I love a good road trip, especially in the mountains of Colorado, where I live. It鈥檚 when I do some of the best creative thinking, and it feels like the possibilities for exploration are endless. Should I hike a fourteener tomorrow? Cross the border into Utah to go mountain biking?

I scoured the globe to put together this list of the most stunning drives you could imagine, from the snowcapped peaks of Chilean Patagonia to the windswept west coast of Ireland. I鈥檝e completed a handful, driven parts of many of them, and the rest are on my bucket list. I also chose these road trips for their proximity to adventure, and include essential details like the best hikes, beaches, and accommodations along the way. Buckle up.

The Dempster Highway to the Arctic Ocean, Canada

Miles: 550
Road terrain: Mostly gravel
Best time to go: The Dempster Highway is open year-round, but traditional summer festivals in the Arctic towns and the aurora borealis viewing in winter are seasonal highlights.

Truly rugged and remote, this overland expedition traverses dramatic tundra landscapes, boreal forests, and mountain ranges en route to the Arctic Sea. Begin in the gold-rush outpost of Dawson City, Yukon, and load up on supplies鈥攖he unpaved gravel road is a known tire eater, so be sure you have a spare and a four-wheel drive car. From there the heads north through the historic Klondike region, crosses the Arctic Circle, and enters the Northwest Territories, where you鈥檒l have panoramas of what鈥檚 known as the polar Serengeti, a wide-open wilderness teeming with caribou, moose, and grizzlies.

Along the way, you鈥檒l pass through Indigenous communities such as Tsiigehtchic, reached by ferry in summer after the snow melts. If you’re traveling during August, you can watch canoe races and listen to traditional music during Tsiigehtchic鈥檚 Canoe Days celebration. By the time you arrive in Inuvik, Canada鈥檚 largest community north of the Arctic Circle, you鈥檒l have logged 457 miles. Pitch your tent or park your teardrop at (from $28), perched on a bluff overlooking the Richardson Mountains and the nation鈥檚 largest river, the Mackenzie.

Pick up the final stretch of the trip in town, the Inuvik鈥揟uktoyaktuk Highway, an 86-mile gravel road that winds past the Pingo Canadian Landmark, a collection of pingo (mounds of earth-covered ice) more than 100 feet high, and ends in the Inuit shorefront hamlet of Tuktoyaktuk.

Scenic Byway 12, Utah

Miles: 122
Road terrain: Paved
Best time to go: Early spring and early fall

This expanse of highway connects Bryce Canyon to , traveling through Dixie National Forest and the northern part of Grand Staircase鈥揈scalante National Monument. The whole thing could be completed in three hours, but given its proximity to so many perfect playgrounds for hiking, paddling, biking, and fishing, I suggest a four-day road trip. Bookended by Panguitch to the west and Torrey to the east, this designated bisects multiple ecosystems,听 from sage flats to slickrock deserts, and sleepy rural communities like Boulder, where you should stop for a meal at . The photo opps are endless, but Powell Point Vista, between the towns of Henrieville and Escalante, affords some of the best views of the area鈥檚 distinct Wasatch Limestone formations. If I could overnight in one place along the way it鈥檇 be , which has a drive-in theater, a pool, and a food truck (from $99).

The Romantic Road, Germany

Miles: 220
Road terrain: Paved
Best time to go: Spring or fall

Germany鈥檚 Romantische Strasse, or Romantic Road, could be the backdrop of a Grimm鈥檚 fairy tale, with its turreted and crenelated castles, red-roofed villages, and lake-dotted countryside in the Alpine foothills. This scenic byway across Bavaria connects the baroque town of W眉rzburg with the pastel-hued town of F眉ssen. The former is home to the Unesco-designated W眉rzburg Residence, one of the nation鈥檚 most opulent palaces, while F眉ssen is five minutes from what many consider the route鈥檚 highlight, King Ludwig鈥檚 , which was the inspiration for the palace in Disney鈥檚 Sleeping Beauty. If you want to stretch your legs, you can tackle the hike to Mount Tegel, located behind the castle, or take the cable car up and explore the trail network at the top.

Along the way you鈥檒l pass plenty of beer gardens鈥攖he riverfront in the hamlet of Landsberg am Lech is a must-stop鈥攖he vineyards of the Franconia wine region (pick up a bottle of dry, white Silvaner), and spend a few hours rejuvenating in the historic spa town of Bad Mergentheim; at the ($150), you can take advantage of the indoor pool, spa, and gardens.

The Explorers Way, Australia

Miles: 1,864
Road terrain: Paved (and remember, Aussies drive on the left-hand side)
Best time to go: Australia鈥檚 fall, March through May

The ultimate outback odyssey, the is a road trip through Australia鈥檚 Red Centre. Much of the drive follows the Stuart Highway, named after 19th-century explorer John McDouall Stuart, the first European to successfully traverse the continent from south to north. Stuart鈥檚 expedition took nearly a year, but two weeks is ample time to complete the journey from Adelaide in South Australia to Darwin in the Northern Territory.

I highly recommend detours to to stand in awe of the 2,831-foot-high monolith sacred to Aboriginals and to Litchfield National Park, teeming with waterfalls and wildlife like dingo and wallaby. Dedicate at least a day to explore the Aboriginal art galleries of Alice Springs, the Northern Territory鈥檚 second largest city and the approximate midway point of the route. When you reach the Top End, toast your trip with a bush negroni at Willing Distillery in Darwin or celebrate with a bush safari at (from $2,425, all-inclusive), just northwest of Kakadu National Park, home to more than .

Atlantic Road, Norway

Miles: 22
Road terrain: Narrow, paved
Best time to go: The coast is most dramatic in September and October

Norway has 18 designated national scenic routes, but the fact that the Atlantic Road was selected as the stage for the James Bond film No Time to Die is a testament to its wow-factor beauty. Officially known as , this drive links the village of K氓rv氓g on Aver酶y Island with the fishing village of Bud on the mainland via an archipelago connected by eight low-lying bridges. Few roads bring you so close to the ocean: roll down your window and you鈥檒l likely be kissed by sea mist.

Essential detours include the coastal path at Vevang to see Jan Freuchen鈥檚 鈥�,鈥� a sculpture scattered across the rocks and heath-covered hills, and the glass-walled viewing platform at Askev氓gen, which affords spectacular mountain and ocean vistas. Str酶msholmen Seasport, located between the towns of Kristiansun and Molde, offers scuba diving, fishing excursions, and wildlife safaris on the water. It also has four waterfront cabins that sleep up to ten people (from $55).

The Ring Road, Iceland

Miles: 820
Road terrain: Mostly paved, with some stretches of gravel
Best time to go: Late spring or early fall

Stretch after stretch of otherworldly landscapes unfold along this , also known as Route 1. It shows off vast lava fields, tumbling waterfalls, spouting glaciers, and bubbling geysers. You鈥檒l want at least seven days to enjoy all the attractions and adventures along the way, and if you do the drive in May, June, or July, you can take advantage of nearly 24 hours of sun.

Most road-trippers start in the capital, Reykjav铆k, the city closest to Keflav铆k International Airport. You can tackle it counterclockwise or clockwise, but if you do the latter first, the scenery crescendos from pretty to jaw-droppingly gorgeous. If there鈥檚 one thing you shouldn鈥檛 miss, it’s a detour to the northern Troll Peninsula, which loops around the headlands past the end of the Skagafj枚r冒ur fjord.

On the southeastern coast of Iceland, take time to explore J枚kuls谩rl贸n, a glacial lagoon studded with icebergs, and nearby Diamond Beach, named for the brilliant chunks of ice that sparkle like gems against its black sands. The geothermal waters of the Blue Lagoon, just 20 minutes from the airport, are the perfect final stop. Or tack on an adventure鈥攎aybe kayak in a glacial lagoon or ride an ATV along the beach鈥攚ith outfitter .

Wild Atlantic Way, Ireland

Miles: 1,600
Road terrain: Narrow, winding, and paved (you鈥檒l also driving on the left-hand side here)
Best time to go: summer to take advantage of longer day-light hours

One of the longest coastal routes in the world, the Wild Atlantic Way hugs the Emerald Isle鈥檚 rugged and spectacular west coast for miles, from its northern terminus on the Inishowen Peninsula in County Donegal to its southern terminus in the town of Kinsale in County Cork. The route is broken into 14 stages, and you鈥檒l want to budget a minimum of five days to complete it.

There are loads of opportunities to stretch your legs on untouched swaths of beach near soaring sea cliffs. Those at Slieve League jut up 1,972 feet at their highest point; follow the Pilgrim鈥檚 Path from Teelin village 1.5 miles to the tops, and after pop into town for lunch. You鈥檒l have plenty of options, but I highly recommend the award-winning pub (rooms are also available from $54). The iconic Cliffs of Moher, in the lunar-like Burren region, are one of the natural treasures of Ireland, with a five-mile (one-way) coastal walk that connects the charming villages of Liscannor and Doolin.

On Achill Island, explore Keel Beach, a nearly two-mile stretch of golden sand. When I visited, the waves were pumping and I rented a board and a thick wetsuit from . If the water鈥檚 calm, you can rent a stand-up-paddleboard. If your final destination is County Cork, celebrate with a pint at , a pub in Ballydehob that鈥檚 been run by the same family for a century.

Pacific Coast Scenic Byway, Oregon

Miles: 363
Road terrain: Paved
Best time to go: Late spring, early fall, or winter

Most people associate the Pacific Coast Highway, or PCH, with California, but the storied road spans from Canada to Mexico. Some of the best lengths, in my opinion, are in Oregon, where the road skirts virgin beaches, craggy mountains, and rocky coves, through a series of quirky seaside resorts and sleepy fishing villages. You could zip along all of it in 10 to 12 hours, but five days is the better plan, stopping at the many parks and public lands along the route. Ecola State Park (sea stacks, tidepooling, wildlife-watching) and Oregon Dunes Recreation Area (whose sweeping sandy expanses are said to have been the inspiration for 顿耻苍别鈥�s planet Arrakis) are both top of my list.

About 30 miles northwest of the city of Bandon is Cape Arago; this short detour off the byway takes you through the South Slough National Estuarine Reserve, home to more than 150 kinds of birds and . In the town of Coos Bay, I like to overnight at the modern cabins at Bay Point Landing ($235). The next day, you can drive 24 miles east to the remote Golden and Silver Falls State Natural Area and hike 1.4 miles to the top of Golden Falls for an eagle鈥檚-eye view of the cascading waterfall and old-growth firs. Schedule your journey for spring and winter and bring your binocs鈥攜ou can often spot the blows from migrating gray whales as they surface off the coast.

The Garden Route, South Africa

Miles: 124
Road terrain: Paved
Best time to go: June to December, when you can spot whales from shore

This ocean-hugging highway showcases the Western Cape鈥檚 outrageously beautiful beaches, lush forests, national forests, and abundant marine life. Just under two hours鈥� drive from Cape Town, the former fishing village of Hermanus Bay is the gateway for the Garden Route. I always stop here to take advantage of the excellent land-based whale-watching between June and December. Continue three and a half hours east on the N2 highway to the harbor town of Mossel Bay, the route鈥檚 official starting point. Spend some time trekking around before heading out on your drive; my favorite is the 2.5-mile out-and-back trail from Pinnacle Point to Oyster Bay.

