Clara Hughes

On Top of the World

August 2002

The Dempster Highway, Canada

From Winter Olympic Glory to Commonwealth Gold, Clara Hughes, with husband Peter Guzman, is riding high on the Dempster Highway

After receiving two complimentary tickets from Air Canada to anywhere in the world for my participation in the Winter Olympics I knew exactly where to go. My husband Peter had shared visions of the north after his extensive travels. His recounts of landscape and history sparked my imagination. Specifically: the Dempster Highway through the Yukon and Northwest Territories to Inuvik.

Two days after leaving England’s Commonwealth Games I arrived in Whitehorse. Peter was touring the eastern Yukon and parks of Alaska for a month before we met in Dawson City. I was satisfied yet exhausted after competing in the Winter Olympics and Commonwealth Games within a six-month span. Adding to the challenge was they were for two sports: speed skating and cycling. Landing in the northern hub after the hype of such intense competition was surreal. I went from flying on my $18,000 time trial machine to assembling my $150 touring bike. From a Ferrari to a VW Bus, I was exactly where I wanted to be: anonymous and ready to ride.

Over the years Peter had narrowed down just the sort of road he liked for touring. Neither of us cared much for dirt roads, as it was usually a laborious slog over washboard, soft sand, rocks and potholes. Yet we were lured to the experience they had to offer. Besides, we lived in Quebec, where riding gravel on road bikes was comparable riding pavement! Naively we expected the 800 kilometer dirt highway to be a smooth, unpaved road, oblivious to the potential mud.

Completed in 1976, the scenic Dempster Highway stretches 740 kilometers north to the northern transportation hub of Inuvik. It was initiated under the federal Road to Resources program in the late 1950’s when only 117kms were completed. It took until 1970 when oil and gas development spurred renewed growth to finish building the dirt highway. The highway passes through mountains, valleys, two river crossings requiring ferries and the Arctic Circle. We were to make the distance on our mountain bikes, loaded with camping gear, and hoped our equipment and bodies would hold up over the rugged terrain.

A few days at The Dawson City River Hostel prepared us for the ‘the tour.’ It was late, 5:30pm, as we purchased supplies and set to ride. The first day was bike-touring bliss. It was like riding into a storybook painted with the most delicate shades of sunset as we headed towards the Dempster turnoff, forty kilometers east of Dawson City.

Temperatures cooled as the sun dipped behind the eastern peaks, darkness masking their vibrant green. At a creek we pulled over for pasta and tea, enough to fuel us for the last push before camp. More clothing came out as our breath began to show in the calm evening air. It was already 11pm when we saw an inviting spot along a stream. Water bag filled with icy mountain water after setting the tent, Peter shivered as I did my cold-water dance. As painful as it was, nothing calms a person after a day of cycle touring like a cold rinse. It was a love-hate relationship we had with those camp showers.

Early morning light displayed a forest of aspen, willow and spruce, varying the rise to surrounding summits. A delightful concentration of low bush cranberries, mushrooms, crowberry, lichen, mosses, knickknick and dwarf birch carpet the spongy forest floor. This was my first real look at the diversity of the northern flora, and what a spectacular array is was.

Traveling north I saw movement in one the larger natural pools out of the corner of my eye. At first I assumed it was something small like a duck or beaver. But the sight that delighted me was that of a bulky moose swimming gracefully, apparently taking an early morning dip.

Just as the icy rain began to fall we reached the Tombstone Campground. We hoped in vain it would seize before commencing up the North Fork Pass, the highest point of the Dempster at 4,229-feet. Our haven was the screened-in picnic shelter with its barrel stove pumping out heat to warm our frozen extremities.

Just as it had on our arrival, the rain intensified while temperatures dropped as we set out, gaining altitude over the pass. A veil of dark gray clouds hid the distant Tombstone Mountains. A friend had passed on a guidebook of the area to us and I was disappointed to put on even more rain gear at the viewpoint instead of admiring the rugged northern range.

