Or: we finally touch the Arctic Ocean. (Yes, that's ice on the horizon! It was actually much closer to the shoreline a couple of weeks ago, so its seasonal recession is pretty recent. The leads are well and truly open, boys.)
There are lots of roads, buildings, and topographic features in this part of the world named for a certain flavor of 19th-century Arctic explorer, as you can see. In the Northwest Territories, when things carry fragments of the name Franklin, they tend to be referencing the Man-Who-Ate-His-Boots era. (You know, his first terrible expedition.)
I'm fine getting into that, but in this entry I really want to talk about the indigenous peoples who live and work in and sustain these communities, because one has to.
Let's start with Inuvik, whose population these days is over 65% indigenous (and about 25% white). Most (but not all) are Inuvialuit Inuit or Gwich'in First Nations. Native art and culture is dominant here in a tangible way, but maybe that's how it feels to someone like me; sadly, where I'm from, indigenous culture is often relegated to the sidelines, an optional thing for those who want to give the appearance of care or interest.
This is a sculpture outside of the Arctic Visitors Center on the eastern edge of town. I tried to track down its name and artist, but it looks to be a collaborative effort commemorating an arts and culture festival.
The front of the central market was covered in neat murals, too (some of them with potent messages).
We stopped at a craft store and gift shop whose proprietor at the register was a very old native woman. As she slowly rang me up, we talked a lot - mostly about seasons and bears. We have bears where I live, too, but not like this; she told us about a recent episode where a grizzly had peered into her living room and she'd had to scold her dog for starting to growl (which would not have de-escalated the situation). Then she explained the syrups and teas I bought, and we were on our way.
The teas, by the way: both wildcrafted herbal teas used across the Canadian Arctic, one a cloudberry tea for vitamin C, the other a crowberry tea "for hypothermia." I'll try them the next time I feel like I'm freezing to death or coming down with something.
Oh, and I bought a horror anthology written by indigenous authors, many of whom are from neighboring Nunavut. I'll probably save it for a fall read later this year.
Tuktoyaktuk, then! Another bone-rattling dirt "highway" will get you from Inuvik to this little settlement on the Arctic Ocean's Beaufort Sea.
Tuktoyaktuk, or Tuktuyaaqtuuq in the Inuvialuktun, means "resembling caribou." The name comes from the legend of a woman who watched a herd of caribou walk into the ocean and turn to stone; these caribou are now, apparently, the reefs visible at low tide.
Also called "Tuk" for short, this was the first Canadian indigenous settlement to reclaim its original name in 1950 - previously, British colonizers called the town "Port Brabant."
I tried to get a sense of the local languages, but there seem to be so many variations, all of them unfamiliar to my English-first brain. English and Inuvialuktun appear on signs simultaneously; some dialects are also spoken in Nunavut.
The Beaufort Sea is apocalyptically harsh and frozen most of the year - or at least, historically that was the case. Climate change has shifted things a bit. Normally, a narrow passage 100 kilometers wide would open in late summer, but now those periods have extended. The Beaufort is supposed to be an important regeneration hub of Arctic sea ice, which rotates into and feeds the greater Arctic ice pack.
We could still see quite a bit of ice in late June, at least, but it was also pretty warm.
(The air was warm, not the water. Of course we touched the water. Had to. I've taken some cold fucking cold plunges before, but the Arctic Ocean is...well, the Arctic Ocean. You just go numb wherever you've touched it, and then slowly a dull ache rises in your bones that becomes increasingly knife-like for half an hour. If you're into that - and I'm not saying I'm not - go for it.)
We stayed on the shoreline until the mist rolled in. It was a really special experience, and I'm still contemplating it. Not many people get to stand here, even if they want to.
The latitude of this position is a little higher than 69° N, and it's the farthest north one can possibly drive in a contiguous straight shot on this continent. It's about the same latitude at which the cold boys of The Terror and Erebus met their end.
And, now, if I can get (even more) serious for a minute:
While I entered this journey already aware of my luck, support, and privilege, I feel it's best to discuss that directly here. I am white. The reason I get to travel to strange places and work in the arts, to even nurture those urges with a BA way back when in a country where nobody can afford school now - this isn't just because I work hard. It's the product of having had an advantage for generations.
Indigenous peoples and whole communities have had their ways of life disrupted, their mobility restrained for generations. In Tuk, you can still see the BAR-3 "Distant Early Warning" radar station where the US, along with Canada, essentially established itself as a policing force in the era leading up to the Cold War for its own purposes, building the installation because they couldn't be told not to, occupying it because they could, and all while controlling the people who already lived there, in their own space. Tuk was also a victim of Canada's residential school project, which you may have heard of.
I rarely talk about these things anywhere online (I much prefer real-world discussions as I find them more productive), but these travel posts have felt like a weirdly safe space and this aspect of the conversation feels absolutely necessary here.
So often, when I see another white person attempting these thoughts online, it comes out in the form of a reshared meme either going "we suck amirite" without actually digging into the meat of anything, or giving the appearance of caring about marginalized peoples in the most flaccid, "friendly reminder!" kind of way. It feels, to me, like a subconscious seeking of absolution.
But, you know, nothing can absolve us of this, and this discomfort is something we all have to sit with.
There is an echo that is not lost on me, concerning my position when I visit distant places and write about them. I want to believe that taking only photographs (and buying teas consensually) is the least aggressive, outermost ripple in that wave of behavior carried across time.