, approximately midroute, is a great spot for birdwatching and kayaking and has accommodations that include campsites (from $20), cabins (from $50), and a bed-and-breakfast (from $90). A half-hour farther east is Plettenberg Bay, nicknamed the Saint Tropez of South Africa for its palatial beach homes. Just south is , a nice picnic spot where you can observe seal colonies. Spend a day exploring , which boasts a 50-mile-long shoreline and an interior with 500-year-old trees. Looking to burn off some energy after hours in the car? I suggest the Otter Trail. South Africa鈥檚 oldest hiking trail takes five days to complete and begins near the Garden Route鈥檚 eastern terminus at Storms River rest camp.

Queenstown to Milford Sound, New Zealand

Miles: 180
Road terrain: Paved, two-lane highway
Best time to go: New Zealand鈥檚 fall, March through May, is perfect for hiking

Described by Rudyard Kipling as the 鈥渆ighth wonder of the world,鈥� Milford Sound is big nature on steroids. The drive on the South Island from Queenstown along State Highway 6 (a.k.a. the Southern Scenic Highway) and then State Highway 94 (Milford Sound Highway) will get you there听 in just over four hours, but slow down to marvel at the waterfalls and alpine lakes framed by mountains. Te Anau is the halfway point of the drive and an ideal place to overnight, refuel, and stock up on food as there are no services farther en route to the sound. The lakeside town is also the gateway to the glacier-carved wilderness of and the jumping-off point for the Milford Track, arguably one of New Zealand鈥檚 most famous , so consider tacking on a few extra days.

The Carretera Austral, Chile

Miles: 770
Road terrain: Rugged, pock-marked dirt, requiring four-wheel drive
Best time to go: Austral spring and summer, November to March听

Waterfalls tumbling from hanging glaciers. Forests of lengua trees and turquoise lagoons. Ancient marble caves and flamingo-filled lakes. The wild backdrop of Chile鈥檚 Southern Highway (Route 7) is an adventurer鈥檚 fantasy. Also known as the , this road cuts through remote, mountainous wilderness in northern Patagonia. Set aside at least two weeks so you can take time to visit Queulat National Park and Pumal铆n National Park, both located along the route.

Puerto Montt, a bustling town in the Chilean Lake District, is your starting point. It鈥檚 considered Chile鈥檚 seafood capital, so attempt to score a table at Pa Mar Adentro Restaurant and try the caldo curanto, a traditional seafood stew, before starting your journey south.

Coyhaique, the capital of Chile鈥檚 Ays茅n region, marks the route鈥檚 midway point. Take a day here to trek the trails of Reserva Nacional Coyhaique, home to two beautiful lakes, Los Sapos and Venus. Campsites are available in the Casa Bruja section of the reserve ($5), or continue a couple hours south to听General Carrera Lake and hole up at the family-run听 ($170). The owners serve terrific farm-to-table meals and partner with local guides who lead kayak trips to the Marble Caves and treks across Exploradores Glacier.

Rumbo Sur Hotel ($190), in the isolated terminus town of Villa O鈥橦iggins, is a comfy final base surrounded by hiking trails and glaciers. A 4×4 is recommended, as most of the road is unpaved.

国产吃瓜黑料 travel columnist Jen Murphy hates driving but will happily sit shotgun on any road trip. Last fall she navigated on a weeklong mother-daughter road trip through southwest Colorado.

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Eight hours into an incredible show of jaw-dropping northern lights, the fatigue started to hit. What began as a calm evening鈥攎e and the resident sheepdogs of the admiring the last sunset of my solo trip through south Greenland鈥攈ad morphed into an all-night aurora borealis bonanza that kept me on my feet, my eyes on the sky.

I raced around the property grounds working my two tripods, hoping to photograph every shifting iteration of the intensifying lights: violet, lime, and cobalt ribbons reflecting off the fjord waters, an explosion of green tie-dye above the adjacent farm, and an eerie red glow enveloping the mountains I鈥檇 just hiked. By the time I finally looked at my phone, it was 4:30 A.M.鈥擨 was exhausted, but it was worth it.

For years I鈥檝e chased auroras around the world, from Norway to Michigan, and have 50-plus successful sky-swirl nights beneath my belt鈥攊ncluding a string of seven kaleidoscopic nights of auroras in Greenland before my Ilungujuuk stay. Yet this particular night in September 2023 was different. The colorful pillars danced and pulsed, then flickered overhead like lightning, electrifying the heavens from dusk to dawn. It was the most surreal display I鈥檝e ever seen.

But in 2024, experts predict the northern lights will get even wilder.

Get Ready for a Spike in Auroral Activity

Auroras are generated when storms on the sun鈥檚 surface blast particle-packed winds through the solar system. Although earth鈥檚 magnetic field protects us from most solar winds, some particles sneak through, and as they slam into our atmosphere, they create the crayon box of colors I saw in Greenland. Each hue is caused by a different interaction with gases鈥攇reen (the most common) from oxygen, blues and purples from nitrogen, and red (rarely seen) from less concentrated oxygen at higher altitudes. During strong displays, the lights can mix like paint, creating pink, yellow, and orange pillars.

Last year鈥檚 auroral colors were a mere preview of what鈥檚 to come. Over the next ten months, the intensity and frequency of solar storms are expected to peak鈥攁 period that happens roughly every 11 years known as solar maximum. According to the , between now and October, Solar Cycle 25 (which began in 2019 and will run until 2030) could produce the strongest and most dazzling aurora displays we鈥檝e seen in decades.

That means there鈥檚 no time like the present to make your bucket-list aurora trip a reality. I鈥檝e compiled some of the best and most geographically diverse spots to see brilliant displays of both the northern and southern lights, along with details on how to chase them, where to stay, and unique tours that take in the lights. All of these destinations lie within, or just outside, the auroral oval鈥攁 doughnut-shape ring above the geomagnetic north and south poles where more activity happens. Which is exactly what you want.

The Best Places to See the Northern Lights

South Greenland

Located within the auroral oval, south Greenland sees little to no light pollution, and its saw-toothed peaks and iceberg-filled fjords make for incredible silhouettes against the glow. The best time to view the lights dancing here is from late August to April (though the spectacle technically still happens outside of those months, you won鈥檛 see them in the summer due to the midnight sun in Greenland, and the rest of the Arctic). Fly into Narsarsuaq Airport via Reykjav铆k, Iceland, or Copenhagen, Denmark, then head to the region鈥檚 largest town, Qaqortoq (population 3,000) for a guided chase with , run by two Inuit sisters. I recommend hiking the blaze-marked paths and gravel roads up into the mountains, home to among herds of sheep, before heading back to your base at a property, like Illunnguujuk (from $53), to enjoy the Lite Brite nightscapes.

Lofoten Islands, Norway

The ice-carved fjords and jagged peaks of Norway鈥檚 Lofoten Islands are also smack-dab within the auroral oval. The archipelago is a popular summer destination for hiking, climbing, and fishing, but the spectacular auroras happen, thankfully, in the off-season months after the crowds have gone home. For a particularly unique Lofoten experience, go aurora-hunting via horseback on a sandy (or snow-dusted) beach with outfitter , sail beneath the spectacle with , or book a night in one of the historic fishing cottages (from $154) to watch the green lights sashay over the sea鈥攕omething that the cottages boast is possible more than 180 days a year.

Northwest Territories, Canada

Weather permitting, you can watch the northern lights in the Northwest Territories up to 240 nights annually, according to this northern province鈥檚 tourism board. With tundra and spruce and birch forests, as well as Canada鈥檚 largest reindeer herd, this destination provides quite the backdrop. See the show by dogsled with , an Indigenous-run and family-owned business based in Yellowknife. Or head to nearby for an evening tour complete with cultural storytelling and a stay in a cozy lakeside tepee (hotel packages available from $527 for two nights). For even more of a treat, travel above the Arctic Circle to Inuvik for a , replete with reindeer-watching, snowmobiling, and aurora hunting ($4,395).

Iceland

I tell many first-time aurora hunters to try Iceland. It鈥檚 easily reached, very navigable, daytime adventures abound, and, thanks to minimal light pollution, you can spot the streaks just about everywhere鈥擨鈥檝e seen them above waterfalls, beaches, and even over the capital city of Reykjav铆k. But my favorite Iceland aurora perch is a hot spring. You鈥檒l find naturally heated pools (known as hot pots), all over the country. I like the (from $283), a collection of cabins with a central soaking pool on the Snaefellsnes peninsula, home to Kirkjufell, a small mountain shaped like a sorcerer鈥檚 hat that makes for a听. Aurora chasing at (from $110) in the untamed Westfjords is another one of my favorites. You can soak beneath the aurora swirls or enjoy the lights among its resident horses.

Fairbanks, Alaska

For U.S.-based aurora hunting, it鈥檚 tough to top the boreal forest surrounding Fairbanks, which promises impressive northern-lights odds. Explore Fairbanks says that anyone who hunts for the spectacle for at least three nights during the August-to-April aurora season has a 90 percent chance of success. The local offers a dinner and dogsled experience that takes in the nightly auroras, or drive two hours south to mush in Denali鈥檚 shadow with . For a snowshoe adventure beneath the lights, the Fairbanks outfitter offers trips听along six miles of trails north of town. And an hour east of Fairbanks, aurora hunting from the is a popular pick鈥攜ou can soak from a geothermal pool while the colorful lights riot above (from $180).

Abisko National Park, Swedish Lapland

A unique weather phenomenon makes Abisko National Park one of the world鈥檚 top aurora-hunting locales. While the northern lights are active throughout the auroral oval most nights, weather鈥攑articularly cloud cover鈥攄etermines if chasers will see them or not. That鈥檚 where Abisko鈥檚 鈥渂lue hole鈥� comes into play: according to the , a stretch of sky above the park stays clear regardless of the surrounding conditions, something attributed to wind direction and altitude. You can make the most of this meteorological marvel at the park鈥檚 , a viewing center set at 3,000 feet elevation and accessed via a 1.2-mile-long chairlift. Come for the lights, but stay for the station鈥檚 , where glass ceilings let you enjoy a taste of Lapland without missing the night-sky entertainment. The best time for lights chasing in this area is mid-November to mid-March.

Northern Minnesota

While many of the best northern lights destinations sit within the auroral oval, you don鈥檛 have to travel to the ends of the earth鈥攐r even out of the contiguous U.S.鈥攖o see them. In fact, you can enjoy them from many听national parks. The auroral oval鈥檚 path tilts particularly in favor of Great Lakes escapes like northern Minnesota, but to see the aurora this far south, you鈥檒l need a strong solar storm, minimal light pollution, and a clear view to the northern horizon (like a lake) because the distance will make the lights appear closer to the horizon. I suggest scouting from the lake-abundant Voyageurs National Park or the wilds of Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness鈥攂oth were recognized by DarkSky International as outstanding dark-sky spaces. To keep tabs on aurora activity and get involved with locals in the know, join the Facebook group , whose members share updates on the northern lights regularly.