Patiently we crept up the steep grade, laden with stores of food and camping gear. It felt good to be self contained, ready for anything in such remote country. With the synchronicity of a slide show peaks came in and out of view. We felt to be alone in that vast space of valley and mountains. Even vehicle traffic seemed deterred by the wet conditions.

To imagine the first inhabitants of the land was to go back to a time when no road existed. No tourists or vehicles carrying supplies to population centers. It was a time when the Gwitch’in First Nation led lives of sustenance. Yet it still felt remote in the age of population density. A quote from the Tombstone Range guidebook rang through my head like poetry. Tr’ondek Hwech’in elder Percy Henry said “Everything grows there. You have everything you want there. There’s all kinds of berries, fish and little animals that live in that country. I was born and raised in that country. That’s my university.”

At Two Moose Lake we stopped for lunch. Placards circling the wooden deck detailed First Nation history. Though hunting ground for the moose they were careful to not take more than they needed, never eating near the lake. I scanned the shoreline for one of the massive creatures, thinking of their deep respect for the land and animals. Bagel sandwiches and cookies satisfied our hunger as we gazed out at waterfowl gracing the lake. Inside I wondered if we should be eating there.

For hours we moved through the Blackstone Uplands. The windswept plains reminded Peter of the Patagonian region of Argentina. A welcomed tailwind made riding easy as we pedaled through the mystical country.

The river beside our camp made for an excellent water source as we settled in for the night. Cold rain fell as we rushed to pitch the tent, ceasing in sync with the last zip of the rain fly. As I unpacked with my back to the water Peter looked over, urging me to look behind. It was a wolf, and before I could turn it was gone. I had dreamed of seeing this elusive creature and my one possible opportunity had just vanished into the encroaching dusk. As the gurgling water lulled us to sleep I hoped there would be another chance.

Another day on the Dempster and we were in the rain after 25 minutes. Approaching the Oglivie Mountains we saw a truck with camper slow to a stop through the drizzly mist. A smiling face appeared behind the lowered window. He told us of the landscape ahead, the limestone cliffs shaped like fortresses. ‘There are spruce trees on top of them and they look like people watching down on you. It’s more beautiful than the gospel and heaven put together.”

The meaning of the land was evident by his appreciation of that he had just passed through: the land his people inhabited for countless generations. His last words “Don’t give up, just don’t give up…” Experience told him just how difficult things could be.

It is possible to be comfortable in the wet rain if one has proper gear. My poncho, though awkward at times when flapping in the wind, was sufficient in warmth and ventilation. After sailing down Windy Pass Peter and I rode side by side, silently moving at our touring pace. Through the rain distorted the distance I was sure there was something on the road ahead. As we approached the mysterious creature became clear: it was a grizzly. We stopped in our tracks 200m away, not caring of the inevitable chill from being static in the rain. After twenty minutes of shivering we tentatively made our way, looking one last time through the binoculars when Peter spotted it high on the hillside, its massive bulk moving with ease over the land.

We arrived dirty and wet at the Engineer Creek Campground. Limestone cliffs hovered above. We lunched and dried out in the screened-in picnic shelter. What was meant to be a quick break turned into a six hour stay when a German couple, Heiko and Ankje, arrived offering friendly conversation, hot red spice wine, mouth-watering chocolate truffles and laughter. It was just what we needed, that human interaction.

An ineffable feeling got us back on our bikes that evening and we left under sun showers at 8:30pm. Heiko slipped us a block of milk chocolate just as we set off. Their kindness warmed our hearts just as the roaring fire in the barrel stove warmed our bodies. After twenty minutes what urged us to ride became clear. Below the road along the Ogilvie River we spotted a shadow of a creature, illuminated by the soft light of the hour. We slowed to a stop. It was a wolf. Legs long and lanky, its head lowered as it prepared to dash. I made a call like that of a crying wolf and it stopped, curiously checking us out from the safe distance below. I continued this odd whine as the stare-down went on. Five minutes later it disappeared into the bush.

