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Our Winter of Content in Canada's Western Arctic

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Preeceville, Saskatchewan Canada
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It was 20 years ago, on January 1, 1999, that Kathleen and I drove away from our home in North Vancouver and headed north to Inuvik, NWT, from where, on January 31 we flew in to "our" one-room cabin at the north end of Colville Lake (note giant arrow). We were all alone, 40 km (25 miles) from the nearest community, 350 km (215 miles)from the nearest road, nearly 100 km (60 miles) north of the Arctic Circle. No running water. No electricity. A grand adventure shared with wintering caribou, proud Ravens, and one inquisitive mink. All around us, the boreal forest rested silently – waiting for the snow to recede – waiting for the rivers to thaw – waiting for spring to return.

I apologize to John Steinbeck for borrowing and altering the title of his book for this topic, but for me our time at the north end of Colville Lake was the best one hundred and forty-one days of my life. Complete satisfaction and contentment. In fact, the experience was life changing.

I met my wife Kathleen in 1976, and she quickly came to share my passion for silent, empty landscapes. At first we pursued weekend hiking trips into the mountains of southwestern British Columbia. These short sojourns soon lengthened into week-long withdrawals to more isolated alpine retreats of northern British Columbia and the southern Yukon. We always sought those peaceful, special places that remained least insulted by noise, pollution and degradation.

Finally, perhaps inevitably, we discovered the pristine purity of Canada's far north. We embraced canoeing, mostly alone, on month-long canoeing expeditions across the remote the Northwest Territories and Nunavut: South Nahanni, Thelon, Coppermine, Seal. Rarely did we see other people. Only the occasional bush cabin reminded us that we lived in a congested world of six billion other human beings.


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By 1998 Kathleen and I realized that we wanted to spend a winter in Canada’s Arctic. Our experience on summer canoe trips seemed incomplete. We wanted to spend a winter in the North, where rivers, lakes and muskeg remain frozen for 7 to 8 months of the year. We wished to immerse ourselves in cold. We wanted to be surrounded by snow and ice. We longed to know the exquisite joy of seeing the ice break apart in the warmth of spring. We yearned to witness the rivers burst through the frozen chains of winter to once again run free and sparkling in the sunlight. We shared an unfulfilled desire to hear the swans, the geese, the loons and the multitudes of ducks that would suddenly and joyously return to their northern nesting grounds.

We were also thinking that we might want to move to the Northwest Territories, But Kathleen grew up in Vancouver. I grew up in Sacramento, California. Neither one of us had ever experienced winter. We thought it prudent that we do so before making such a bold move.

Our opportunity came in 1998. We both worked at the University of British Columbia. Kathleen was the head of a department that had been eliminated. But the University to not want her to leave, so they offered a one-year "sabbatical" without pay. I had just stepped down from an administrative position, and I was given the usual one year with pay sabbatical. We were free. We just needed a place to go.


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I happened to be reading Up Here magazine that featured articles about northern Canada, and discovered that a man named Bern Will Brown, a Deacon in Colville Lake, had cabins for rent at the north end of Colville Lake, which he referred to as "The Outpost."


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The middle cabin pictured above would be ours. The far left cabin was larger, that Bern said would be harder to heat. Bern rented these cabins primarily for fishing expeditions in the fall, and had never rented them during winter. The far right cabin was used for storage. We agreed on a price, and Bern mailed the key to us. He also mailed his SSBx radio which needed repair. Bern said that he would establish a daily schedule for us to contact him at his lodge at the south end of the lake. Remember, there was no road between us and Bern 40 km (25 miles) away, and he wanted to make sure that we were OK. After all, he didn't know us. We could have been completely incompetent, and not up to the task of living on our own so far away from civilization.



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We needed to learn about walking on frozen lakes and rivers. We needed to learn about winter camping. We needed to acquire the most appropriate clothing and gear. To begin our education, we purchased a copy of A Snow Walker’s Companion, by Garrett and Alexandra Conover, a truly excellent book that provided detailed advice and recommendations on clothing and gear. Chapters included Snowshoes and Footwear; Toboggans; Tents and Trail Stoves; Clothing for the Elements; Tools of the Trail; and Provisioning. Additional information included addresses and telephone numbers of suppliers of winter equipment, plus detailed plans for making clothing.

Of all the suppliers listed in the Conover book, Craig MacDonald, in Dwight, Ontario, provided the most complete selection of both clothing and equipment. He also included detailed instructions on techniques for hauling sleds, for travelling safely during winter, for erecting tents, and for avoiding tent fires. In fact, Craig would sell his winter wall tents and stoves only to those people who also purchased his use-and-safety guide. We appreciated Craig’s prudent and careful approach.

We wanted to do some winter camping, so purchased an Egyptian cotton tent that measured 8 feet by 10 feet, with a 3-foot wall and a 6.5-foot ridge height, yet weighed only 16 pounds (7.25 kg). Very light considering that the tent’s fairly roomy size could easily accommodate Kathleen and me, the stove, and much of our gear. Yet the tent was small enough to be set up quickly using metal tent poles, without needing to spend time cutting larger poles from the forest. It looked very elegant in our back yard in North Vancouver. I was very excited.

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Our plan was to stay in the cabin until breakup, and then paddle 550 km (340 miles) down the Anderson River to Liverpool Bay on the Acrtic coast, where we would arrange for a float plane to take us back to Inuvik. We just had to get six months of supplies and gear to Inuvik.So on Saturday morning, August 22nd, Kathleen and I prepared to head up the road to Hay River. Kathleen’s brother Frank, and his wife Patricia joined us for our adventure, and they looked forward to their first-ever visit to the Northwest Territories. They had also generously offered to take turns driving. By 9:00 am the four of us had loaded the van with 25 plastic bins, gear and supplies, which filled the back of our vehicle from floor to ceiling. We tied the canoe and sled onto the roof rack, and checked in the house one more time for anything that we might have left behind. Frank and Patricia stuffed themselves into the middle seat, surrounded by bins, blankets, pillows, luggage, sleeping bags and summer tent. I backed the van out of the driveway, and headed east, in the morning sunshine, toward the Trans-Canada Highway.