The Best Places to See the Southern Lights

Stewart Island, New Zealand

The aurora borealis gets all the buzz, but the Southern Hemisphere鈥檚 aurora australis鈥攂etter known as the southern lights鈥攁re worth chasing, too. For that, head to Stewart Island, which earned DarkSky International鈥檚 Dark Sky Sanctuary status in 2019. More than 85 percent of the island, located 16 miles south of the South Island and accessed via an hourlong ferry, is a national park, with 170 miles of hiking trails, including the Rakiura Track, one of New Zealand鈥檚 Great Walks, making this one of the more adventurous ways to enjoy the lights. Like Minnesota, Stewart Island isn鈥檛 usually in the auroral oval, which means you鈥檒l need a strong solar storm to see any activity here. Unlike Minnesota, you鈥檒l have to look southward to spot them.

Tasmania, Australia

Tasmania听is another hub for aurora australis hunters. Margaret Sonnemann, author of The Aurora Chaser鈥檚 Handbook, says this island state is better positioned for sightings than just about anywhere in the Southern Hemisphere outside of Antarctica (which is nearly unreachable for tourists during aurora season). Its rugged peaks, ancient rainforests, and sandy shores only add to the auroral awe. Since Tasmania, like Stewart Island, doesn鈥檛 experience the midnight sun, the aurora is visible year-round鈥攑ending the weather, of course. Popular sky-watching spots include Goat Bluff lookout and Carlton Beach, or book a stay at (from $93), a lakeside base for rainforest bushwalks by day and celestial gazing at night. You can also have an awesome experience at Taroona Beach, admiring two twilight marvels鈥攁uroras and bioluminescence鈥攄uring the warm summer months.

Journalist and photographer Stephanie Vermillion covers adventure travel and all things astrotourism, from eclipse chasing and meteor showers to her personal obsession: auroras. She hopes to check off another astro-bucket-list topper鈥攕eeing the southern lights鈥攄uring a trip to New Zealand鈥檚 South Island this year.听

Want more of 国产吃瓜黑料鈥檚 award-winning travel coverage? .

The post Watch This Year鈥檚 Northern Lights Here. They鈥檒l Be the Most Dazzling in Decades. appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

What if you could spend a full season hiking to more than a dozen hot springs, photographing petroglyphs, and camping in the most remote wilderness in the lower 48? Well,听you can do all that and more, thanks to a new thru-hike听created by听Ras and Kathy Vaughan.听

Full-time adventurers, the Vaughans, married for 22 years, have made a habit of setting only known times听where they establish never-before-recorded routes. They call themselves Team ,听and they named their new听trail the UltraPedestrian听(or UP)听North Loop.听The thru-hike combines parts of four established long trails to create a 2,600-mile loop through the best of the Northwest.听

The idea for the trail came about after the couple looked at a map of America鈥檚 long-distance trails and realized that there was a near听complete loop in the upper-left corner of the country, created by听the Pacific Crest, Pacific Northwest, Idaho Centennial, and Oregon Desert听Trails. Longtime residents of Washington State, the听Vaughans had hiked sections of the PCT and PNT before, but the Idaho and Oregon trails offered something fresh. 鈥淭he Oregon Desert Trail and the Idaho听Centennial Trail were both completely new territory,鈥� Kathy, 52, said when I spoke with her and Ras, 47, about a month after they鈥檇 completed their听174-day journey.

They plotted the details of the UP听North Loop听for a year before embarking on the journey, spending more than听100 hours poring over official trail maps, satellite imagery, and GPS tracks. Ultimately, they created a purist GPS line to follow and .听

They decided to begin the hike on听an isolated stretch of land between the Idaho Centennial and the Oregon Desert Trails. 鈥淭he other three trails鈥攖he PCT, PNT, and听ICT鈥攁ll overlap each other, so it鈥檚 a seamless connection from one to the other,鈥� Ras says. 鈥淏ut the Oregon Desert Trail just floats … out there in between the ICT and the PCT.鈥澨�

To navigate听this remote section, they relied听on a track conceived of by thru-hiking triple crowner and Oregon Desert Trail coordinator Renee 鈥淪he-Ra鈥澨齈atrick, who had听mapped the route听using extensive research. The catch: neither she nor anyone else had actually hiked it before. Even on paper, the听Vaughans听knew it would be rough, requiring a听35-mile water carry between sources and a possible 200-mile food carry. (A听friend ended up being able to drop a resupply for them midway.) Their first day on trail, Ras carried a 72-pound pack, primarily full of food and water, and struggled through tall sagebrush and dry, dusty heat waves. Monsoons hit them every afternoon like clockwork for nearly two weeks.

Not all of the Vaughans鈥� challenges have been听of the human-versus-nature variety. In 2017, while attempting to complete another only known time by yo-yoing the Grand Enchantment Trail in the Southwest, Kathy started experiencing symptoms of high blood sugar and was later found to have听Type 1 diabetes. The UP North Loop was the first major undertaking since her diagnosis听and the longest thru-hike of her career. Steep climbs in Washington left her shaking and sweating as a result of听low blood sugar. While high blood sugar was dangerous for her long-term health, anything听too low could be instantly fatal. She learned to monitor how she felt and react accordingly, and she also traded in much of her dehydrated meals for heavier fresh ingredients from towns. She injected听herself with insulin twice daily using alcohol swabs for sterility in a dusty tent. 鈥淓ach time we changed the terrain we were in, or the climate changed听or the elevation, my numbers would fluctuate again,鈥� Kathy听says. 鈥淚t was a constant area that I needed to pay a lot of attention to.鈥�

Of course, not听every day was brutal. The couple spent hours soaking in natural hot springs in Oregon鈥檚 Owyhee Canyonlands and swimming in the 听in central Idaho. In Washington, Kathy said, the ,听near Snoqualmie Pass on the Pacific Crest Trail, were magical. 鈥淵ou actually step into a narrow cave in the top pool,鈥� she says. 鈥淵ou feel like you鈥檙e in a womb.鈥� They lodged with hunters near the Wilderness Gateway Campground in Idaho, staying in cozy canvas tents with wood stoves. A detour took them on a 55-mile walk along听an abandoned railroad. 鈥淸It] turned out to be one of the most special sections of the hike,鈥� Kathy says.

Their biggest disappointment happened听in central Idaho after coming off the Lolo Trail. They鈥檇 intended to follow the Idaho Centennial Trail to the Selway-Bitterroot听Wilderness through to the Frank Church鈥揜iver of No Return Wilderness, the . But the area had听been hit hard by snow, Kathy was out of blood-test strips, and their weather window for completing the circuit was running out. So instead they routed around the wilderness areas, completing the trip at lower elevations.

That means the purist line the Vaughans听conceived of is still up for grabs, although they hope that people will take their route as a guideline and then make it better鈥攍inking more hot springs, passing by more petroglyphs, seeing even more remote wilderness. 鈥淚t鈥檚 easy to get caught up with these artificial lines that we鈥檝e drawn,听whether it鈥檚 Washington or Oregon or Idaho,鈥� Ras says. 鈥淏ut when you connect it all on foot, and you find these hot springs and lava flows, you realize that there鈥檚 this geological underpinning to the entire area.鈥�

Though much of the loop is rugged and less than ideal from a scenic perspective鈥攊t includes听at least 200 miles of road walking and several areas with limited water resources鈥擱as hopes the planned improvements on the Oregon Desert and Idaho Centennial Trails over the next handful of years will encourage people to try out the circuit. Kathy is hopeful it could off-load some of the traffic that the big three thru-hiking trails have seen in recent years. But mostly, they鈥檙e glad they had the opportunity to see their home region, one step at a time. 鈥淵ou don鈥檛 know what the听American听Northwest is really like until you do something like this,鈥� Ras says.

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This short film from 听profiles Ted Grant operates the , which is located in听the heart of the Northwest Territories. In a day where connectedness permeates just about everything, Grant makes a strong case for escaping the pull of cell phones and Internet and getting out to see the world. The Northern Lights in this area are far from the reaches of light pollution, and as Grant says, there's no better escape from life's hectic pace than a few days in the mountains.听

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On August 16, an 820-foot-long luxury cruise ship called the Crystal Serenity is scheduled to motor out of Seward, Alaska, and begin a 32-day journey through the Northwest Passage鈥攖he long-mythologized route that so many early explorers died trying to forge.

If successful, the trip, which ends in New York City, will mark the first crossing of the passage by a luxury cruise ship. The route includes 23 waterways and weaves around land and ice in the Canadian Arctic. Attempts to navigate it date as far back as the 15th century, when nations in Europe and Asia first sought it as a trade route. Norwegian explorer Roald Amundsen led the first sea crossing in 1906鈥攁 three-year, east-to-west journey that he and a team of six men completed in a fishing vessel by hugging the coast of Northern Canada and nimbly avoiding ice bergs.

But in recent years, rising Arctic temperatures have softened up the sea ice and made the passage more accessible to less intrepid seafarers. The largest private residential yacht on earth, a 644-foot vessel called The World, motored through the passage in 2012, and other private yachts have made the journey each summer since. That 2012 voyage was led by Tim Soper of Expedition Voyage Consultants, a British firm that works with large outfitters to design novel trips around the globe. In 2013, when Los Angeles-based operator Crystal Cruises started thinking about sending one of their liners through the passage, executives called Soper to plan the logistics.

鈥淲ith the recent retreat of polar ice, the time is right for us to lead the way within the travel industry,鈥� said Crystal executive vice president Thomas Mazloum .

There鈥檚 room for about 950 passengers and 624 crewmembers aboard Crystal Serenity. Crystal Cruises is offering 鈥渁ll-inclusive鈥� packages, which are listed online for as much as $240,000 per person, and 鈥渃ruise-only鈥� fares, which start just shy of $22,000. (An all-inclusive fare includes more meals and onboard activity options, like golf lessons from a PGA instructor.) According to Crystal Cruises spokeswoman Molly Morgan, the trip sold out three weeks after tickets became available March 7.

Passengers will be more comfortable than Amundsen was 110 years ago. With wireless Internet access for 90 percent of the trip, twice-a-day housekeeping, and 24-hour butler service鈥攏ot to mention a potted orchid to greet each of the elite tier of travelers鈥攖his summer鈥檚 cruise is not designed for dirtbags. 鈥淚 think people are coming because they鈥檙e interested to experience this part of the world, but they don鈥檛 want to compromise the comfort of a cruise ship,鈥� Soper says.

The itinerary: talks by speakers ranging from climatologists to marine biologists to world-renowned whale photographer Flip Nicklin; 鈥渨ilderness adventures鈥� like nature hikes, kayak trips around icebergs, and a camping trip on the Greenland Ice Sheet (for an extra $4,149); and interaction with Inuit locals along the route.

Not surprisingly, the trip has raised the antennae of seasoned adventurers like Lonnie Dupre, who completed the first west-to-east winter crossing of the Northwest Passage in 1992. Along with his partner, Malcolm Vance, Dupre traveled 3,250 miles by dog sled from Prudhoe Bay, Alaska, to Churchill, Manitoba. (It was a brutal trip: 15 of the expedition鈥檚 dogs perished in bitter conditions.)