Ten kilometers further we came upon the scene of diving gulls, furiously aiming at a bald eagle in the tree below. We watched impressed at the eagle’s composure. It did not flinch as the four birds took turns dive-bombing its perch.

We were treated to the water acrobatics of a lone beaver when setting camp, flipping and playing in the calm pool beside the Oglivie River. Each slap of the tail brought our attention to its display, and he seemed to be having a grand time performing for us, the tourists. We thought of all the people in cars we had met, and their obsession of the road conditions, the weather, and then the consistent question, ‘Seen any animals?’ Now how can you see any animals when the roar of the vehicle is heard from kilometers away, and all wildlife takes cover out of fear?

The ominous hum of mosquitoes woke us early. I screamed and scratched while recklessly breaking camp. How Peter looked so calm and composed, preparing pancakes in that insectuous mayhem was beyond me. Down by the river I cried out in frustration, to no one but myself, wondering if I would make it out alive. I left in a fury, simultaneously stuffing pancakes rolled with black current jam into my mouth and pedaling.

Soon we began the arduous climb out of the Ogilvie River Valley up into the Eagle Plains. We assumed ‘plains’ was synonymous for ‘flat’, and could not have been more wrong. The steep grade leant spectacular vistas as we paralleled the Ogilvie range, but this was spoiled by my fatigue. Each time we crested a difficult pitch there was another ahead. After 32kms I cracked, hungry and tired, collapsed on the roadside eating maple sugar. I was desperate for something sweet to stop the thumping in my head. I had ‘the bonk’, that diabetic-like state of low blood sugar typical when athletes forget to eat. Only I was a tourist, and this wasn’t a race- I had no one to blame but myself for eating all the snack foods the previous day, not thinking of the miles ahead.

Peter searched for water and made pasta in a sheltered spot off the road. We feasted on sautéed onions (I never did prefer onions until this day- hunger made that eye-watering vegetable taste like the most favorable delicacy!), pasta with olive oil, sun-dried tomatoes and Parmesan cheese, and later more homemade pancakes. I was so tired we stayed the night.

Rain fell intermittently and when we were greeted with sunshine and a mild tailwind the next day I knew it had been the right decision to stay. Slowly I was learning that everything happened for a reason when traveling. The problem was one tended to ignore the natural flow of events, rushing to ‘arrive’ at the next destination.

The next 130kms took us through the steep undulations of the Eagle Plains. It was a sea of spruce stretching out to the horizon. In a burn area we rested while feasting on wild blueberries flourishing by the roadside. Handful after handful we ate, before we knew it we had over done it and had bellyaches as we had gorged on empty stomachs. Before long we were in the bush paying for our gluttony.

Less than a kilometer later we discovered that we were not the only ones feasting. Two black bears within a hundred meters scavenged the bushes, as we rode hesitantly by. They seemed more interested in berries than bike tourists.

Late in the day we began to catch glimpses of the velvety smooth Richardson Mountains glowing softly in the late day light. We made the final climb into Eagle Plains, the ‘one stop truck stop’ that met all our needs. After a meal, hot shower and treats from the little store we set up camp. Clogged with Dempster dirt and dust it was a treat to get clean. We looked forward to washing our clothes in the morning.

Awaiting us at the front counter was our food box we had prepared back in Dawson. To our surprise when speaking with Evelyn at the Northwest Territories Tourist Information Center we discovered we could have supplies shuttled up to the ‘half-way point of the Dempster’, for free! Chocolate, mangoes, oranges, apples, chocolate and cheese were but a few of the treats to be savored. We thought of Evelyn many times during our feast.

It wasn’t until 4:30 that we left the next day. Clean and stuffed with the BBQ chicken burgers, fries and soup we had eaten at the restaurant, and a little grossed-out by the pictures ending the pictorial rendition of the ‘Mad trapper From Rat River’, photographically detailing the greatest manhunt in Canadian history at the time, ending with the gruesome photos of the fugitive’s demise, we set to the road.

