001/XMLSchema#string>
<http://www.popularmechanics.com/adventure/a1835/4218793/>