鈥淚 have mixed feelings about it,鈥� Dupre says of sending luxury liners through the passage. 鈥淢aybe it鈥檚 just because of my love of the Arctic, but you always want to protect those places that you love, you know?鈥澨�

Dumping human waste at sea is a common practice in the cruise industry, and Dupre worries about sewage from Crystal Serenity winding up in the Arctic鈥檚 pristine waters. According to a statement from Crystal鈥檚 operations team, the ship won鈥檛 dump any waste within 12 nautical miles of shore and that its discharge parameters 鈥渨ell exceed international requirements.鈥澨�

But the precedent the cruise could set is concerning to Dupre, who thinks regulation might be an order as other commercial cruise companies eye the Arctic. Rules he鈥檇 like to see in place: 鈥淭hey can鈥檛 dump any of their waste; they have to be careful where they鈥檙e walking since footprints can last 100 years in the wrong location up there; and they have to be sensitive about breeding grounds for whales and other animals.鈥�

Crystal Serenity will be accompanied by a 260-foot 鈥渆scort vessel鈥� carrying equipment for icebreaking and oil-spill containment. It will also have two helicopters, Zodiacs, kayaks, and a landing platform to enable side trips鈥攍ike that Greenland glacier camp鈥攄uring the voyage.

After consulting with local search and rescue teams and the Canadian Coast Guard, Crystal Cruises issued a special requirement for its passengers: each is required to have emergency evacuation insurance that covers at least $50,000 in costs. To ensure Crystal Serenity does not follow the fate of the Titanic, the crew will have access to advanced sonar equipment, high-resolution radar, and two ice searchlights and will be aided by a pair of veteran Arctic captains trained to spot ice and navigate the roughly charted waters.

鈥淭o say a Northwest Passage voyage is without danger would be na茂ve,鈥� Soper says. 鈥淏ut over the last two years we鈥檝e worked really hard with Crystal to identify the risks and manage them.鈥�

Soper also conceded that leery observers, like Dupre, might argue an 820-foot cruise ship carrying 1,500 people is not meant to cross the passage at a time when sea ice there is shifting and melting. Still, Soper hopes the passengers鈥攎any of them wealthy Americans鈥攚ill be moved by what they see and chip in to Arctic conservation efforts.

鈥淚t鈥檚 powerful to actually see firsthand the changes that are happening,鈥� Soper says. 鈥淧erhaps that will inspire some of them to take action and lobby to do something about climate change when they get back.鈥�

The post Is a Luxury Cruise Through the Northwest Passage a Good Idea? appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

John Huston is a pretty common name for a pretty uncommon man. The Huston that I talked to has just left for the Canadian Arctic. He is on a three-month expedition on the remote Ellesmere Island, where he will see more polar bears than people. Huston spoke with us about what it takes to make it in one of the wildest places on the planet.

Why do you go on polar expeditions?
It鈥檚 not easy to be concise about this. I like expeditions because they challenge me in ways I like鈥攖o solve problems, work with people around the globe. I like the long-term challenges you face and that you have to commit to it. I love the simple life. It goes beyond beauty and thrill, which fade. I love forced creativity. You develop a special camaraderie that takes work and time to create. You never know exactly what is going to happen until you get on the ice, and I love that.

How do you train for a three-month journey?
Our loads are going to be about 150 pounds. It鈥檚 really important to do a lot of core-strengthening multi-joint exercises to avoid injury. My body is not as forgiving as it was in the past, but I have changed my training to accommodate that. I lose my pectoral muscles quickly as my body starts to burn calories more quickly in the cold.

The other part of my training is for endurance. I walk around on the grass and snow on the shore of Lake Michigan and pull tires. This basically simulates the motions of pulling my sled. It鈥檚 super-boring, but it also preps me psychologically. You can go crazy out there pulling for hours, but with training you just let your mind go.

That ties into the last part of my training, the mental side. I have to think of problems that we may encounter and how we can solve them. If you鈥檙e not training, I doubt your commitment.

What do you eat while you train?
I eat a mostly vegetarian diet, but I put butter on everything. I need to gain as much weight as possible in order to not starve out there. I will make milkshakes with peanut butter and fudge, but it can be a lot of stress just to eat enough.

Why do you travel to the Arctic in general?
I鈥檓 a cold-weather specialist and I love the brisk weather. The Arctic is incomparable to anywhere else, but it鈥檚 kind of like a desert. I want to see the changes occurring because of climate change before this beautiful biome disappears.

The starkness of the Arctic has isolated humans for centuries. I get to visit places that have been untouched by man. It can be very abstract to most people who don鈥檛 go there.

How did you get excited about this? What is your inspiration?
I was inspired by the experience of polar explorers, not the glory. I read Shackleton as a kid and the most interesting thing was the journals full of positive experiences and success even though many were sailors with no expedition experience.

That鈥檚 expedition life. The home logistics are gone. You can dial in and focus because time moves at a different pace. We live in a fast-paced society. Although I鈥檓 not trying to find it, I find the whole experience meditative.

Ellesmere Island is like a mythical jewel of Arctic wilderness. There are huge glaciers and deep mountain valleys with icy fjords.

We want to celebrate the last major expedition there by Otto Svedrup. He is an unsung hero and I want to bring his story to life. We are going to create a documentary about how an expedition works, to advocate for climate change education and to celebrate him.

What are you most excited about for this trip?
Ellesmere is extraordinarily remote. There鈥檚 very minimal human presence. You can travel for two months and never see people. The wildlife is also less afraid of humans; they鈥檙e much more curious because they鈥檝e never been hunted before.

I want to get to know the land and the ice. The world up there is constantly shifting in a dance with the Arctic Ocean. It gives you a sense of your humanity.

What are you most nervous about?
I鈥檓 nervous about two things: our mode of travel and our route. No one has ever kite-skied on Ellesmere Island before and there are a lot of propulsion variables. There aren鈥檛 specific destinations we want to reach. I鈥檓 also nervous about route stress. This isn鈥檛 like going to the North Pole where I had a set goal.

Ellesmere also has the densest polar bear population in the world. I don鈥檛 have any experience with bears yet, and you can get comfortable and then next thing you hear a bear. That鈥檚 why we are bringing the dogs; they are the best bear-alert system possible. They will run free while we are ski-sailing and then hunker down with us at camp.

What鈥檚 the hardest aspect of an expedition for you?
Food stress always gets me. I spend all my time daydreaming about food on the ice. I’m going to miss avocados so much.

What鈥檚 your favorite moment when you鈥檙e out in the wilderness?
It happens at the end of a long ski day. The sun doesn鈥檛 go down all the way, but the light is constantly shifting on the ice. It鈥檚 the most beautiful thing I鈥檝e ever seen. You get your camp set up and the exhaustion and the emptiness just get to you. You sit and watch the sun float on the horizon for hours.

To follow along with Huston’s journey, check out his , , and .

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If you want to cross 鈥渨atching the Northern Lights鈥� off your bucket list this year, you鈥檙e in luck. Thanks to the natural cycles of solar activity, the earth is in the midst of a peak period of Aurora Borealis activity. This flashy electric dance of atoms in the sky forms when highly-charged electrons carried by solar wind react to elements high in the earth鈥檚 atmosphere. You鈥檒l find a .

The basic rule: the closer you get to the magnetic pole, the better your chances of spotting it. So, Alaska and Canada鈥檚 Northwest Territories are the prime locations鈥攁lthough it鈥檚 been known to creep much farther south, as folks in Michigan鈥檚 Upper Peninsula will tell you. I鈥檇 recommend these towns in North America for the greatest chance of success, especially between now and April, when the nights are longer and clearer. Consult , and remember: the farther you get from civilization鈥攍ights, people, electricity, etc.鈥攖he clearer the sky will be.

Fairbanks, Alaska
Yellowknife, Canada

Seeing the Aurora Borealis: Yellowknife, Canada

Yellowknife in the Northwest Territories is the closest you鈥檒l find to an actual tourist destination for the Aurora Borealis. Sky gazers from around the world come to this frigid-but-welcoming spot specifically to stay up late and watch the Northern Lights from the comfort of a heated seat at the somewhat-primitive outside of town. The cost of a night viewing session, including transportation from your hotel, is $120.

Seeing the Aurora Borealis: Fairbanks, Alaska

The clouds can sometimes cover Fairbanks in the winter, and on occasion the Northern Lights don鈥檛 dip far enough south to ignite the sky over town, but it鈥檚 the most civilized鈥攁nd easiest-to-access鈥攑lace to base your Aurora hunt from during the long Alaska winter. Stay at 鈥攐n a hilltop about 20 miles outside the city, with views in every direction of the night sky鈥攐r take one of its viewing tours, which cost $75, including transportation from town. Rates for the main lodge start at $199 per night.

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Mount Logan & the St. Elias Mountains

Summer Skiing
Mount Logan
Yukon Territory
By the numbers, summertime skiing on Mount Logan can seem daunting. At 19,524 feet, it’s Canada’s highest peak. Sitting squarely in the St. Elias Mountains of the Yukon’s Kluane National Park and Reserve, Logan dominates a 12-mile plateau of eight subpeaks over 18,000 feet. The mountain itself rises more than 13,000 feet above its glacial base, which has a circumference of 100 miles.

But don’t let Logan’s Himalayan stats dismay you. The most popular route up, King Trench, is a North American classic—comparable to tackling Mount McKinley’s West Buttress. You can ski the majority of the Trench’s gently sloped glaciers, and with a dependably toasty sleeping bag and at least two weeks, intermediate skiers (with mountaineering experience and a guide) have a good shot at the summit.—Sam Moulton

DETAILS: International Mountain Guides (360-569-2609, ) will run an expedition May 30–June 19 for $4,000 per person. With Imax views, Icefield Discovery Lodge (867-633-2018, ), on the St. Elias icefields, is a great base camp for ski touring. A two-night package for two costs $875, including meals and round-trip airfare from Silver City.

Heli-Hiking
St. Elias Mountains
Yukon Territory
Flying over the St. Elias peaks in Kluane National Park and Reserve, you’d never guess the Ice Age ended some 10,000 years ago. Eighty-two percent of the park is glaciated, but at 8,487 square miles, there’s plenty of lower-elevation terra firma to explore. From Haines Junction, on the park’s eastern edge, Paddle/Wheel 国产吃瓜黑料s can arrange guided heli-hiking on the 5,600-foot Kluane Plateau, located just outside the national park. It’s a quick 35-minute flight, but it’s long enough to see the Dall sheep that dance, Dean Potter–like, up the sheer Kluane mountainsides.

Once you’ve landed on the plateau’s sprawling alpine meadows, the choice is yours: Hike down the five- or six-hour route back to the road, or stick to the ridge and rendezvous with the chopper five or so miles farther southeast near Outpost Mountain. Either way, the views of Kluane Lake, the Slims River, and the hanging glaciers on Mount Vulcan are dizzying. But do stay focused: Grizzly sightings are common in these parts.—S. M.

DETAILS: Paddle/Wheel 国产吃瓜黑料s (867-634-2683, ) runs heli-hiking trips on the Kluane Plateau starting at $190 per person for an afternoon, including lunch and guide.