Three days later we reached the Northern Transportation Company dock, in Hay River, on the south shore of Great Slave Lake, where our van and its cargo are ready to be weighed before unloading our supplies and gear onto pallets.


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I much appreciated Frank’s skill at organizing and marking everything for shipment down the Mackenzie River. His management background in the helicopter industry shone through. With Frank at the helm, we completed our task efficiently, and were done before noon.

Our 25 plastic bins, plus one canoe and one sled would soon be heading down river toward Inuvik, over 1550 km (950 miles) away. The total cost to barge 585 kg of groceries and gear was only $225.00 – a fantastic price, I thought. Our supplies would enjoy a leisurely journey on the river, with the expected arrival date sometime in late September or early October. Our friends in Inuvik, Alan & Marilyn, would pick up our supplies and store them for us.


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Before heading back south, we spent a comfortable afternoon driving to and visiting Fort Providence, west of Great Slave Lake, on the Mackenzie River. We ended our very successful day in the Twin Falls campground,


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overlooking Louise Falls on the Hay River. Frank and Patricia set up house in the back of the empty van. I lay in our tent, next to Kathleen, snug in my sleeping bag, relishing my now inevitable winter escape.
 
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Love the SnowWalkers Rendezvous close to my home.. Garrett and Alexandra are no longer both Conovers.. Alexandra is now a Bennett but both still work together here in Maine. Craid McDonald is a fount of wisdom and knowledge..All three present at the Snow Walkers Rendezvous in Fairlee VT in Nov..

But I digress; waiting expectantly for next chapter.
 
Love the SnowWalkers Rendezvous close to my home.. Garrett and Alexandra are no longer both Conovers.. Alexandra is now a Bennett but both still work together here in Maine. Craid McDonald is a fount of wisdom and knowledge..All three present at the Snow Walkers Rendezvous in Fairlee VT in Nov..

Interesting about the Conovers. I truly thought it was a great book.

We were especially intrigued with the Conover’s recommendation for footwear: "The [traditional] sock-felt-moccasin system is entirely breathable, very lightweight, and magnificently functional in conditions ranging from twenty-five degrees Fahrenheit [minus 4 degrees C] to as cold as temperatures go on earth. [The system] is comfortable and light as can be. You feel as if you are prancing around in bedroom slippers."

We bought four pairs from Craig. Based on a design in the Conover book, Kathleen made duffel-cloth inserts for all four pairs of our new moccasins, also known as mukluks. With their light canvass uppers and tanned moosehide bottoms, did appear very much like cosy bedroom slippers.
 
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In September, we took the key to Bern's cabin down to the mall and into the small store that made duplicates. We handed the key to the man behind the counter, who studied it rather intently. A little too intently for my liking. His interest made me feel a tad uncomfortable.

The man rotated the key in his hand and said, “This is an unusual size – very short. I haven’t seen anything like this for quite a while. Don’t know if I have any blanks that can duplicate this.”

I wasn’t feeling any better. But at least I had the original. That was something.

“I’ll see what I can do,” the man said. He searched through his rows of blank keys and finally selected one to place on the grinder. A few minutes later he handed the original and a pair of duplicate keys back to me. “Here. I made two. I’m not sure that either will work. If they don’t, just bring them all back, and I’ll try again.”

“OK,” I replied.

I didn’t bother trying to explain that it would be impossible to bring the keys back from the north end of Colville Lake. I wasn’t too worried, though. As I said, I had the original key.

On September 24, I sent a letter to Bern that included the two new duplicate keys. I also explained why I had kept the original key. He called to say OK. "Just don't lose the original."

We heard from Marilyn Fehr on October 1st that she had picked up our supplies in Inuvik. She and Alan stored the 25 plastic bins in an unheated shed at a Parks Canada compound, and took the sled and canoe back to their house. All goods looked to be in good order, except that they “seemed to be missing number 9, 18 and 26.”

On the phone, I told Alan that number 26 was the sled, and that number 9 was a green plastic bin. Number 18 was a large plastic container, about twice as large as the others. “I hope it’s there, Alan, as it had our axe, saws, sacks of flour, and other larger items. It was on pallet number two, probably near the bottom.”

“We’ll look again, Mike.”

On October 23rd we ordered two muskrat RCMP-style hats from the Winnipeg Fur Exchange. Based on the recommendation of the Conovers, we also ordered two coyote ruffs. As soon as they arrived, Kathleen easily sewed both onto our canvass wind suits. That day we also went shopping for Sorel boots, looking particularly for the Glacier model rated to minus 73 degrees. Not as cold as it gets on earth, but pretty close. Kathleen and I both tried on a pair of the black versions. Very bulky at nearly 2.5 kg per pair.

“I don’t like these,” Kathleen said. “I look like Frankenstein’s monster.”

“So what? Who will see?”

“I will, and I don’t like them.”

We trundled over to the next outdoor store on our list, where Kathleen tried on a pair of white Glacier Sorels. She grinned, obviously pleased. Now she looked like the wife of Frankenstein’s monster. Much better, apparently. We bought them.

Kathleen and I took the ferry to Victoria on December 15 to pick up the SSBx radio. The guy behind the counter said, “I’m sure it’s working, but you will need to get it tested.”

“Can’t you test it?”

“No. We’re not licensed or set up to use the frequencies that your radio sends and receives. You have to get it tested by someone in the region where you will be using the radio.”

"I guess we can do that in Inuvik."

I called Alan just before Christmas, who said that "I think it would also be best for you to stay with us for the month of January. You could then practice winter camping, and try out all your gear. Marilyn and I agree that this would be better than flying directly to Colville Lake as soon as you get here. You don’t really have any previous experience in very cold temperatures. It would be good to get some experience before you go to the cabin.”