It had rained all morning and was already beginning to dry as the cold wind blew from the southeast. En route to the Arctic Circle we spotted cloudberries along the road, stopping to pick some of the meaty delicacy. Careful not to have a repeat of the blueberries, we ate only a few, motivated to reach latitude 66 33’.

Cold easterly winds bit at our exposed skin as we munched on chocolate bars at the Arctic Circle. We rode hard when back on the bikes not out of urgency but from our deep shivers. As we raced for warmth a porcupine stumbled up the hill to the south like a ball of fire glistening in the setting sun.

For some reason we thought it would end, but each day we continued to discover new forms of the northern landscape that left us filled with appreciation: it only changed, in landscape and lighting, as we continued north.

There was no traffic at this time and as we stopped for another snack before the final push to Rock Creek Campground. Cranberries, almonds and walnuts brought from home were a treat was we sat beside the road, gazing into the mountains. Each segment was special and different from the next and it was important to take one’s time in looking so as not to be overwhelmed.

That was when we noticed the silence. We stopped talking, ceased chewing, and there it was. Just like the beauty of the landscape, the silence was another unmatched quality. As one would stop for a view, we stopped for the silence: the deafening, lonely silence that drives the unsettled to speak, the sad to cry, the fearful to run. So rare in our world it was tempting to break it with unnecessary descriptions. We sat, listened, and then moved on fueled by all that nature had to offer.

We pulled into camp with one thing in mind: warmth. Riding past the sites to the picnic shelter we scoped abandoned sights for split wood, hoping in vain for something to start the barrel stove with. Beside the shelter was a van parked looking settled for the evening. An older man and woman approached us curiously, recognizing us as the ‘bikers they had seen back at Engineer Creek.’ Peter mentioned our search for wood and they not only gave us the use of his axe, but also beautiful, dry wood they had packed up from their home in B.C. They even offered us a small axe, to keep, for our trip. We had to decline because of weight and were left feeling warm and lucky having found such kindness.

That picnic shelter felt like five-star hotel. We were living big in the ‘wild’, warm and cozy in our wilderness lodge (picnic shelter). Apple/cinnamon pancakes with cherry preserves fueled us for the day ahead. We hoped to reach Fort Macpherson that evening.

By the time we had packed and set out it was already past 2pm. Winds roared from the south and naively we thought the ride would be easy with its push. We struggled to stay on the road as it shifted to the side, freezing rain biting at our skin. By the time we approached the steep pass, a mere fifteen kilometers from the campground, through the Richardson Mountains and over the border to the Northwest Territories, it tore through our clothes and threw us off the road as we fought with every ounce of energy just to remain upright.

Miraculously we made it up and over the pass, hoping the worst was over. The road sloped down in the same steepness it had climbed up and the wind howled from behind. Normally a climb was followed by a rewarding decent, but this was downright dangerous.

Peter’s poncho acted like a sail and it became impossible for him to maneuver as the wind threw him out of control, skidding sideways downhill, one foot out dragging on the dirt, back wheel trying to overtake the front from the force of the gusts. He fought not to topple over, as the wind seemed to intensify, determined to knock him down. I was in hysterics behind observing this spectacle. Hysterical laughter, that is. For a moment I forgot my own deep chill, drenched clothing, frozen fingers, toes and face. As he stopped, awkwardly trying to remove his poncho, I continued. Then it happened to me, and it wasn’t so funny.

Laughter turned to tears as the wind shifted to our left. There was nothing we could do- it was too strong and impossible to pedal move. Near hypothermic we tried to make a decision as to what to do.

A truck heading south saw us on the road, slowing to a stop. We were frozen. Peter struggled, his hundred pound bike incredulously blowing away. I fought into the wind to reach the unwinding window. Inside the cab a family of eight sat warm and cramped, eyes wide open in disbelief that we were out there, asking ‘Are you two okay?’ ‘It’s really bad up ahead…’ I must have seemed a little crazy with all the adrenaline, as I sputtered out in broken detail the recount of the last 19kms through my frozen jaw. They were concerned they might not make the pass with their vehicle, and there we were on our bikes!