Stikine River & the Cirque of the Unclimbables

Canoeing
Stikine River
British Columbia
In a little more than a week and 150 miles of intermediate canoeing on the lower Stikine River, you can travel between two countries, among 10,000-plus-foot oceanfront peaks, and through two biological worlds—the dry eastern slopes of the Coast Mountains in British Columbia and the temperate rainforest of the southeastern Alaska coast. It’s a mountain corridor so spectacular and varied that when John Muir visited in 1879, he likened the Stikine Valley to the grandeur of Yosemite.

We shoved off for our ten-day trip from Telegraph Creek, B.C., silt grinding audibly against the canoe, and dug into the swirling current, bound west for Wrangell, Alaska. We gazed up at the blue-white glaciers and the awesome barrier of the Coast Mountains. Some of the highest peaks—Devils Thumb, Kates Needle, and Castle Mountain—mark the boundary between Canada and Alaska, and shield the interior from Pacific storms.

Beneath us was the Stikine, a highway during the Klondike gold rush of the late 1800s, with a current so fast that only jet boats can navigate upstream against it. You can raft the river—and many do—but the mazes of braided channels take full advantage of a canoe’s dexterity and make paddling much more satisfying than floating.

Camping along the way is simple: At the end of each 15-mile day, pick any of the Stikine’s numerous gravel bars and beaches. On day eight, we camped at the Great Glacier of the Stikine, where a short trail leads to the snout of the glacier and a pool of icebergs. A magnificent delta, an important migratory stopover for sandpipers and other shorebirds, marks the journey’s denouement. To reach the true conclusion, paddle till the Stikine’s silty outflow gives way to green salt water, then cross the bay over to Wrangell and scrape ashore. —Byron Ricks

DETAILS: Alaska Vistas (866-874-3006, ) runs jet-boat shuttles to the Telegraph Creek put-in from Wrangell, $1,400 for six people. Or canoe with an outfitter. Nahanni River 国产吃瓜黑料s (800-297-6927, ) charges $3,160 for a 14-day Stikine trip from Whitehorse.

Climbing
Cirque of the Unclimbables
Northwest Territories
Deep in the glacier-scoured valleys of the western Northwest Territories stands a crop of sheer granite so formidable that 1950s explorers dubbed it the Cirque of the Unclimbables. Today, however, it might be better labeled Funclimbable. Take, for example, Lotus Flower Tower, a 2,200-foot wall that’s a smaller version of Yosemite’s El Capitan. A floatplane will drop you off at Glacier Lake, 300 miles east of Whitehorse, where a nine-hour hike will get you to Fairy Meadows, a patch of grass surrounded by a rock amphitheater. Spend two days working your way up the tower’s 22 pitches, bivouacking alongside a sea of granite after the first ten. For the best shot at clear weather, pencil in a two-week block in July or August. —Tim Neville

DETAILS: Gravity 国产吃瓜黑料s (877-772-5462, ) leads climbers up Lotus Flower Tower, starting at $3,800 (including flight from Finlayson Lake, in the Yukon).

Queen Charlotte Islands & King Pacific Lodge

canada parks, adventures

Rivers Run Throughout It: Queen Charlotte Islands, BC

Sea Kayaking
Queen Charlotte Islands
British Columbia
Despite the North Pacific storms circling off the coast, our guide, Gord Pincock, is doing his best to see us through our eight-day kayak expedition in the Queen Charlotte Islands, called Haida Gwaii by the native Haida people. For three days, we’ve been pinned down on a sheltered beach waiting for a weather window to open and let us continue to SGang Gwaay. The island was named for the sighing sound made when storm surf rolls across a reef, but this is a wonder Pincock doesn’t want us to witness.

We’re paddling the southern end of this 150-island chain through Gwaii Haanas National Park Reserve and Haida Heritage Site. Nearly 5,000 people live on Haida Gwaii; about a third are descendants of the Haida, seafaring warriors whose naval daring draws comparisons to the Vikings. Haida canoes, longhouses, and cedar totem poles represent a high point in North American art. Cedar is exceptionally durable, but in Haida Gwaii—essentially a moated rainforest—a pole stands only about 150 years. The SGang Gwaay Ilnagaay village contains the most famous poles; the island is a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

In the morning, under clear skies, we circumnavigate SGang Gwaay. The staring faces of eagles, killer whales, frogs, bears—heraldic crests of previous inhabitants—gaze back at us from 40-foot poles. Their deftly carved features are exaggerated and intimidating: Tongues loll, nostrils flare, teeth are bared, but these expressions seem more the effects of rigor mortis than of the ferocity of life; this is a place of ghosts.—John Vaillant

DETAILS: Gord Pincock and Butterfly Tours (604-740-7018, ) lead eight- and 12-day trips for $1,480–$2,230.

Fly-Fishing
King Pacific Lodge
British Columbia
You’re in a luxury floating lodge moored to 870-square-mile Princess Royal Island in northern British Columbia’s Great Bear Rainforest: a realm of deep fjords, islands thick with red cedars, and astounding vertical relief. Stand at the edge of the craggy rock of the ridgelines and you feel like you’re on top of the world—at sea level. The channels below teem with killer and humpback whales, and the forest behind you is home to the rare white kermode (“spirit”) bear.

It doesn’t seem possible, but this 17-room, 15,000-square-foot structure, with its enormous, cathedral-ceiling living room, is built on a barge that gets hauled about 100 miles back to Prince Rupert in the fall. Despite the lodge’s portability, no detail has been spared—from the forged-iron chandeliers to the slate floors and red cedar walls. Rooms are big enough for a king-size bed plus a couple of cushy chairs positioned for gazing out over Barnard Harbor. Jonathan Chovancek, a chef from Victoria, astounds with his fresh fish creations—yet uses a light touch, going easy on the beurre.

Most guests—typically fly-fishing gentry and splurging honeymooners—come for the summerlong parade of salmon or for catch-and-release fly-casting (cutthroat, coho, pink salmon) in mainland streams. If you’re craving adventure, the lodge can set you up with a day of paddling Princess Royal’s Cornwall Inlet. Or just take off out the back door and into the rainforest in search of the storied spirit bear. —Robert Earle Howells

DETAILS: An all-inclusive package at King Pacific Lodge (604-987-5452, )—with round-trip floatplane from Prince Rupert, kayaking, meals, and drinks—begins at $2,644 a person for three nights.

Whistler Blackcomb, Gulf Islands, & Sentry Mountain Lodge

Mountain Biking
Whistler Blackcomb
British Columbia
So you call yourself a mountain biker. You rip local ribbons of singletrack, bunny-hop logs, and drop wheelies off rocky steps like a pro. But deep down inside, you know there’s more. Those pictures of riders speeding over scarily narrow log bridges look like so much fun. Problem is, you’re made of breakable bone, and the thought of busting a clavicle on some do-or-die jump isn’t your style. Well, there’s hope. This summer, Whistler Blackcomb opens about seven miles of new singletrack, accessed from the top of the Garbanzo lift, part of a network totaling more than 125 miles, with a whopping 3,200-foot vertical loss—arguably the largest downhill bike park in North America.

Here in southwestern British Columbia, the nexus of the fast-growing, thrill-based mountain-bike subgenre called freeriding, you can test your mettle at three separate areas that have jumps and stunt obstacles built by adults who know that injuries can mean lawsuits. No rickety teeter-totters built by a 14-year-old using garbage-picked wooden pallets here—the resort spent close to $750,000 building the trails. Pro riders like Richie Schley were called in to help design jumps, making sure they’re solid and have good landings.

“We need to make things safe,” says Whistler Mountain Bike Park manager Tom “Pro” Prochazka, whose 12-year-old son, Alex, braves every one of the park’s dozens of stunts. “You’ll get the same butterflies as if the net wasn’t there, but we’ve taken out the element of danger. Last thing we want to see is a broken neck.”—T. N.

DETAILS: Summertime Whistler Blackcomb lift passes cost $26 per day (800-766-0449, ). Full-suspension downhill bikes rent for $76 per day.

New Park
Gulf Islands National Park
Reserve B.C.
This 6,425-acre reserve, off the southeastern coast of Vancouver Island, has one of the province’s highest densities of marine mammals. Kayak among harbor seals and the occasional killer whale; camp on any of eight islands.—Pieter vanNoordennen

DETAILS: 250-654-4000,

Hiding Away
Sentry Mountain Lodge
British Columbia
Your journal might read like this: “We flew in to Sentry Mountain Lodge by helicopter, dazzled by Kinbasket Lake and the Columbia Icefields. The bird dropped us at a cedar house, on a meadow at 6,920 feet, cradled by the Selkirks. Before settling in, we explored some of the lodge’s 13 square miles of alpine meadows and interlaced ridges. A black bear and two cubs crossed our path in the distance, but otherwise we didn’t see a soul. Afterward, we sipped Big Rock ales, basked in the alpenglow, and waited for Venus to pop out and guide us on a midnight hike.” Of course, that would be just the first entry.

This hideaway, which you share with only seven other guests, feels like a European-style mountain home: vaulted ceilings, mural-size windows, and a piney kitchen in which your hosts rustle up cheese fondue and coq au vin. —Amy Marr

DETAILS: A one-week all-inclusive package (heli access from Golden, excursions, meals, and nonalcoholic drinks) begins at $1,280 at Sentry Mountain Lodge (250-344-7227).

Icefields Parkway & Don Getty Wildland Park

Cycle Touring
Icefields Parkway
Alberta
I’ve had a stiff neck before, but never from constantly looking up. Looking up around every turn. Over every pass. At mountain after mountain. But the view from the Icefields Parkway—a 143-mile ribbon of wide-shouldered road strung among the horned peaks, blue ice, and milky lakes of the Canadian Rockies between Lake Louise and Jasper—is worth the pain. It’s not a secret place, this corridor that hosts Banff and Jasper national parks, but it’s surely a spectacular place. Cyclists can ride one-way to Jasper from Lake Louise in a few days, or join an outfitted trip that stops at mountain lodges along the way. My wife and I wanted a more demanding tour, so we stuffed our panniers with food, camping gear, and repair equipment and took a week to pedal the parkway from Lake Louise to Jasper and back, overnighting in the parks.

We survived passes (Bow Summit, 6,781 feet, is the route’s highest point) and screaming downhills. And when we got tired, we stopped. We gazed at Bow Lake, fed by one of the eight glaciers descending from the Wapta Icefield, and at pyramidal 10,850-foot Mount Chephren. We hiked Banff National Park’s Parker Ridge Trail (3.4 miles round-trip) through fossil beds to catch views of the Saskatchewan Glacier. And after what seemed like infinite turns of the cranks, our quadriceps were even more appreciative of these frequent respites than our scenery-tweaked necks.—B.R.

DETAILS: The Jasper National Park Information Center (780-852-6176, ) provides national parks camping information. Backroads (800-462-2848, ) leads a six-day cycling trip, with accommodations in lodges, for $2,298.

New Park
Don Getty Wildland Provincial Park
Alberta
Avoid the Banff crowds at 155,115-acre Don Getty, nestled among south-central Alberta’s classic parks. A five-mile climb to Forget-Me-Not Ridge is rewarded with views of 11,000-foot peaks.—P. V.