Of course Alan was right, and I immediately accepted his very generous offer. “Thanks, Alan, we’ll do that. We look forward to visiting with you, and in spending some time in Inuvik, which should be very interesting. An adventure in itself! I have to tell you, though, that I’m not looking forward to driving up to Inuvik in the winter, particularly along the Dempster Highway. I’m not very good with snow, and our van, with its long wheel base, fish tails and slides out quite easily. Do you know if truckers coming up to Inuvik might we willing to bring us and our van?”

Alan hesitated for a moment, and then said, “You know Mike, pregnant women here in Inuvik drive down the Dempster all alone in winter, on their way to see doctors in Whitehorse. You say you want to spend the winter out at Colville Lake, but you’re worried about driving up?”

“I accept your point Alan, although it’s not entirely fair. I’m not worried about myself in the winter. I’m worried about my van. I won’t be driving when we’re out at Colville. I’ll be on snowshoes. I won’t be fish-tailing or skidding on ice over cliffs.”

“All the same, Mike, I think you ought to drive up yourself.”

“OK,” I replied, “I’ll talk to Kathleen about it. Thanks, again, Alan.”

After hanging up, Kathleen and I agreed that we would still inquire about the possibility of hiring a trucker to take us up to Inuvik. Neither one of us was happy driving on snow and ice, particularly on the Dempster Highway, which extends about 750 km (465 miles) between the Klondike Corners near Dawson City and Inuvik. Only two service possibilities are possible: Eagle Plains, which is just a motel and service station, about half way to Inuvik; and the small community of Fort McPherson, a little farther north.

I called a casual acquaintance, a member of our canoe club, who ran a trucking business. I think he had two small trucks that operated in southern British Columbia and Alberta. He gave us his opinion that most truckers normally don’t go up the Dempster in the week or two after Christmas. Moreover, no truck goes up empty.

“What would be the point of that?” he asked.

I had to agree. There would be no point in going up empty. It looks like Kathleen and I would be driving ourselves up the Dempster Highway to Inuvik.

When we had ordered our new van in 1990, I requested that it be shipped with a block heater. The salesman said that he never brings vehicles to Vancouver with block heaters. “You won’t need a block heater, here. Why do you want one?”

Even then I knew that someday I would be going north for the winter. I knew that I would need a block heater. Now was my first opportunity to use it. The next day I took our van in for snow tires, servicing and general maintenance.

“Please check all the fluids and hoses. We’re going to Inuvik on January first. The anti-freeze should be good to minus 40 degrees, and I need winter oil.”

I also asked the mechanic to confirm that the block heater actually worked. His answer of, “I don’t know how,” surprised me. I guess he doesn’t come across many block heaters. Problem was, I didn’t know how either.

I called Alan, who said, “Just plug it in. You can usually hear it. Or, you can place your hand on the block and feel some warmth.”

Alan says he shares that story with his northern friends to this very day. Apparently he was amused about how little his southern friends actually knew about winter. But he was right. Kathleen and I knew very little about winter weather.

We were about to find out. On December 31st we packed the van with axe, wall tent, sleeping bags, candles, wood stove, winter clothing, food, snow shovel, chains and other survival equipment that we might need should we break down on the Dempster Highway. For additional weight over the rear axle I also added two large bags of cat litter for Alan’s friend in Inuvik. I was not looking forward to the drive.
 
My kind of story for these long winter nights.
I did something of the same thing, back in 1974, moved to a cabin near Manley Hot Springs Alaska with nine sled dogs. Nearly forty some years later I am still living the dream, minus the sled dogs, but with a bride of 41 years.
Eagerly awaiting for the "Rest of the Story".
 
Not to be picky, but isn't that waterfall Louise Falls, on the Hay River, taken from the Louise Falls campground?

wjmc
 
Not to be picky, but isn't that waterfall Louise Falls, on the Hay River, taken from the Louise Falls campground?

wjmc

Thanks for being picky, wjmc. You are, of course, right. That's what I get for being in a hurry. Indeed, my notation on the slide clearly says that we were at the Twin Falls campground, above the Hay River. I was trying to quickly digitize some more slides, matching them to the sequence in my diary. I have to admit, when I saw the image, I said to myself, "those falls look a lot like Louise Falls." Instead of checking, I just shrugged and went on my merry, but misguided way. Thanks again!
 
This will be a good read, especially 6' from a hot wood stove and 3 sleeping dogs at my feet. Thanks for your effort, very much appreciated.
 
I don't remember why, but neither Kathleen nor I took any pictures on our way up to Inuvik. Perhaps because once we arrived at Colville Lake, we would not be able to get any more film. This was in our pre-digital days, and each picture taken represented one less available shot. We needed to conserve, I guess.

We left Vancouver, heading north, into the first dawn of 1999. Kathleen and I drove silently, beneath clear skies. The Trans-Canada Highway through the Fraser Canyon was bare and only slightly wet from last night’s rain – a good start for us. The first snow patches on the road appeared just north of Quesnel. From there we travelled on packed snow all the way to Prince George, which we reached just as night fell. We’re doing very well. In fact, even in summer, we usually do not travel as far as Prince George on the first day.





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We stayed that night at the Chalet Sans Souci Bed & Breakfast – a very cute residence, known locally as ‘The Gingerbread House, built and operated by our very hospitable hosts, Jacqueline and Lutz Klaar. I captured the image above from what I believe is an old webpage for the chalet, which doesn't seem to be in business anymore. The most recent TripAdvisor report is for 2010. Although this is obviously a summer, not a winter image, I thought you would like to see it. Pictures are good.

After settling in, we drove a few kilometres north into town for dinner at Earl’s Restaurant. Snow began to fall halfway through our meal. As Vancouverites, Kathleen and I began to fret. Everyone else in the restaurant, however, seemed oblivious to the impending disaster outside. My only experience with snow was in southwest British Columbia. Normally the weather warms up to above freezing after a snow, which turns to ice. Vehicles careening and crashing all over town. This was my image of snow. As calmly as we could, we finished both our entrée and dessert and drove back to our B & B without incident.