It was time to move. The closest we came to riding was throwing one leg over the top tube and clicking into one pedal, the wind preventing us from gaining another inch. Shivers turned to convulsions and our mouths refused to talk in anything legible. We discovered a relatively sheltered gully when retrieving my glove that had taken flight. This glorified ditch was to be our camp for the evening.

Under my wet poncho I struggled to get into something dry. Peter valiantly prepared cup after cup of hot chocolate, Raman noodles and tea.

Clouds continued to race across the wintry sky after two hours. Our small supply of water ran dry. Less than 50-meters from our camp Peter discovered glistening pools of run-off, out in the tundra, perfect for the continuous flow of warm fluids.

It was comical trying to set the tent up without it sailing across the tundra. Peter attached four boulders, the biggest he could move, to each corner. After the poles were inserted it was my job to sit inside and further stabilize the thin nylon structure. More rocks went inside and still threatened to fly away.

We broke the cardinal rule of camping in Grizzly country and carefully ate a chocolate bar in the tent for dinner. Outside the storm raged. As usual, our food supplies were stashed under small boulders away from the tent.

The remainder of the night was spent listening to the flapping of the rain fly/tent. In all the touring kilometers Peter had ridden, never had he experienced conditions such as those: high winds, rain and snow. It was weather one would prepare for climbing in the high mountains, not bike touring.

A light snow greeted us in the morning. The winds died down to a breeze and wet snow fell throughout the morning. Our plan was to break camp and ride to a campground 42 miles away in hopes someone in the cook shelter had a fire going in the woodstove. Or, short of that, that someone had an axe we could borrow to start our own fire. Six hours later, riding in the occasional rain shower, constant hills and cold air we arrived with our single wish not only granted but also bettered!

While a Swiss couple was busy chopping Peter was transporting the wood to the shelter. Meanwhile, I went to the visitor center to pay the camp spot fee. I must have been a mess because not only was my money declined by Orrie, the visitor center host, he offered a heated log cabin for the night with a hot shower. It is a rare thing to meet someone as helpful as Orrie but when you do all tension immediately dissipates from the hardships.

It was hard to believe after two such challenging days, mentally and physically, we would stay warm, clean and safe for the evening. It was Christmas tenfold, and we were children staring wide-eyed at the Christmas tree. The shelves were filled with food left by other tourists: tuna, granola bars, soup, nuts, dried fruit, Kraft dinner…”Eat all you want, it’ll just go to waste” Oh what an evening it was. We paid a visit to the Swiss couple car camping outside and chatted by the fire. Inside we craved our log cabin, as we knew soon enough we’d be out in the elements again.

Sleep came easily in our warm loft. Blue skies (well, partly cloudy) greeted us in the morning and though we felt exhausted from two tough days of touring and cold, at least it wasn’t raining when Orrie came by in the morning and offered us another evening, sunshine and all, we jumped at the chance. What better timing for a rest day? We lounged around, munching crepes filled with cherry preserves and cream cheese, coffee, then chai spice tea. The cabin was strewn with our dirty, muddy, wet riding clothes.

We made our way to the visitor’s center. Inside a fire burned warm and welcoming. After chatting with Orrie we read about Gwitch’in culture depicted by the rustic display put together by the local elders. It was easy to find a ride into For McPherson, the first true northern community we were to encounter.

Houses made of wooden clapboard; each one housing a snow machine in driveway and everything was wet with mud from the dirt road grid making up the town. Huskies howled from their chained existence to their doghouses. Stationed around town were neglected tourist placards. This was not your typical tourist town, and I doubt many people stopped in as most, at this point in the Dempster, were eager to get to Inuvik or rushing to go south. Still, they tried, and we obliged by reading the recounting of the lost patrol, the Hudson’s bay company and more Gwitch’in culture.