DETAILS: 403-591-6322,

Slave River & High Arctic Lodge

Whitewater Kayaking
Slave River
Northwest Territories
Trying to catch the biggest river wave you’ve ever seen in front of ten pro kayakers is like trying to catch Lance on a breakaway, so I did my best to look casual as I floated stern-first toward The Edge—a 15-foot-high curler. When I found myself actually carving down the face of this monster, my stoic veneer gave way to unhinged glee. I wasn’t throwing donkey flips like I’d just seen the pros execute, but this was the most exhilarating surfing of my life.

Still, the pros and I did have something in common: We’d all come to the Slave River, in the heart of the boreal forests of the Northwest Territories, for epic playboating. Consider this: The Slave’s monthly flows peak, in June, at almost 200,000 cubic feet per second—more than six times the peak monthly flows of the Colorado through the Grand Canyon. And on its 258-mile course from the northern Alberta prairie to Great Slave Lake, the Slave creates a 17-mile playboating stretch, home to four enormous Class I–VI rapids, each one several miles long. Dozens of pink granite islands dot each rapid, forming hundreds of channels, countless drop-pool rapids, and nearly every kind of river running imaginable. Rumors of this smorgasbord of liquid delights have begun to circulate among boaters, but 100 paddlers per summer would still qualify as a busy season on the Slave. And with the bonus of nearly endless subarctic sunlight, roll-savvy Class III intermediates on up through Class V hucksters can paddle till their arms fall off.

A river that takes nearly an hour to ferry across has myriad places you don’t want to be—hire a guide to ensure that your intended Class III wave train isn’t actually a Class Death sousehole. Book Keith Morrison, who knows the surf stashes intimately and runs Slave Kayak Lodge, a cluster of five guest tepees and a log cabin overlooking the river. After you ditch your wet duds at day’s end, there’s a wood-fired hot tub all warmed up and bison steaks on the grill.—Sam Bass
DETAILS: A weeklong package at the Slave Kayak Lodge (866-588-3278, ), which holds up to eight people, starts at $1,000 per person, including meals.

Solitude Seeking
High Arctic Lodge
Nunavut
There’s no hyperbole in the name High Arctic Lodge. Three hundred miles above the Arctic Circle on Nunavut’s Victoria Island, the bright-red cabins have room for only 12 people, guaranteeing a low-impact, high-solitude vacation.

Spend your days looking for polar bears or hiking through the tundra to ancient tent rings left by the Inuit. Bring a rod (or rent one) and fish nearby Hadley Bay, where many a guest has landed a 25-pound arctic char. A flightseeing tour over the Arctic Ocean is a must: Watch icebergs slough off the edge of the polar ice cap. Take a closer look by canoeing the Nanook River, a calm ribbon of fresh water.—T.N.

DETAILS: Seven-night packages at High Arctic Lodge (800-661-3880, ) start at $3,695 per person.

Treeline Lodge, Killarney Park, & Payne River Fishing Camp

Lake Fishing
Treeline Lodge
Manitoba
When I want to see envy plastered on the faces of my fishing pals, I mention that I’m heading to Treeline Lodge, on Nueltin Lake in the roadless Manitoba wilderness, to land trout and pike longer than my legs on a body of water that’s longer than the drive from Tampa to Orlando. There’s no better lake than Nueltin for catching northern pike and lake trout, and there’s no better lodge than Treeline from which to launch a fishing expedition. The log outpost and its surrounding clapboard cabins sit atop a sand esker 230 miles from the nearest road. It’s so remote that it has its own private airstrip and flies its guests in every four days via turboprop from Winnipeg.

Treeline’s registered guides are among the country’s best, and in 1978 it instituted a catch-and-release policy (everyone fishes with single barbless hooks to facilitate the release of fish, unharmed, although keeping a five-pound or smaller fish for daily shore lunch is permitted), making Nueltin the first lake in Canada with such a distinction.

After a day fighting pike, anglers can return to private cabins for a shower before gathering at the lodge. First, cocktails are served around a blaze in the stone fireplace, the warmth enhanced by floor-to-ceiling lake views and the wolf-and-bearskin-rug decor. Then there’s roast turkey or grilled steak for dinner. Afterward, most visitors choose to wind down the way I do: lounging on the deck and basking in the memory of the day’s action while watching the faint glow of a sun that never sets. —Ken Schultz

DETAILS: The cost for a five-day trip is $1,964 per person (all-inclusive) from Winnipeg. Treeline Lodge (800-361-7177, ) also runs three self-guided mini lodges on Nueltin and Shannon lakes ($1,510 for five days).

New Park
Killarney Provincial Park
Ontario
Ontario’s hottest expedition-kayaking spot may soon almost double in size, but you don’t have to wait: A $7.50 permit gives you access to Killarney, as well as about 74,000 acres of surrounding public lands that officials hope to add to the park soon. Put in at the George Lake campground, then explore 40 interconnected lakes and the thousands of islands scattered around Lake Huron.—P.V.

DETAILS: 705-287-2900,

Char Fishing
Payne River Fishing Camp
Quebec
Almost 1,000 miles north of Montreal, you’ll find Ungava Bay, home to some of the most plentiful arctic char in the world. After flying to Kuujjuaq, board a Twin Otter for the 45-minute flight to the Payne River Fishing Camp, a four-cabin spread with a lodge overlooking the tundra.

Your Inuit guides will show you to Payne Bay Fjord, where low tides improve your chances of landing a lunker. Nearby Payne River is the ideal spot to motor out in the lodge’s 24-foot freighter canoe and test your angling skills against the native brookies. Spend your sun-filled nights watching herds of caribou before crashing in an oil-heated cabin.—T. N.

DETAILS: Arctic 国产吃瓜黑料s (800-465-9474, ) runs six-night trips for $4,350 (including flight from Montreal).

Reserve Faunique des Chic-Chocs, Jacquet River Gorge, Bonaventure River, & Gros Morne Park

New Park
R茅serve Faunique des Chic-Chocs
Quebec
The 3,000-foot Chic-Chocs are more than just fun to say: They’re some of eastern Canada’s highest mountains. Spot moose and other megafauna or fish for trout in this 278,982-acre reserve. —P. V.

DETAILS: 800-665-6527,

New Park
Jacquet River Gorge Protected Natural Area
New Brunswick
The Jacquet River cuts a 200-foot-deep ravine through the hills close to New Brunswick’s northeastern coast. Access salmon-filled streams and Jacquet River whitewater from wilderness campsites in the 64,312-acre park. —P. V.

DETAILS:

Canoeing
Bonaventure River
New Brunswick
“Ah, tabernac,” I swore, as my boat pinballed its way down the snaky headwaters of the Bonaventure River at the end of Quebec’s Gasp茅 Peninsula. It had been less than an hour since the put-in, and already I was ricocheting off rocks and spinning 360s in my solo canoe. “Tricky little devil, eh?” said Claude, one of the two French-Canadian brothers who were my guides. “Look there,” he said, pointing. “An eagle.”

Sure enough, a bald eagle with a wingspan the length of my paddle was glaring at me from a stump. I swear the bird cackled when, in the nanosecond I took my eyes off the river to watch it take flight, I was whipped over the gunwales. The next thing I knew, I was bobbing boatless through Class III froth. They don’t call it the Bonaventure, or “Good 国产吃瓜黑料,” for nothing.

In the six days it took to paddle 76 miles to Chaleur Bay, we passed 12 other humans: seven fishermen and five paddlers. The Bonaventure’s eerie timelessness makes you half expect to see tepee settlements from 16th-century Micmac Indians lining the shore.

The river lacks the things that can turn canoe trips into heinous nightmares: mosquitoes, portages, and hypothermic weather. But it still proffers enough of the raw elements—icy whitewater, old-growth forests, and guides who stand up in their boats while navigating the fray.

Other than my clumsy canoe exit, the only catastrophe was losing four bottles of chilling chardonnay to the swift current. The loss would have put a dent in cocktail hour, but Ulysse, the other brother, pulled out a bottle of cognac left over from the chocolate flamb茅 he’d prepared earlier. “You gotta have that French taste on this of all rivers,” he said, winking.—Stephanie Pearson

DETAILS: Quebec 国产吃瓜黑料s (888-678-3232, ) runs six-day canoe trips on the Bonaventure from May to early July for $995 per person.

Hiking
Gros Morne National Park
Newfoundland
We had set up camp at dusk and gone in search of water when both of our flashlights went dead. Anywhere else, this would have been a mundane incident, but we were in western Newfoundland, where the spruce forest blotted out the remaining light like death itself. Our situation felt forbidding. It felt Arctic.

Forbidding had not been part of the plan. My boyfriend and I had come to 697-square-mile Gros Morne National Park strictly to relax, spending four days toodling around the slopes of Gros Morne, Newfoundland’s second-highest peak. After we’d stumbled around through the dark for less than an hour, a man carrying a flashlight, a cooler, and an umbrella came whistling toward us. He gave us his spare batteries and then disappeared into the night.

The next day, we continued into the waist-high mosaic of springy conifers. The place was strung with lakes. Lakes fringed with raspberry and blueberry bushes. Lakes with moose thrashing and bellowing in the shallows. Lakes with woodland caribou grazing quietly on the shore.

We climbed the rocky, well-marked Gros Morne Mountain Trail toward the shoulder of 2,644-foot Gros Morne, pausing when an arctic hare the size of a terrier hurtled toward me. Clearing the shoulder, we saw the park’s famous Long Range: green-topped plateaus edged by cliffs that plunge 2,000 feet into freshwater fjords.

While the rest of the Long Range is gray granite and gneiss, Gros Morne is rose-colored quartzite. The light was pink and ancient; the cairns marking the trail looked like early Christian crosses. We crunched slowly across the rock, as awed and quiet as monks.—Lisa Jones

DETAILS: Gros Morne 国产吃瓜黑料s (800-685-4624, ) runs hiking and sea-kayaking trips in Gros Morne National Park (709-458-2066, ).

The post The Bounty Up North appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

THE HORTON RIVER heads on a rise of barren land north of Great Bear Lake in the far northwestern corner of Canada’s Northwest Territories. It flows west and north some 400 miles before winding through the Smoking Hills and emptying into the Arctic Ocean. Protected by distance, an inhospitable climate, and a lack of precious metals, oil, or gas, it has remained much as it was when the Laurentide Ice Sheet melted away, 13,000 years ago: the home of grizzly bears, caribou, musk ox, eagles, and an infinity of space.

Wireless Communication in the Wilderness

Wireless Communication in the Wilderness

In a noisy age, it seemed like the perfect place to go for a vacation.


Crammed into a Cessna 185 floatplane—packed with three weeks’ worth of food, camping gear, and our folding canoe—we fly east on an August afternoon, from the village of Inuvik into one of the largest roadless, ice-free areas on the planet. Our goal is to paddle from the river’s source at Horton Lake to the Arctic Ocean, taking us through country still as wild as it was when it was first explored by British sea captain Sir John Franklin in the 1820s and, beginning in 1910, by the American Vilhjalmur Stefansson, who saw much of the region by dogsled.


The other half of the “we” is Len Carlman, my longtime friend, attorney, and father of my godson. Len has a shock of short red hair, blue eyes, and a whooping laugh that reveals a childlike wonder at moments many adults might find ordinary: camping in the backyard, building his kids an igloo playhouse, and fiddling with his ever-present Palm Pilot, onto which he has downloaded six novels to read during the inevitable storm days we’ll encounter.