At breakfast the next morning I talked with Lutz about the recent servicing of our vehicle. “Say, Lutz, maybe you can answer a question for me. When picking up our van, I noticed on the invoice that 10–30 oil had been put in, the same oil weight that we always use in summer. This didn’t seem right to me. What kind of oil do people use here in the winter?”

Lutz replied that “Where you’re going, with very cold temperatures, you should have a lighter winter oil. If I were you, I would stop at a service station and change the oil.”

We took his advice before heading up the road in mid-morning. We expected to reach Fort St. John by early evening. First though, we would need to cross the Rocky Mountains through the Pine Pass, at an elevation of 935 m (3,067 feet). Later on, just west of Fort St. John, we would climb up and out of the Peace River Valley on a narrow, steep and winding road. Both of these obstacles were much less fearsome than the ominous Dempster Highway. Nevertheless, I began to worry.

We travelled on packed snow with more snow falling until mid-afternoon. Pine Pass had been plowed and cleared. Very nice. The rise up to the pass was much shorter than I had remembered. Certainly much shorter than I had visualized all morning. The climb out of the Peace River proved equally uneventful. The van performed very well, with no fishtailing. All that worry for nothing. Maybe winter driving isn’t all that bad after all.

We stayed in an old, somewhat tired motel right along the highway in Fort St. John. The evening temperature had dipped to -19 degrees C (-2 F), and we decided to wear our new mukluks for our short walk to the adjacent fast-food restaurant. Although Kathleen and I both felt very self-conscious, no one stared or even seemed to notice our traditional, northern footwear.

We left Fort St. John on January 3rd at 7:15 am beneath a lightly overcast sky. Still dark, and -18 degrees (-2 F). The sky soon cleared to reveal a full moon. The pre-dawn twilight bathed the snow-covered trees in a slightly golden luminescence. As the sun rose, the entire horizon glowed pink. A very enchanting start to our third day of travel.

We had covered 1,320 km (820 miles) on our first two days of travel, which put us on the Alaska Highway. We would now be driving through a much more isolated, often mountainous landscape, but expected to reach Toad River, 565 km (350 miles) away, in northern British Columbia, before nightfall.

Unfortunately, we drove all day in snowstorms – and on roads covered in snow. If there had been any elderly grandmothers on the highways, they would certainly have whizzed right on by me. Mostly, though, we encountered 18-wheelers, travelling fast, creating white-out conditions for us whenever they passed. Our first hard day of winter driving.

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Summer Image of Toad River above from the internet by Jerry & Roy Klutz

Finally, more than an hour after dark, we approached the bridge leading into Toad River, which consisted primarily of a rustic motel/restaurant/gas station, plus a few scattered out buildings. From previous trips I knew that the road made a sharp right turn as it climbed up onto the metal-surfaced bridge. I suddenly had those old visions. Those recurring visions of our van fishtailing out of control. Just like in Vancouver, I slowed way down. To this day, Kathleen said that at times it seemed like we were standing still or actually going backwards. What can I say? I was tired. It had been a difficult day for me.

We eventually crossed the bridge and drove up to the lodge, where we booked a tiny, clean and comfortable room. We rested a bit, and then walked out in our stocking feet to the small dining area. In the booth next to us sat a mother and her two young children. It was Sunday, the end of the weekend. They were on their way to the Liard River Hot Springs, for an evening soak, after which they would return home. What makes this anecdote interesting is that they lived in Fort Nelson. What makes this story even more interesting is that the Liard River Hot Springs lie slightly more than 300 km (185 miles) west of Fort Nelson.

So I think you get the picture. I had struggled mightily all day to cover 565 km (350 miles). I am beat. This family beside us, though, would travel more that 600 km (370 miles) round trip, in the middle of winter, just for an hour’s soak. Probably laughing, joking and singing all along the way. Snow doesn’t bother this young woman. At least she’s not pregnant, though. That would be even more humbling for me.

Just as our dinner arrived, a young couple, also staying at the Toad River Lodge, sat down at the booth recently vacated by the Fort Nelson family. They were restless, agitated, and immediately began telling their story. The United States military had transferred him from his base in Florida to a new assignment in Anchorage, Alaska. As an adventure they decided to drive, rather than to fly. Before leaving they had been told, by Floridians (probably by people who didn’t know how to tell whether or not a block heater worked), that snow tires weren’t necessary. “The roads will be fine,” they were told. [I don’t know how Floridians would know about winter road conditions in northern British Columbia. I’m just telling you this story as it was told to me.]

Just about an hour ago, 24 km (15 miles) south of Toad River, the young couple were passing an 18-wheeler on a narrow, up-hill climb above a river. They hit a patch of ice and tumbled over the side (See. I told you!), apparently severely damaging the passenger side of their vehicle. Tomorrow they would return with their towed vehicle to Fort Nelson. Tonight they were blaming everyone but themselves.

“The government shouldn’t have let us drive here in the winter. Those people in Florida should have known better about the roads. Some of these roads aren’t even paved. It’s dangerous.”

Yeah, I thought. It can be dangerous. It can be very dangerous to pass 18-wheelers on dark, narrow, windy, icy mountain roads. It can be very hazardous to drive in northern British Columbia during winter as though you were in southern Florida in summer. Why did you do that? Perhaps you should have been more patient, and not have tried to pass the truck.

I tried to cheer them up – to get them to relax. “You know, you’re actually pretty lucky. Your dog is not hurt. Neither of you is hurt. Your car will be fixed in a few days, and you will eventually get to Anchorage. Not so bad, you know.”

They remained undeterred, though. “The government shouldn’t have let us drive to Alaska in winter. They need to get us back to Florida, to see our families, and then fly us to Anchorage.”

