TRAIL RIDING
Start slow with an easy going amble and enjoy the magic of the Yukon
By Rhiannon Russell
Photo courtesy of Yukon Horsepacking Adventures
FOR FIVE DAYS, Christine Côté rode up and down mountains and through creeks and forests of southern Yukon on a Haflinger horse named Medallion. It was August 2022, her first time in the territory, and she’d come for this experience: a guided tour with Yukon Horsepacking Adventures, a family-owned business located near Fox Lake, north of Whitehorse.
Côté is a horse lover—she has a Haflinger, a calm, hardy breed, that she takes out on trails back home in Quebec. So, riding in the Yukon wilderness for five days was a dream vacation for her. Together with two of her friends, an American, three Europeans and two guides, including company co-owner Armin Johnson, they rode for four to five hours a day, slept in tents each night and enjoyed campfire meals including tacos, chicken, omelettes and pancakes, while the animals carried the necessary gear and supplies in saddlebags.
“It was pure magic,” Côté says. She loved the slow-paced, meditative way of taking in the scenery, the surefootedness of the horses and the bright summer nights. She had such a good time that when wildfires forced her to cancel her horsepacking trip in the Canadian Rockies last year, she came back to the Yukon—and rode Medallion again.
*If you do it: Inexperienced riders may find themselves walking bow-legged for a while.
HIKING
Step it up and step into Auyuittuq Park while dreaming of climbing Mount Thor
By Arty Sarkisian
Photo by Artur Stanisz
WHEN ARTUR STANISZ first came to Auyuittuq National Park on Baffin Island with his trekking poles and 42-kilogram backpack, the rangers thought he was crazy. It was September 2014—almost winter in the Arctic—the temperature was below zero and the rivers were already slushy.
Stanisz completed the 100-kilometre hike in about 10 days. Since then, he’s gone back six times, occasionally taking fellow hiking aficionados with him. Despite being in the Arctic, Auyuittuq is surprisingly accessible, with airports in Qikiqtarjuaq to the north and Pangnirtung to the south. August is Stanisz’s favourite time of year for Auyuittuq hikes. The weather is not as unpredictable as in early summer, not as cold as in fall and the tundra boasts oranges and reds with light snow on the mountain tops.
One day, he hopes to reach the top of the tallest and steepest peak—Mount Thor. Since it has a vertical drop of 1,250 metres with an overhanging angle of 105 degrees, only a handful of people have conquered the cliff and it seems too gruelling for Stanisz—at least for now. “It’s serious, serious climbing and a totally different kind of trip,” he says. “But maybe one day I will do it.”
* If you do it: Don’t call yourself an “Arctic explorer” when you finish your hike—it just pisses everybody off.
KNUCKLE HOP
Take the pain of the arctic's most brutal contest
By Martin Dover
Photo courtesy of NNSL Media
INUVIK'S PERFORMANCE PAVILLION is packed for the Northern Games Summit’s main event: the Knuckle Hop. Known to make bare-fisted boxers cry, it requires competitors to move by jumping forward on all fours or in a plank position, landing on their fists, the way hunters traditionally snuck up on seals on ice. Against my better judgment, I’ve entered; but as I wait my turn, elders give me amused glances.
I lean forward in a knuckle pushup and launch myself a few inches. The first landing is fine. Maybe this is easier than I thought. Then the second hop, the third and, sweet muktuk, what the hell have I got myself into? A sharp ache burns up my arms. I grit my teeth and keep going, but in my fistfight with the ground, the land is clearly winning. After the first corner, I collapse.
Two grinning veterans drag me to the anesthesia table, where what were once my hands get sterilized and bandaged. The throbbing informs me of the consequences of my actions, but it doesn’t diminish the thrill of having attempted one of humanity’s most brutal feats. I raise a bloody stump to the crowd and using the Inuvialuktun for “It is great,” I cheer, “Arrigaa!”
* If you do it: Make sure you don’t need your hands for a few days.
YUKON RIVER QUEST
Test your limit on the water. Be ready for squalls, smoke and fire
By Amy Kenny
Photo by Karl Blatttman
A RACE VOLUNTEER laughed in my face when I said I’d signed up for the Yukon River Quest because it sounded like fun. I thought the joke was on her—a physical sufferfest is my idea of fun—but the experience redefined type-two fun, a misery in the moment and rewarding in retrospect.
The Quest is a 715-kilometre paddling race from Whitehorse to Dawson City. People in tandem and solo kayaks and canoes, four-person canoes, voyageur canoes and standup paddleboards must finish in 81 hours. In 2024, I lasted only 34 hours before wildfires forced the event’s cancellation.
I paddled through smoke, side-eyeing dozens of blazes in the semi-dark of a Yukon summer night. I watched a squall on Lake Laberge pitch four paddlers overboard and submarine their boat; headwinds threatened to do the same to mine. My stomach went off and I couldn’t eat, so I had no energy to paddle. Sleeplessness had me hallucinating buildings and cursive messages in the water and on the land. My paddling partner pulled something in his hand and it ballooned up like Homer Simpson’s, leaving him with only one arm’s worth of strength.
As we neared Carmacks, my boyfriend texted to say the race had been cancelled. Finally, the Quest seemed fun.
* If you do it: Try a four-person or voyageur canoe. Many hands make light(er) work.
EXTREME PADDLE-BOARDING
Just go nuts. the Northwest Passage can't be that hard, can it?
By Arty Sarkisian
Photo by Karl Krüger
FOR STANDUP PADDLEBOARDERS, the Arctic is an underrated destination. Each territory has great places to enjoy the sport, including Lake Laberge, Great Slave Lake and Pangnirtung Fjord. But if you want to go hardcore, follow Karl Krüger’s route.
His goal is to paddleboard the Northwest Passage. He covered 675 kilometres from Tuktoyaktuk to Paulatuk in 2022. The next year, after another 784 kilometres, he made it to Kugluktuk. With slightly more than halfway to go, he plans to reach Gjoa Haven in 2026, leaving only a final leg to Pond Inlet. He’s made it this far by following his motto: “Keep paddling and don’t do anything stupid.”
Travelling roughly 50 kilometres a day, he’s battled heat stroke under the 24-hour sun and fungi that grew on his clothes and skin. He takes food, water, a pyramid tent, a gas-powered stove, binoculars, a shotgun and a first-aid kit. “I didn’t want to be the guy who needed a rescue helicopter because I stubbed my toe or something.”
He’s had several “what the hell” moments, including a grizzly eyeballing him in his tent and a walrus popping up next to his paddleboard. “This has been the most humbling experience I have ever had,” Krüger says. “I don’t think most people want to do this the way I’ve been doing it.”
* If you do it: Don’t stub your toe.