I’ve longed for this change in schedule. For seven months I’ve been editing an anthology of wilderness essays, and my little office in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, has felt abuzz with electronic energy, sometimes two different phones and the fax machine ringing simultaneously. Occasionally, I’ve looked out the window above my computer, across Grand Teton National Park, and imagined the dense web of wireless traffic arcing overhead, connecting us in virtual office space, with billions of conversations taking place, either vocally or by e-mail, many between people who have never seen each other.


Even in the evening, when the workday is done, the house remains filled with the ambient noise of what almost all of us have adopted as necessary technology: the whispers and whines of refrigerator and freezer, the subtle hum of answering machines, stove, stereo, clocks, smoke detectors, computers. Most of us don’t even notice this kind of low-grade static. Only when we go to really quiet country do we realize how shocking silence can be, so thick away from the thrum of civilization that it presses against our flesh like the pressure beneath the sea.

WE LAND ON HORTON lake at six in the evening and unload. The pilot lifts off, leaving us under an immense sky. The only vestiges of the wired world we departed from yesterday are Len’s Palm Pilot, his handheld global-positioning-system unit, and his Globalstar satellite phone. Len’s family—believing that a grown man with two young children shouldn’t be going off to run a river in the grizzly-infested Arctic—told him that if he insisted on paddling the Horton, he had to bring along a sat phone, the kind that works anywhere, in case of an emergency. I really couldn’t say no to the phone, even though the subtext of bringing it along was apparent: It wouldn’t be used only for an emergency; Len, who also lives in Jackson Hole, was expected to stay in touch. Networker and family man that he is, he thought it a fine idea.


Compared with mountaineering trips, with their lean sense of deprivation, canoe journeys are lavish. Our 16-and-a-half-foot folding boat has a potential payload of 800 pounds, but Len and I have tried to balance our wish for comfort with easy portages and a fast-handling boat. Our entire pile of supplies and gear, plus canoe, weighs 285 pounds—including four cans of pepper spray and a 12-gauge shotgun loaded with slugs.


On the flight up from Calgary, Len sat across the aisle from me, poring over the sat phone’s thick manual. He asked me which personal telephone numbers I wanted him to program into it—in case I needed to call someone and “say some last words.”


“You’ve read too many Everest books,” I told him. “This is a moderate river, and we’re going to portage the big rapids.”


“What about the bears?”


“Every bear I’ve seen in the Arctic, and who’s seen me, has run away. And if they don’t, that’s why we have the pepper spray and the shotgun.”


“I’m not going to use the shotgun,” he said. “I’d probably hit you. If there’s a bear in the tent, I’m going to lie flat, and you fire over me.”


This left me uneasy. “What if the bear decides to eat me?”


“I’m tastier,” said Len, who’s a bit heavier than me, and he went back to programming his phone.


The sat phone was impressively compact, about ten inches long with its antenna extended. This was the latest version of a device that debuted in the late 1970s, at the time the size of a large suitcase. Sat phones had shrunk to briefcase size by the early nineties, and, by 1998, to little bigger than a traditional handset. Perhaps more important, the value of these phones had been driven home during the 1996 Everest disaster, when guide Rob Hall, pinned high on the mountain, bade farewell to his pregnant wife in New Zealand. Hall had been carrying a two-way radio and was relayed by sat phone from Base Camp. The message was clear: If the situation turns dire, you can at least say goodbye. Now that relatively inexpensive (about $600) sat phones are available, both 24/7 rescue and, if necessary, farewells are a reality for the average backcountry traveler.


After trimming the boat, we cast off, Len taking his preferred spot up front, where he can enjoy the rhythm of paddling without the worry of steering. The current whisks us quickly downstream, into country so empty of human artifacts that it seems as if we’re the first people on earth: tundra, sky, a distant wisp of cloud. Still, the old edginess is gone. What’s diminished is that familiar mixture of genuine fear at being alone in the fastness of the high latitudes and the lovely tension of facing your fear with nothing besides what you’ve brought along and the wit necessity inspires.


The air-taxi service’s telephone number, programmed into Len’s sat phone, is no more than the push of a memory button away. Then the entire rescue services of North America would be at our disposal, down to a huge twin-rotor helicopter that can navigate through fog and find us by our GPS coordinates.


All this technology doesn’t mean that we’ll be less careful. Getting pinned in a rapid with your head underwater takes only a few seconds of inattention, and then all the sat phones and GPS units in the world won’t do you a bit of good. Nevertheless, the phone has given us a newfound cushion and is extinguishing an awareness that’s always been part of these trips, what I like to think of as slipping through the world’s harshness by a mixture of skill and divine grace.


Small rapids come and go, cooling the air with their riffles. Round yellow rocks flash beneath the canoe, and in the big pools—perhaps 20 feet deep—we can see the shadowy forms of large grayling, their caudal fins waving slowly like fans. The air is sweet, the water is sweet, the vast lay of tundra inviting, its purity magnified by the knowledge that its emptiness won’t come to an abrupt halt. This isn’t a 300,000-acre national park or a two-million-acre wilderness area, the boundary of which we’ll soon reach. No bridge crosses the Horton, no ranger station sits upon its banks, no sign will tell us when we’ve reached a campsite. The nearest road is a 15-day walk to the west, assuming a person could walk 20 miles a day over this terrain.


We stay in the country’s embrace throughout the long afternoon, camp river left on a high bank, cook a stir-fry under our bug net, and enjoy what Ed Abbey called the “sleep of the just—the just plain tired.”

IN THE MORNING, as I fetch water from the river, I hear Len start talking. Surprised, I glance up and see he’s holding the phone to his ear. Until now, I haven’t been able to measure the quiet. His words give the silence perspective, and I realize that without even thinking about it, we’ve lowered our voices.


As I reach the bug tent, he powers off the phone and gives me a weather report from Jackson Hole (sunny and warm). He tells me that Anne, his wife, wasn’t home, so he called Lee, his sister, who will tell the family that we’re alive and well, and would I like to call my girlfriend? He extends the phone under the lower edge of the bug net. For a moment I’m transported back to my childhood—an older boy is offering me a cigarette.


“No, thanks,” I say.


“She’d love to hear from you.”


Len is a Quaker, but he could be a dutiful Catholic. The technology to stay in touch now exists, and he’s using it: the good brother, the good husband, the good father. By comparison, my desire for solitude and detachment, even if only for two weeks, seems self-indulgent—no, worse: irresponsible. The logic of the sat phone is overwhelming and, to me, pernicious.


“Maybe when the trip’s over,” I tell him, feeling like a Luddite.


“Anytime you want,” he says and puts the phone away.


Years ago, when I was fresh out of college and traveling in South America, exploring jungles and mountains, phones were often days away, and typically broken if I found one. I checked my mail only at three-month intervals. It was in the midst of this journey that my uncle Michael, who’d taught me so much about the outdoors, suddenly died. He was a marine engineer, a world traveler, and it was from him that I acquired some of my wanderlust. Coming into Santiago, Chile, I walked into the American embassy and found a string of telegrams and letters waiting for me—the shocking news of his heart attack; the family’s tremendous grief (he was only in his forties and left my aunt and my two young cousins behind); and the pleas to get home for the funeral—all three months old.


It was a turning point in my life. I realized that one of the reasons my relatives had never taken any extended trips was the fear of not being home if such a tragedy struck. I had overcome that fear, as had my uncle. (He died tending one of his ships in Japan.) There was a cost, however, to this freedom: I had missed one of the elemental passages of any family—bidding communal farewell to one of its departed members. Had it been worth it?


I thought so. In that era, there was simply no other way to become intimate with the outdoors, a family that called to me more than my own. Now there is. We can have it both ways: be gone and be attached. As Len and I continue downriver, he checks his voice mail—in my mind, often; in his mind, occasionally—and, thankfully, it’s always empty of bad news.

ON DAY TEN, the river slides into a canyon, a phantasmagoric, watery cavern of dripping red-and-gray walls. A peregrine falcon and a merlin swoop overhead, and the canyon soon curves to the left. To the right stands a headland of black rock, carved smooth as the inside of an oyster shell. Shaped like an amphitheater, it echoes the roar of water. Just above this rapid, a green canoe is pulled onto the left bank, with a hodgepodge of gear piled alongside it on the rocky beach. The canoe’s a rental, the name of an Inuvik air-taxi service written on its bow and stern.


It’s obvious that the owners of the canoe are portaging, so we park nearby and walk along the shore to see if the rapid warrants our carrying as well. A single tongue of river, smooth as moving oil, flows between boiling waves and holes. The bottom of the tongue is blocked by a flat, dark rock the size of a banquet table. Crashing whitewater lies to its left; directly to its right, the same. If we can dart the canoe to the right, at the bottom of the oily tongue, there’s a slim passage.


Len and I stare at this crucial move for a long time: down, feint right, not too much, straighten, and escape. It looks doable—not barely doable but very doable. It’s within the limits of the canoe, and our skill, and it’ll be a challenging run. After all, we came here to run as much of the river as possible. Neither of us wants to be influenced too much by the decision of the other paddlers, whom we spy coming back from their portage: a heavyset man and, much slower and far behind him, a heavyset woman, crossing several hundred yards of boulders.


They both smell of wood smoke, and Mr. Dunn—he gives us only his last name when we greet them—tells us that they capsized in a rapid two days upstream and had to spend a day building a fire to dry their clothing and gear. Taking a swim has “frightened the missus considerably,” he says. He looks at the ground and adds, “This is a much harder river than I thought.”


“We’re really flatwater canoers,” his wife offers, “and we were told that the river was flat mostly.”


She looks scared, and her husband seems morose. Both are obviously weary. They’ve gotten themselves in over their heads, and more-difficult rapids lie ahead. In some ways, they represent that older spirit of adventure; I doubt they have a sat phone or GPS. Unlike us, they are truly on their own if things go wrong.


The Dunns pick up their next load of gear, say goodbye, and start walking painfully over the rocks. We eat some energy bars and Len says, “I wish we could do something for them.”


Feeling at a loss, we get into our canoe and shove off, and then any thoughts of the Dunns’ welfare vanishes as we think of our own. We ferry upstream and eddy out into the current, and I line us up. We sit the canoe, roaring white waves before us, split by a slick green tongue of water. We put in only a stroke or two to keep us pointed downstream. A moment later, spray erupts around us as we slip over the edge—the table of rock, with its Scylla and Charybdis of breaking waves, looming off the bow. Even as I shout for his draw, Len leans right and sinks his paddle. Braced against the thwart, I hang my paddle far over the left gunwale and suck the stern toward it, and the edge of the table rock whisks by our port side. We straighten the heeled canoe and race downstream on the tail of the rapid, passing the Dunns, who sit on the shore, watching us. We raise our paddles; they wave back, looking as sad as two people can be.

A FEW MILES downriver, we reach an even more intimidating set of rapids. Whitewater rushes through a boulder garden and plunges past a house-size rock. Landing, we walk along the shore, climb the rock, and stare downstream, over an incongruously calm pool to a narrow slot where the river erupts into a rooster tail of spray before churning through a violent hole. To the hole’s right lies a broad shelf of rock; to its left, a tower. The entire Horton runs through this small defile.