The next morning after breakfast we rolled away from Toad River at about 9:00 am. Not an early start, but sunrise was at about 9:30, and I preferred to drive during daylight. A little bit warmer than yesterday morning, at -14 degrees C (7 F). Just north of the Liard River Hot Springs, seven bison stood next to the highway, grazing placidly in the snow, which continued to fall all day long.

We were making very slow progress, and tentatively decided to stop in Watson Lake, in the Yukon, a distance of only 320 km (200 miles) from Toad River. With 1500 people, Watson Lake was the only ‘large’ community between us and Whitehorse, which lay another 430 km (265 miles) beyond Watson Lake.

After lunch I told Kathleen that I felt pretty good about the driving conditions. “I know we’re not going very fast, but we’re making progress. I’m not too tired. Maybe we can go a little farther than Watson Lake.”

Kathleen looked skeptical. “There’s no reason to push it, Michael. Watson Lake is a good place to stop. We know there are several hotels and restaurants. There’s also grocery stores where we can get more food for lunches. We need to shop, which will take some time. We might as well stay.”

She made good points, but I offered a compromise. “Well, if we get there soon enough to shop, that’s just like a rest. We can then go on if we agree.”

Kathleen still looked skeptical. “Well, OK, but only if we agree. OK?”

“OK.”

We reached Watson Lake at about 3:45. I still felt good, and apparently had forgotten about the pact that I had struck with Kathleen less than two hours ago. Without saying anything, I surreptitiously continued driving west, out of town.

My ruse hadn’t worked, though. “What are you doing, Michael? I thought we were going to stop in Watson Lake!”

She sounded somewhat agitated, perhaps even irritated.

“I’m not tired, Kathleen. I think we can easily get to that little motel that we read about in the accommodation guide.”

“But we agreed to talk about it first.”

“It’s less than an hour away. It would be good to get there. It would be good to put in some more distance.”

Sunset in early January at 60 degrees north latitude occurs just after 4:00 pm. Night was beginning and the snow continued to fall. Poor visibility, but I pressed on. Seconds later an on-coming 18-wheeler showered us with swirling snow. Poor visibility became no visibility. I couldn’t see the road. I couldn’t see the side of the road. This is not good. A second on-coming 18-wheeler continued our white-out conditions. I couldn’t see to go forward, yet I dare not go too slowly in case more 18-wheelers were coming up from behind. They might not see me until too late to stop. This is very bad.

“We have to turn around, Michael!” Yes, she definitely sounded agitated and irritated.

But there was nowhere to turn around. No exits. No pullouts. I drove on, very much wishing that I had stopped. Very much regretting that I had ‘forgotten’ about my pact with Kathleen. Finally there appeared a gated road to the right. Just enough room for me to nose in, back out on to the highway, and head back to Watson Lake. I was a very happy and appropriately apologetic person when we checked into the hotel room.

We agreed to get an early start, and left Watson Lake on January 5th at 7:00 am. The small, roadside motel I had been headed for the previous night was closed for the winter. Kathleen didn’t say anything as we passed by. The first light appeared at 8:15, and the sky turned pink-purple at 9:40. The sun rose above the mountains at 10:15, as we moved easily along a plowed highway beneath brilliantly blue sky. Easy driving. It felt good to be on the road.

We stopped for gas at one of the very few, small communities along this section of the Alaska Highway. We enjoyed a cup of coffee, paid our bill and returned to the van. My stomach sank when I noticed green fluid leaking from our radiator onto the snow. dang! I just had the van serviced. Why is this happening to me? We trudged back inside and asked if there was a mechanic available.

“Not in the winter. There’s no mechanic anywhere around here.”

“But my radiator is leaking. Is there anybody that might have a look at it for me?”

“There is a guy renting that cabin down the hill. He’s good with cars. He might be able to help you. But I don’t think he’s around right now. He sort of comes and goes. Besides, we don’t have any radiators here. You probably can’t get a new radiator until you get to Whitehorse. You could go back to Watson Lake. It’s closer.”

I didn’t like either of these two alternatives. Certainly I wouldn’t want to give up the valuable ground I’ve gained by going back to Watson Lake. And besides, I might not make it to either Whitehorse or Watson Lake with a leaking radiator. I’d rather stay here than break down along the highway.

“I’ve had leaking radiators before. I used to pour in that grayish kind of powder that comes in small cans. I don’t know what it’s called. It seems to work, though. Do you have anything like that?”

“Yeah, I have one can left. Two bucks.”

I poured it in, headed northwest to Whitehorse, and hoped for the best.

We reached Whitehorse in the early afternoon, where we again stopped for coffee and gas. The radiator seemed to be working fine. We had not overheated at all. We agreed (yes, we agreed) to press on, rather than looking for a mechanic, or inquiring about new radiators. The weather had been getting colder all day. The thermometer at the gas station read -31 C (-24 F).

We intended to stay that night at the Braeburn Lodge. This iconic institution of rustic cabins and café – well known for its cinnamon buns – lay approximately halfway between Whitehorse and Carmacks, a distance of about 85 km (50 miles). We arrived about 3:30, just after the sun dropped below the mountains. Perfect timing. We walked inside to the warmth of a wood fire and the delicious aroma of fresh baking. Very inviting. We were looking forward to this.

“So would you like a menu?” the man behind the counter asked.

“Not right now. We’d like to get a room first, and then come back for dinner.”

“I can’t rent you a room. I’ve got no running water in the cabins.”

“Do you have an outhouse? We’d be happy with that. We don’t have to have running water.”

“No. I can sell you food, but I can’t rent you a room.”

I was a little surprised by the unyielding attitude, which I suppose had something to do with government health regulations. But it was cold outside, nearly dark, and still almost 75 km (45 miles) to Carmacks. I was more than a little surprised and disappointed to be turned away.

We continued on slowly in the dark toward Carmacks, a town of about 400 people. The only hotel, with its downstairs smoke-filled bar, was noisy and uninviting. On the foyer bulletin board we read a flyer advertising the Mukluk Manor Bed & Breakfast. You gotta like a bed & breakfast called mukluk. I called the number and asked if they had any rooms.

