I pause at the deserted gas station at the turnoff from the Klondike Highway onto the Dempster and check my gas tank for the umpteenth time. I’ve been up since dawn in preparation for my journey and am in no doubt about the seriousness of my undertaking. It’s a long and lonely ride to the next pit stop, and I’m very much on my own.
I’m no stranger to driving challenging roads. I cut my teeth on Chile’s Carretera Austral when the legendary highway was more pothole than road and drove it in an ancient little Skoda – however, the Dempster gives me pause. Before I trade the bitumen of the Klondike Highway for the gravel and shale of the Dempster and point my SUV northwards, I can’t help but recall a line from a Mary Chapin Carpenter Song: “Now it’s too late for turning back/I pray for the heart and the nerve…”
The Dempster Highway ribbons its solitary way for approximately 764 km from near the Klondike Gold Rush settlement of Dawson City in the Yukon to Inuvik, the northernmost town in the Northwest Territories. Remarkably, it is the only highway in Canada to cross the Arctic Circle. Moreover, as of 2019, it allows you to drive from mainland Canada all the way to the shores of the Arctic Ocean. This route bisects swathes of virgin spruce forest and cuts across vast empty spaces of undulating tundra. There are no settlements along the way until reaching the mighty Peel River and the small Gwich’in town of Fort McPherson, located some 555 km into the journey. Little signs of human life appear until hitting Eagle Plains, a motel and gas station combo at Km365 which serves as a good lunchtime stop.
Hours fly by in a meditative blur of green spruce that flanks the road on both sides as I revel in the silence and stillness of the land around me, punctuated only by the gravel flying from beneath my tires. I begin to believe that the challenges of the Dempster have been vastly exaggerated until a sharp beeping from the console shocks me out of my state of complacency. Car rental companies in Whitehorse will only allow 4WD vehicles on the Dempster, and my souped-up SUV comes with rudimentary tools in case of (likely) breakdown. Back in the day, the Dempster was covered solely in tire-shredding shale; drivers commonly brought two spare tires with them. I’ve taken a chance by carrying just one spare tire, and though I theoretically know how to change one, I’d rather not turn my back on the forest due to wildlife concerns. So far I’ve only caught a glimpse of five denizens of the woods – a black mama bear and her three cubs crossing the road some distance away, and a shy wolverine, but this is grizzly bear country as well.
I coast on a near-flat the last 25 kilometers to Eagle Plains, where the mechanic fixes my car and refuels it. There are three RVs parked outside the lonely motel, plus a pair of dusty cyclists adjusting the panniers on their bicycles – the most traffic I’ve seen so far today. The near-isolation of driving the Dempster arguably adds to its daunting yet exhilarating aspect; even during the height of summer, you’re unlikely to see more than a dozen motorists during your entire journey, and there is no phone signal en route. The hubbub and the exchanged greetings inside the busy diner provide a welcome culture shock after hours spent in silence and solitude.
The weather turns as I pull away from Eagle Plains. The Dempster is pretty much open year-round, barring the freezing (Nov-Dec) and thawing (Mar-Apr) of the Peel and the Mackenzie rivers. Interestingly, the advantages of travel in winter include a lack of mosquitoes and often-visible northern lights; however, there’s also the risk of freezing if you break down. I’m traveling at the most popular time of year (summer), when there are more fellow motorists to rely on, but the weather remains unpredictable at best. Torrential rain quickly turns the unpaved road into a mudslide, leaving me struggling to keep my vehicle steady as it threatens to glide off the side of the road.
It’s wondrous to watch the changes in the landscape beyond the Arctic Circle. Dense spruce forest gives way to dwarf trees, and then the land opens up, suddenly and dramatically, with rolling tundra stretching to the horizon and bare, snow-tipped hills soaring to one side. Then, without warning, fog descends, and for a brief period, I can barely see a few meters in front of me, prompting me to slow down to a crawl. Out here, you’re very much at the mercy of the elements.
A few more hours and two car ferries later, I finally make it to Inuvik, twelve hours after I’d started out and shaking with exertion.
Days later, I’m retracing my steps, having enjoyed the small-town hospitality of this remote northern town and having driven the new highway that connects Inuvik to the tiny Inuit settlement of Tuktoyaktuk, on the banks of the Arctic Ocean. Three years prior, I’d flown over the tundra, the myriad ice-melt lakes and pingos (permafrost hillocks). So few people get to see these remarkable and unique features of this harsh northern landscape up close; I’m truly one of the lucky ones.
In Fort McPherson, I’m turned away from the car ferry landing. “The water levels are too high.” Ferry service may resume the following day, or not. I’m incredibly glad that I allowed myself a couple of extra days for the drive back, although it will be tight to catch my flight out of Whitehorse. I spend the night in Fort McPherson’s only motel, waiting for word about the ferry. Serendipitously, the delay coincides with the July 1 Canada Day celebrations; locals warmly invite me to join their cookout outside the community center, while a Gwich’in teenager paints a maple leaf on my cheek.
Fortunately, I’m able to leave the following day, and a reverse blur of tundra, snowy hills, glacial rivers, and endless spruce forest follows. I stop to stretch my legs at the entrance to Tombstone Territorial Park, some 70 km from the southern end of the Dempster, gazing wistfully at the mountain peaks in the distance while making a silent vow to return one day and camp among its harsh peaks and valleys.
As I near the junction with the Klondike Highway, I smell gasoline, and my fuel tank dramatically empties within seconds. Somehow I’ve managed to puncture it on the very last stretch. However, luck proves to be on my side; I’m promptly rescued by a kindly local who gives me a ride onward to Dawson City – a fitting end to a dramatic journey that has exceeded every expectation.
Produced by iBestTravel for Travel Yukon. All editorial views are those of iBestTravel alone and reflect our policy of editorial independence and impartiality.