“Class III plus, maybe IV,” Len says calmly.


Neither of us has to say anything more: This final rapid in the train would eat our loaded, open, erector-set canoe and spit it out in pieces. It’s not runnable in our craft and, if we’re sucked into the hole beyond the chute, perhaps not survivable.


We discuss our alternatives. The safest is to off-load the canoe, carry the gear and canoe around the house-size boulder’s right side, repack everything, paddle down the pool just upstream of the rapid, ferry to a gravel bar river left, off-load the canoe again, and portage around the tower. However, the technical challenges of negotiating this boulder and the swift water adjacent to it are appealing. Almost midchannel from us is a beach-ball-size rock that creates a slot where we could shoot down to enter the pool, ferry river left, and portage around the tower.


After a period of silence, Len asks, “What do you think?”


“I think we should do it. I think we can do it”—I point—”running right down this slot.”


“Thank you,” he says, relieved that I haven’t suggested the cumbersome portage. “But I think we should aim at the big rock and carom off its pillow of water.”


I consider this. Len has done some Class V kayaking—very demanding boating—and has run a few rapids that I wouldn’t entertain in my dreams. I don’t want to dismiss his knowledge; still, I’m not convinced this is the right strategy. The loaded canoe isn’t like the kayak he’s used to. It’ll bore through the pillow and hit the rock. Yet most of the decisions on this trip have been mine—I’ve been doing Arctic trips for two decades—and in an effort to balance our power, I decide to go with one of Len’s suggestions.


“You’ve done a lot more difficult boating than I have,” I say. “I’ll go with it.”


He nods, satisfied that I’ve taken his suggestion.


We hike back to the boat, snug our life jackets, and push off, the first set of waves and holes going by almost without my notice. My eyes are fixed on the rapidly approaching boulder. We head directly toward it, as planned, but it’s coming way too fast. We’re hurtling forward on a crest of green water and foam. Before I can yell it, Len shouts, “Backpaddle! Backpaddle! Backpaddle!” He strokes madly, leaning upstream for all he’s worth.


As hard as I can, I backpaddle with him. For one incredible instant, it appears that we’ll stop the canoe in midstream and be able to angle it left and down the slot. Then we hit the boulder, head on, not violently—our backpaddling prevented that—but hard enough to bounce the canoe crosswise, stern first, out into the main current. In half a heartbeat, we’re rushing sideways downstream, directly at the smaller rock, on which we’ll broach and be pinned, wrapping the boat and breaking it in two.


I spin in my seat, kneel in the bottom of the canoe, and yell at the top of my lungs, “Take the stern!” Simultaneously, I paddle two strokes forward with all my strength as Len spins, drops to his knees, and paddles from what has become the rear seat. The canoe kisses the midstream boulder, slightly behind midships, rides up alongside it, and teeters on its right beam as the Horton comes under us and lifts. We paddle another stroke and pull around the boulder, the forward part of the canoe levered into the main channel by the enormous force of the river. We are now precisely where we didn’t want to be. Waves higher than our heads swamp the canoe. Half full of water, we paddle through the haystacks, into the pool downstream, and manage to guide the ungainly boat onto the gravel bar.


“Well,” I remark, stepping ashore, “that was exciting.” I’m shaking a little.


“You pulled us around the midstream rock,” Len says. “‘Take the stern!’ Great call.” We’re talking fast, pumped on adrenaline, overjoyed to be in one piece, our estimation of each other confirmed— neither one of us clutched.


We drink some water; we eat some food; we stare 30 yards downstream at the rapid that could have ended our lives. Would I have made the same decision without the damn sat phone? Absolutely. And that’s a comforting thought.

THROUGHOUT the evening and most of the next morning, we portage an unrunnable section of the river, then load up and paddle on in a cold, steady rain. Occasionally, I look down and see the river rocks ten feet beneath the canoe, sliding silently by in their green-and-ocher world, mottled by the elongated shapes of grayling and char. When I look up, the world above seems just as liquid, the sodden shapes of caribou moving on the banks, the eagles flapping silently across the river, buoyant and drifting as fish.


Wind, rain, and low clouds sweep across the river but part by midmorning to reveal a pale Arctic sky. On cue, the sun emerges and we pull onto a cobbled beach at a place called Coal Creek, our alternate pickup site. We’ve been paddling hard for 13 days, stalled by storms for three of them, and have run out of time. As the crow flies, we’re only 22 miles from the ocean, but we’d have to paddle another 97 miles of the Horton to get there. Our time is up, our trip at its end. We step ashore and shake hands.


A large moose antler lies at our feet, green with moss. Len suggests that I keep it as a memento. But I return it to the sand, and as I stare at it, wishing that the trip weren’t over, Len pulls out his sat phone and calls his law office. His secretary briefs him on clients, then he chats with his partner, telling him that we’ve arrived at Coal Creek and how useful the borrowed GPS has been. I walk down the beach and look north.


When Len’s done, we call the air-taxi service. Once, a few years ago, you waited until the pilot showed up. Now you call and say, “Hey, we’re here, come get us.” But this time it doesn’t shake out quite that way. Another storm rolls in, the pilot can’t take off, and Len calls home, telling his family about the delay. He then suggests I call my girlfriend, reminding me that she knows the day we’re supposed to come out, and she’ll worry. I also know that she’ll call Anne and will then wonder why I was so thoughtless, or obdurate, that I didn’t call her.


I walk down the beach, then dial her up. The connection is so clear, she could be down the block. I say, “I can smell the Arctic Ocean.” She says, “It’s warm here.” Silence. Even though I use a computer, the Internet, and a cell phone daily, this seems to be crossing a boundary I’m unprepared to face. She senses my uneasiness and says, “Call me from a land line.”


I collapse the antenna and walk back along the cobbles, thinking again of Sir John Franklin, who overwintered in this area and received mail eight months after it left England. Nearly a century later, sledding down the Horton, Vilhjalmur Stefansson learned of the Titanic’s sinking a full three months and ten days after the ocean liner had foundered in the North Atlantic. Now, in the early 2000s, the lag time between the occurrence of a newsworthy event and one’s hearing of it has shrunk to the thinnest of margins. In fact, even here on the Horton, the blessing of uncluttered mental space is no longer a function of remoteness but of desire: to bring the sat phone or to leave it. To use it or to keep it in the emergency pouch. To stay connected or to cut the cord.


Were it up to me, I’d leave it at home. The put-in on a river, the start of a climb, are doors to another universe, where the silence makes you think about why noise has become such a necessary part of our lives. Wearing the silence, you come back scrubbed and radiant. Or, with a certain mixture of bad luck and misjudgment, you don’t come back at all. Before the sat phone, it was always so—no rescue, no farewell except the one you said upon departing.

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IT’S TRUE YOU CAN’T DRIVE to the ends of the earth, but the Yukon’s Dempster Highway will take you as close as you’d ever want to go. Beginning near Dawson City, this lonesome strip of loose gravel stretches 461 miles northeast, ending just shy of the Arctic Ocean in Inuvik, Northwest Territories. Completed in 1978 to reach oil and gas deposits, the Dempster remains the gateway to an otherwise untouched swath of mountainous tundra. Drive it and you’ll cross the Continental Divide (three times), the Arctic Circle, and two mountain ranges. Its reputation as the longest, most adventurous road in North America isn’t unwarranted, given the gaping potholes, tire-piercing shale, and only four gas stations. Here’s our suggested one-way, three-night itinerary and a bit of advice: Take a rental, reset the odometer, and load up on maps. You’re on your own getting back. At right, ten highlights along one of the gnarliest drives on earth. ACCESS + RESOURCES
ROAD WISDOM Make all your arrangements in Whitehorse, 298 miles southeast of the Dempster’s start. Norcan Leasing Ltd. (867-668-2137, ) rents mid- and full-size SUVs, starting at $40 a day, and Arctic Motorcycle Tours (867-633-3344, ) rents Kawasaki KLR 650 dual-sport motorcycles ($115 per day). Once you hit the highway, the only services are at Eagle Plains, Fort McPherson, Tsiigehtchic, and Inuvik. Be sure to carry extra fuel, several spare tires, and a copy of The Milepost (), the definitive guide to all northern roads. Stop at the visitor center (867-993-5566) in Dawson City for updated highway conditions and a 14-page, mile-by-mile pamphlet. CAMPGROUNDS The Tombstone, Engineer Creek, and Rock River campgrounds ($12 per night) operate on a first-come, first-served basis, with government-maintained kitchen shelters, toilets, and pump water.

MILE HIGH

1. MILE 45 The jagged granite peaks of Tombstone Territorial Park have the only marked trails along the entire Dempster. Pitch your tent at the 31-site roadside campground, but if you want to bag 7,195-foot TOMBSTONE MOUNTAIN (a three-day endeavor), pack the tent and hike ten miles to a backcountry site at Talus Lake.

2. MILE 72 The confluence of the east and west forks of the Blackstone River offers some of THE BEST FISHING for arctic grayling you’ll find. Hop out of the car, tie on a fly, and start casting.

3. MILE 122 There’s good reason to gawk at the red-limestone dolomite pillars at Engineer Creek: Rare PEREGRINE FALCONS nest on the craggy outcropping called Sapper Hill. Bed down at one of 15 roadside campsites nestled among the spruce.

4. MILE 230 The “town” of Eagle Plains marks the HALFWAY POINT. This glorified rest stop offers everything your average freeway exit has: a hotel, a restaurant, a full-service garage, and gas, gas, gas.

5. MILE 252 Take the obligatory portrait at the marker that denotes the ARCTIC CIRCLE (66掳 33′ N). Exactly four miles farther up the road, pull over at the turnout and pick up the steep three-mile trail to the top of 700-foot Mount Hare for sweeping views of the Mackenzie Delta.

6. MILE 277 Got deet? The 18-site ROCK RIVER CAMPGROUND is set in the steep, wind-protected, but very buggy gorge of the Richardson Mountains. If dining by campfire won’t do, catch dinner at James Creek, 21 miles up the road.

7. MILE 291 Grab the GPS and start navigating on foot across miles of trackless terrain that’ll take you into the interior of the RICHARDSON MOUNTAINS. With high winds, continuous permafrost, and a (stunted) tree line at just 2,500 feet, the Richardsons are the most Arctic-like region along the Dempster—probably the reason they’re some of the least visited peaks in North America.

8. MILE 342 Gas up at Fort McPherson (pop. 952), then swing by the FORT MCPHERSON TENT AND CANVAS COMPANY and check out their famous handmade tents and tepees.

9. MILE 378 Take a mandatory ferry ride across the mighty MACKENZIE RIVER, Canada’s longest (2,635 miles), which drains an entire fifth of the country. Its volume is rivaled only by the Mississippi and the Amazon.

10. MILE 461 The end. Spend a day or two in Inuvik—a full-blown oil town with a population of 3,296 and a network of surreal aboveground pipes. Take a flightseeing tour (867-777-3300, ) over the 5,200-square-mile Mackenzie Delta to Tuktoyaktuk, an Inuvialuit community on the ARCTIC OCEAN accessible by road only during the winter. You’ll see pingos (giant earth cones with hearts of ice) and plenty of wildlife: beluga whales, caribou, polar bears, and musk oxen.

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