“We’re not really open this time of year. You can stay, but we’re not set up to serve breakfast.”

“We’ll be right over!”

Our hosts, whose names I cannot remember, led us downstairs to a self-contained suite. Very luxurious, comfortable and roomy. Like having our own apartment. We turned on the TV to the weather channel, which forecast increasing cold for the Whitehorse-Carmacks-Dawson City area.

We spent Wednesday, January Sixth in Carmacks. Not because we decided to take a break from the road, but because our key would not turn in the van’s ignition. Overnight the temperature had dropped to -46 C (-51 F), and the van completely froze up. Perhaps the van still had residual moisture in the ignition from its normal life on the coast. Our Mukluk Manor host draped a tarp over our vehicle, and placed a small electrical heater inside the tent-like structure. “Maybe this will thaw your ignition. I’ve seen it work before,” he said.

Carmacks sits at the junction of the North Klondike and Robert Campbell Highways, where the Nordenskiold River joins the Yukon River. We viewed our predicament as an opportunity to try out our winter gear, and to explore walking on ice. We donned our mukluks, layers of wool, canvass wind suits and mountie hats and strolled about one km (0,6 miles) down the Nordenskiold River to where it joins the Yukon. Along the way we investigated cracks and odd-looking, yellowish discolourations in the ice. At the confluence we stared, somewhat in wonder, at the large ridges and hummocks created by differential freezing rates and overflow between the two rivers.

We strolled back along the road, toward the Mukluk Manor, very pleased with how warm we actually felt, even at -51 degrees Fahrenheit [I switched from Celsius to Fahrenheit here because -51 F sounds so much more impressive than a mere -46 C.] We particularly loved our mukluks. We were two happy people with warm feet, prancing along as though in bedroom slippers, just like the Conovers promised.

As we neared home, a passing car slowed, and the driver rolled down the window. “Do you need a ride?” he asked.

“No, thank you. We’re just out for a walk.”

We weren’t trying to be flippant. We were indeed out for a walk.

The driver, however, seemed put off by our response. While rolling up his window he replied, rather disdainfully as he enunciated each word, “It – is – minus – forty – five – you – know.”

We know. That’s why we’re out walking.

Back at the Mukluk Manor, the key still refused to turn in the ignition.

“I don’t think it’s going to work,” our hosts reported. “I think you should call the garage, and have the tow truck come out. His garage is heated, and your van can thaw out overnight.”

So we called the tow truck, and happily prepared for another night in our suite. Our hosts, ever gracious, said, “We won’t charge you as much for the second night, as you didn’t really intend to stay.”

Now that is Northern Hospitality.

It turns out that several vehicles had been towed in for thawing before ours, which wasn’t ready until 2:00 pm the next day. Even at this relatively late hour for us, we decided to head for Dawson City, 350 km (215 miles) away. We had always enjoyed our summer visits to Dawson City, and wanted to experience its winter ambience. We would have nearly two hours of sunlight for driving, and I was well rested.

Our hosts made us promise to call when we reached Pelly Crossing, about one third of the way to Dawson City, just to let them know that we were OK. I think they said something like, “no one goes out on the roads in this kind of weather.” Kathleen and I were both eager to get going, though. We had been stopped too long.

Twenty km (12 miles) before reaching Pelly Crossing we started to experience the unwelcome effects of severe cold. Even with the heater at full strength, no heat seemed to be entering the cab. The inside of the windshield began icing over from the condensation of our own breath, and I had difficulty seeing the road even only a few metres (yards) ahead.

I had heard about this possibility, and had brought some cardboard to use as a home-made “winter front,” a remedy about which I had read. All I needed to do was jam the cardboard in between the grill and the radiator. I had never done this before, nor had I ever seen it done before. I had only read about it. With our windshield rapidly becoming opaque, the job had to be done right.

31636234207_aec4d463a5_b.jpg


Summer view of Pelly Crossing. From the internet. Creator unknown. IPTC Photo at YukonInfo.


So when we pulled into the combination gas station/grocery store/cafe/video game parlor at Pelly Crossing, which claims to be the coldest place in the Yukon Territory, I walked toward the large building to seek help. The thermometer on the wall registered exactly -50 degrees Celsius. Just inside the front door I encountered an elderly man sitting at a table, grinning at me.

“Pretty cold today,” he said. “Minus 60.”

I’m pretty sure he meant Fahrenheit, still clinging to those old Imperial units. Minus 50 C equals minus 58 F. So one might as well round up to minus 60. It sounds mighty impressive. Even to this day, that remains the coldest temperature I have ever experienced.

At the counter stood an RCMP officer paying for his purchases. A man of experience. A public servant. Here I stood. A man of inexperience. A member of the public. A match, as they say, made in heaven. Certainly he would like to assist me with my piece of cardboard. I walked up, said hello, told him about my windshield icing over on the inside, and asked, “Do you think it would help if I stuffed a piece of cardboard between the grill and the radiator?” I had posed my question in a sort of pathetic, helpless kind of way – thinking – even hoping – that he would do it for me.

He looked at me with an unconcerned expression, and said, “It might. You can always try.”

Kathleen wasn’t having any better success with making a phone call to our Mukluk Manor hosts in Carmacks. There was no indoor pay phone, and while I had been bantering with the mountie she had tried using the outside pay phone. She now stood beside me to report, “The phone didn’t work. The keys were frozen. I couldn’t press individual keys anyway with my big mitts on. I even took my mitts off, and tried poking the keys with my wool gloves, but then my fingers didn’t work.”

The girl behind the counter said, “It’s way too cold out there. Here, use the store’s phone.”

So, while Kathleen made the promised phone call, I crawled under the van and jockeyed the cardboard in between the grill and radiator. I seemed to get it positioned and secured reasonably well after only three attempts. The important lesson learned was that I could be reasonably functional at -50 degrees if properly dressed. Vehicles and other kinds of modern, mechanical conveniences such as telephones give up long before that. We drove away and the windshield eventually did de-frost, more or less. The interior of the van remained very cold, however, and we rode fully dressed in our long underwear, parkas, mitts and mountie hats.