After shopping we set about walking to the highway in hopes of hitching a ride back to the campground. We were loaded with cookies, chips, eggs, fruit, and veggies: all the treats we did not have on the road.

At the gas station a lady in a pickup pulled up, asking where we were heading. When we told her the campground, eleven kilometers away, she said ‘Hop in and I’ll give you a ride.’ Gladys was a small woman, tiny in her big red pick-up truck. She went far out of her way to give us a ride. We spoke of berries, the land, and the winters. Again we were taken care of by the locals.

Back in the cabin and we commenced our feast. It was sheer luxury to relax, warm and dry, all afternoon, indoors. By 9pm we were asleep as light continued to shine outside. We thought an early start was a good idea if we were to arrive in Tsiygechick, 65k’s north, in time to tour the town. Alas, it was another late start, typical of our tour.

Slowly we packed our gear, cleaned the cabin and said our goodbyes. We were ready to ride but unfortunately, our bikes were not. Shifters seized after so much mud and wet, we had some work to do. I ruined my rear shifter roughly trying to make it work. When we tried to shift nothing moved. It was broken. For an hour Peter patiently worked the shifter, his only tools an allen key, pliers, swiss knife and duct tape. And it worked! Well, relatively worked. I now had 4 gears to choose from. Both of our bikes were in bad shape, a result of the unseasonably wet august on the Dempster highway.

The next 57 kilometers were like riding thru clay. My muscles ached from the lack of gearing and bike was unidentifiable so much mud was caked on. At least it wasn’t raining. Stunted spruce covered the land as far as the eye could see. The odd knoll rising in the distance resembled a porcupine on full alert. Lakes popped into view after every corner in the road, each foot gained or lost.

By 8:45pm we reached our destination: the Mackenzie River and the ferry to Tsiigehtchick. Only it was too late, in a Sunday of all days, to rightfully check out the town.

Tsiigehtchick was located at the confluence of the Mackenzie and Arctic Red Rivers. High on a cliff with the church first in view, it was a picturesque town inviting to the visitor. Surprisingly most travelers bypassed this northern community, in a rush to reach Inuvik. For us it was a stop we looked forward to most, the potential for an authentic experience quiet high. First, we had to find a place to camp.

Peter approached the ferry to ask for water and received not only that but also an invite from George, who worked the ferry, to spend the night in his tent, set up along side the river. We happily obliged as it meant it was not only unnecessary to set up our own, but breaking camp would be a breeze in the morning. It was a large tent with mattress and large vestibule. His only request was that we leave it clean. What luck!!!

We brewed up tea in the vestibule and sit while the mosquitoes were heavy outside. The clear sky tempted us to stay awake with hopes of some late night entertainment. The setting sun altered the scattered clouds though every color in the spectrum.

If we were lucky, there was potential to see the aurora borealis, as it should be, in the northern skies. After 1am the sky remained too bright and our eyes were heavy with fatigue. Ultimately we settled with faint glimmers of what we like to believe were the northern lights, and surrendered to sleep. The mercury read –5C. As we snuggled into the cozy tent, comfortable in a mattress inside the warmth of down filled bags.

By morning the inevitable clouds had moved in and warmed the earth like an atmospheric blanket. This spelt trouble for us, the bike tourists, as the scent of fresh rain wafted over the trees to the river. Hastily we stuffed our panniers, motivated to explore Tsiigehtchick. Rushing to the ferry four sand hill cranes squawked on the shore. One of the few mistakes we made on the trip is not stopping to take a good look at these large exotic creatures, racing to get on the boat. One should never rush while traveling.

George greeted us and we thanked him for the lodgings. ‘Hope ya had a good sleep’, the boat swing out of the sandy shore and we were invited in to the office for hot coffee and warmth. Though not raining yet, it was cold and damp from the rivers. In what seemed like no time at all, we disembarked to the shore of Tsiigehtchick.