It was now dark, and four o’clock. We agreed to abandon our plan to stay in Dawson City, and would instead get a room at the Klondike Corners, the beginning of the Dempster Highway. Dawson would take us 40 km (25miles) each way out of our way. And, at my current speed of 20 km/hour [I was still having difficulty seeing, and with driving on snow], the trip to Dawson would add two additional hours of driving tonight.

Finally, at 8:00 pm, after having seen no other vehicles on the road since Pelly Crossing, a tall, beautiful, brilliantly-lighted outdoor Christmas tree, like a welcoming beacon, emerged from the darkness. We were at the Klondike Corners.

The motel/restaurant/gas station was just now closing, but the owner welcomed us inside. “I would have left the door unlocked, even after closing up. You could have let yourself in. I can’t cook any more meals, but I can heat up some left-over chicken. Show yourself into any of the rooms.”

The temperature had ‘warmed’ to -47 C (-53 F). I remained worried, though, about my van. I asked the owner if his garage were heated. “Can I keep my van in there, so the ignition doesn’t freeze up again?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have enough room. I have to keep my tow trucks warm in case there’s an emergency out on the highway. Sorry.”

“That’s OK. It will probably be fine.”

Kathleen and I carried our suitcases inside, and a few minutes later I began uncoiling my frozen extension cord to plug in the block heater. The owner came up to me to say, “I’ve rearranged my trucks. There’s room in the garage now.”

“Thanks very much. I really appreciate it. I’m happy to pay for the heated parking. Can you add it to my room bill?”

“Just park on the far right-hand side,” he said. “Good thing you didn’t go into Dawson. There’s no garage open in the winter in Dawson. If you had frozen, you would have stayed frozen. No charge for parking in my garage.”

Now that is Northern Hospitality.

Back inside I waited at the counter while the owner filled out the paper work for our room. He looked up and said, “You know, at these temperatures I don’t feel right charging normal rates for rooms. You get my ‘minus 40 rate,’ which is $40.00.”

Need I say it again? Yes. Now that is Northern Hospitality.

The dining room was now closed, so I carried our re-heated chicken dinner to our room, where Kathleen had been organizing our stuff, including our gift of two bottles of wine for Marilyn and Alan. We brought them inside every night so that they wouldn’t freeze. During today’s cold journey Kathleen had kept them under her front passenger seat, nearest to the heat.

“Guess what, Michael.” she said. Both bottles of wine were frozen solid. The corks had nearly popped right out. Good thing we didn’t buy twist-top-lid wine.

Now that was cold. Obviously there are good reasons why ‘no one goes out on the roads in this kind of weather.’

We woke early the next morning, Friday, January 8th. Today we would begin the long-dreaded trip up the Dempster Highway. Two stretches worried me most: (1) the steep, winding climb up to the Ogilvie/Peel River viewpoint south of Eagle Plains, and (2) the Richardson Mountains north of Eagle Plains. I expected the climb to be icy, while the open, tundra-like ‘Richardsons’ are prone to blizzards and white-out conditions. Our drive had been going pretty well so far, though, and Kathleen and I both felt confident.

At breakfast, the owner and staff advised us on winter travel. “You say you have sleeping bags. That’s good. Do you have matches? Here, take this pile of newspapers. You might need them to start a fire. In an emergency you can always burn your spare tire for heat.”

While I chatted and drank coffee, Kathleen called the Eagle Plains motel to make a reservation. From what I remember, the motel has at least a couple of dozen rooms, but we wanted to make sure. The Dempster is very isolated. We couldn’t take a chance. We had to get a room at Eagle Plains.

“What did they say?” I asked, when Kathleen returned.

“The girl just laughed. She said we could pretty much have any room we wanted.”

We packed up and headed out in complete darkness, up the Dempster Highway, to Eagle Plains, beyond which lay Inuvik, our final destination. We’re getting close now.

After less than one km (0.6 miles) Kathleen said, “I think we’re going the wrong way, Michael. I think we’re on the way to Dawson City.”

Like most men, I instinctively disagreed completely with my wife’s sense of direction. I had been to Dawson City several times. I had been up the Dempster Highway several times. I knew what I was doing. “No we’re not. We’re going the right way.”

Kathleen persisted. “I don’t think so. There’s a bridge just north of the Klondike Corners that crosses the Klondike River. If we were going north, up the Dempster, we should have crossed the bridge by now.”

Uh oh. Kathleen made a strong point. I began to waver. “Maybe we haven’t reached the bridge yet.”

“No, Michael. We should have reached the bridge by now. Let’s stop at the next one of those little distance markers along the side of the road. They have them every five kilometres (three miles). If we’re going up the Dempster, it should say only 5 or 10. If it’s a big number, we’re still on the North Klondike Highway, going to Dawson City.”

“Good idea.”

A couple of kilometres later (mile or so), Kathleen hopped out of the van to brush the snow away from the marker. I turned the van to shine the headlights on the number, which turned out to be ‘big.’ I don’t remember exactly what number, but big, certainly more than 5 or 10. We headed back and turned left just after the Klondike Corners. Seconds later we crossed the bridge over the frozen Klondike River and headed up the actual Dempster Highway. Now you know why I married Kathleen. No telling why she married me. I don’t even know where I’m going.


32703484998_99066e3875_o.jpg


Image of Eagle Plains captured from the internet. Unknown creator.


About 80 km (50 miles) later we reached the North Fork Pass, where the protracted dawn turned the northern horizon a deep purple. The land lay empty and still. Later, with mist rising all around, caribou wandered along the banks of the Ogilvie River. We reached the viewpoint above the river without incident, and eventually parked in front of the Eagle Plains Hotel just as darkness fell. Staff outnumbered the guests, which included Kathleen and me, plus one highway worker. We saw just two other vehicles all day long. Only one day to go.

We left Eagle Plains on Saturday, January 9th, at a balmy -32 C (-25 F) – we actually felt a bit of heat blowing in from the engine. We crossed the Arctic Circle at 9:30 am. A pink glow along the southeastern horizon promised another beautiful day. At 11:35 am, the crimson sun rose above the Richardson Mountains foothills. We climbed up to the Wright Pass and crept down to the Mackenzie River lowlands in first or second gear much of the way. I mistrust these snow-covered descents. I constantly worry that our van would suddenly begin a sickening slide that would end only when we plunged off the road. We drove down very slowly indeed. No elderly grandmothers whizzed by me, though. No surprise there. Since leaving Eagle Plains we had seen only one other car, and that one was heading south, toward us.

The sun slipped below the horizon just after we crossed the Mackenzie River ice bridge a little before 2:00 pm. We stopped for gas in Fort McPherson. Only a couple of hours to go now. We reached Marilyn and Alan’s house in Inuvik in the early evening, after nine days on the winter road.

As we sat chatting over a glass of wine, the drive up didn’t seem so difficult. Despite driving on snow since the end of the first day, I never once had to put on the snow chains.

“How did it go on the Dempster?” Alan asked.

“Somewhat anti-climatic,” I replied. “Entirely uneventful. It surprised me, though, that we saw only four cars in two days between here and the Klondike Corners.”

“What do you expect?” he answered. “No one drives the Dempster at -40 degrees.”

I didn’t ask him about all those lonesome, pregnant women on their way to Whitehorse. I was just glad to finally be in Inuvik. Kathleen and I went to bed early, and slept very well. The most worrisome part of our winter escape was over. After more than a year of planning and nearly a lifetime of dreaming, We had reached the end of pavement. We would fly beyond the end of road to Colville Lake in only three weeks.
 
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Great Story Pitt!

I can relate as I live at the end of the Alcan and my Dad worked on construction of Alcan and Canol during WWII.

Having made nearly half a hundred RTs on the Alcan, I just lived another with your story.

Vans are hard to heat as there is a lot of volume. I can't imagine that military family not having snow tires......in fact, I don't
like driving it without 4WD in snow time.Those hills at Taylor on the Peace River crossing can be bad as well as the Sikanni
River hills.

The Liard Bison Herd has grown substantially and now is spread out for nearly 100 miles. While driving slowly in a near whiteout, I looked out
my side window and saw a very large eye blink. WTH?........the bison were laying down on the road and their heavy coats were covered with snow
to the point I could only see horns and eyes.

Enjoyable story.....please continue.
 
Another good one, PaddlingPitt! You haven't even begun the wilderness part of the trip and I'm on the edge of my seat!!!

Tony
 
I am absolutely glued to my screen as well. I have done a lot of sketchy winter driving ...I can totally relate.

Christy
 
Wonderful story, as always! I am another that is very excited for the next installment. Spending a winter alone in a remote area of the far north has been a dream of mine since my age was in the single digits and my grandfather bought me a subscription to Fur-Fish-Game magazine. Tales from the trappers of interior Alaska and northern Canada were always my favorite reads.

Frozen ignitions, yes. Many of the jobs in the oilfield offered 2-weeks-on-2-weeks-off schedules and a couple of times I knew someone from a southern or coastal state that experienced problems like that their first morning after returning to start a new hitch. Even if you park indoors on a heated slab it is wise to 'defrost' the shop during a cold snap by opening the overhead doors for a while.

I started working outside in the cold at a young age on the dairy farm in east-central Minnesota but I never spent much time out of doors when it was -20 F or more until moving to North Dakota in 2010 and getting a job in an oilfield that did not care about the weather. I only had one scary experience when my diesel fuel gelled in a remote area at about 3 am as the windchill approached -50 F. I cuddled up in the front seat with my dog, sleeping bag and parka to wait 3 hours for a lift from a passing coworker. We were very cold but lucky. Yes, I had my cell phone, but service was an uphill mile away. Even in a vehicle that had proven itself many times that winter, travelling in those temps was extremely foolish.

Spending extended time above the arctic circle is still very intimidating to me and even with my experience I would want direct supervision from a seasoned veteran during the first winter. I applaud you and your wife for attempting the drive, let alone the rest of the trip. Can not wait for the remainder of this story!

Zac
 
Thanks, Zac. Reading this again makes me wonder if we were being a bit foolish. We still don't have cell phones, and certainly didn't back in '99. If we had broken down on the Dempster, we could have been there for a day or more. But we did have our winter gear, including tent, stove and saw.

The temperatures I'm reporting are straight up, without wind chill, which are relevant to how it feels on exposed skin. Not meaning to be flippant, but we always wore clothes outside. No exposed skin. When properly dressed, with a good windbreaker, one actually "feels" warm. Certainly much warmer than the ambient temperature. Sometimes the trick is to not overheat to the point of sweating. Important that clothing "breathes" to rid that moisture.
 
I'm glued to the screen too, waiting for next episode. And I keep reminding myself that this is a canoeing site- we haven't even got to the canoeing yet.

I too have a healthy respect for the climate but especially appreciate your last paragraph.There is no secret to dealing with cold temperatures, humans have been doing it for thousands of years. You just need to be prepared.

I'm a Land Surveyor and spend many hours outside in all weather. The coldest weather I have "worked" in was minus 43c, north of Fort McKay Alberta. The problem, as noted earlier, isn't usually the workers but the equipment. Our batteries, LED/LCD screens, and high tech electronic gear ceases to work at about minus 20 and snowmobiles- even well maintained- won't start after about minus 35c. So its walking/snow shoeing instead to do what needs to be done. That said, I have felt "warmer" in minus 30 with no wind and the sun shining than i have working in Southern Ontario in minus 5c. heck, minus 30 in the sun, I take my mitts off long enough to make fieldnotes! Windchill and humidity are killers!

Reallly looking forward to next chapter!

Bruce
 
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