TSIIGEHTCHICK (Arctic Red River)

At the small grocery store/café in Tsiigehtchick we met Charlie, another cyclist, removing mud from his overturned bike. We exchange hardship stores of our rides through adverse weather conditions. “I have never come so close to hitching a ride before”, he said when on the verge of potential hypothermia. Charlie is humorous, a good story teller, and a good listener, too. I felt better hearing that someone else found the cycling difficult in the cold, wet, windy, muddy, conditions.

In the small store we made cheese sandwiches and heat them in the microwave, one after another. Bananas and yogurt; bananas and nutella… Nutella? Nutella! Spoonfuls got us to Inuvik that day. Big plums, raisins, hot chocolate, bagels for the road.

Into the early afternoon we talked with locals at the store, walked around town and got a miniscule feel for the village. Though rough on the outside, people were friendly the moment the tension was broken with a smile and hello. We talked with everyone, searching around for some dried fish. Unfortunately there was none to be found as it had rained too much for the drying process.

On the ferry crossing we met another bike tourist named ‘OLI’ (Olivieri) who we immediately like. He’s a Spaniard from Majorca and we chat over a light lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. We set off together with Oli pushing the pace up the climb from the river and the race is on! We ride at a good pace on the hard flat mud packed road, a tailwind pushing us along, the three of us taking turns at the front. After forty clicks Oli began to fatigue. He had already ridden 100 clicks that morning and stopped for a rest. Peter and I were in a hammering mood and continued at a good clip.

Up the road a silhouette of a bike overturned and someone working on a rear wheel appeared in the distance. It’s Charlie, and he was upset. Frustrated with his broken spoke, he stammered “I’m pretty fed up now with how things are going. I’m close to hitching a ride to Inuvik.” Charlie had ridden the last six weeks from Vancouver and to be that close to his goal we tried to lighten things up for him, to encourage him. We ate lunch on the side of the road and waited, joking about all the tough moments of bike touring. Oli pulled up looking rested and we were off, all of us on our own pace with the plan to camp together at caribou creek campground.

Soon it began to rain and our tailwind turned to a crosswind and inevitably was in our face. A the campground there was no shelter and after the four of us regrouped Peter and I decided to carry on with hopes of a shelter ahead at another campground ten or twenty kilometers up the road. It took some time to warm up again as the temperatures dropped some more and the rain continued to fall. The winds picked up and still we pushed forward.

Peter and I were in such a groove that though our shivers and fatigue we decided to push it to Inuvik some 45kms away. Peter was chilled and his toes, as usual, were frozen and painful. We were both hungry but too cold to stop and kept a slower cruising pace until we had to stop and eat. When we do stop, before a hill, it was peanut butter and jelly bagels. We were transformed!

Warmed and energized, we picked up the pace to Inuvik into the freezing rain and headwind. It is the coldest, wettest, toughest ride, one of epic proportions. Yes, epic. One hundred and twenty plus kilometers on the wet, muddy Dempster highway that we did not commence until 3:30 or 4pm. It was just before 11pm that we arrived, covered in mud, frozen, exhausted and relieved to be in a campground with a hot shower. We made our separate ways into the washrooms and while Peter soaked under the hot flowing spray I cried under the cold biting drops in the women’s shower not knowing it in the men’s there was warmth! My lips were purple with shivers running deeper than when out in the elements on our bikes. Peter came out of the showers smiling and warm wondering why I looked so cold. Realizing the predicament I went straight into the men’s showers and soothed my deep chill. A shower had never felt so good.

As we sat in the picnic hour warmed by a fire we thought back not only to the day but the entire trip up the Dempster. So difficult and the landscape so different along it, with minimal traffic and friendly people, we agreed there is no better road for a tour. Though others are remarkable they cannot come close to the wildness of real wilderness and bears, wolves, so many animals. The characters we met along the way only added to the experience. With little development this area was so special in a world of crowding and tourism. Little trash too. Fort McPherson and Arctic Red River are towns that look to get little tourism and yet they are real places where a little patience would allow someone an authentic human exchange. I wouldn’t do anything differently on the tour in retrospect, and will certainly return to experience more.