After two days of largely no cell service, we've reconnected with civilization for a final resupply of food before mostly decoupling from the grid again. In spite of our first encounter with some pretty dicey road conditions, we have really good internet tonight - so I'm gonna take advantage of it.
But first: when we parked at the grocery to restock our food bins, we looked up and saw this license plate. Good sign? Bad sign? One of you?
Yesterday's journey was smooth, scenic, and isolated. We lost count of how many black bears we ran into, but so far no grizzlies. This one was so nonchalant about our passing that it just...yielded to us, and then wandered back into the lane again.
We made it into the Yukon last night, and camped in good weather. Am now covered in mosquito bites that I somehow didn't notice at the time. Heard unidentifiable guttural noises off in the distance (animal, not sure what kind), but were too tired to worry much. Slept with bear spray in the tent. Had next to no cell signal but great views of an 11:50 pm sunset.
The sky never fully went dark, either. It just got this funny sort of day-for-night, cinematic twilight aspect to it instead.
The lighting inside the tent around 12:30 am:
As for today, that factor has multiplied. We're not above the 66th yet, but we've officially experienced full midnight sun. It's 2 am as I scribble this, and the "twilight" is lighter than ever. No need for a torch now when you can see everything plainly.
From after midnight, in one of the last towns we'll drive through before the Serious Road begins:
Road conditions today were mostly okay, but we've definitely encountered multiple patches now where, if we were less patient, we'd probably be using one of the spare tires by now - which in my opinion is too soon. Trying to hold onto our backups as long as possible.
Am also hearing rumors that one of the only refuelling stops between here and Inuvik ran out of said fuel recently (though other rumors suggest a recent resupply). Also hearing that the ferries were closed recently too (happens a lot for ice jams, all you can do is wait FOR THE PACK TO UNFUCK ITSELF), though they appear to be in operation again at present.
Going to coordinate some contingency plans and pass out for a while, I think.
I have a reliable internet connection again, as well as a chance to rest. Hopefully I can use the time to get caught up, because days are beginning to feel like months and time is getting slippery.
We left pavement on day 5 - at least, I think it was day 5 - and ventured onto something called the Dempster Highway. We're familiar with old forest service roads, but by most metrics, the Dempster is not at all what most people think of upon hearing the word "highway."
I'll get into the physical nature of this road later, and to some extent why it is the way it is, but for now, a brief historical anecdote:
In 1910, four Royal Northwest Mounted Police (a precursor to the modern RCMP) left Fort McPherson for Dawson City on the winter solstice to do a mail patrol. In classic fashion, they dismissed their Dene guide (Esau George) after they made it over the Richardson Mountains, whereupon they promptly lost their way but kept going. When they didn't show up in Dawson City, search parties were sent out in the spring, discovering their bodies and journals only 40 kilometers away from Fort McPherson. Three of the men had starved; one had shot himself.
Corporal William Dempster led the search that found the missing party (now known as "the Lost Patrol"), and the highway - which follows an approximation of the route these men had hoped to take - is named after him.
Tombstone Territorial Park is located on the early stretches of this road, and the Ogilvie Mountains are some of the most beautiful I've ever seen. This is a cell phone shot, but we stopped often to use our DSLRs and do the photography we were meant to. This was also the first area where snowpack became a regular feature of the landscape, albeit intermittently.
Also: moose!
Because we were unfamiliar with the nature of the Dempster, and because we felt that slower going was safer (the road is very choppy in places), we chose to err on the side of caution. We stopped halfway at the roadside lodge and refuelling station (which did indeed have fuel, in spite of having run out recently; we called ahead to make sure anyway). The further north you go, there are fewer and fewer reliable services - fewer EV charging stations (if any), scarcer gasoline, landlines holding the fort down in lieu of reliable wireless, etc.
There is technically camping available, but we were now firmly in the territory of terrible mosquitoes and plentiful megafauna in an unfamiliar space, so we got a night in the lodge.
It makes sense that everyone else staying at this place is also a weary traveler, and information is predominantly shared the old-fashioned way: word of mouth. When you get in off the road, anyone in the lobby asks from which direction you came and what the conditions were. An older man promptly warned us of a small wildfire near the Arctic Circle (he'd just come in from the north). Traces of information like this could be found online - when the internet worked - but only ghosts of it.
Checking out the next morning, I saw the first example of one of these, pinned to the board by the main entrance:
These are pretty silly souvenirs, but they're also neat in the sense that you have to go to the Circle to get one. Everyone who issues them - and there are a few offices - has their own recognized look, verbage, and style, so you get a feeling of something authentically sourced, so to speak. We didn't get one here, but...
...we did make it to the Circle shortly thereafter.
The road improved a bit more on its northern end, and the remainder of the drive to Inuvik seemed less hazardous than the day before. Still, we saw lots of people using large (rented? refurbished?) military vehicles like this one:
There were two ferries toward the Mackenzie River delta: the first, above at the Peel River (whose ferry is the Abraham Francis), and the second, across the Mackenzie River itself. The name of that ferry escapes me for the moment, but they had really nice bulkhead latrines.
In Inuvik, our hotel was propped up on a sort of elevated foundation - as all the buildings are in this part of the world. It's a permafrost thing. Where I live (which is much, much further south), sometimes buildings are elevated like that to keep the pipes from freezing. Here, apparently, it's to prevent the building's heating from melting the permafrost, which is already so unreliable. The ground heaves and rolls with temperature fluxes, causing structural instability.
So, you walk up serrated metal platforms (which also helps give tread in icy conditions) almost everywhere you go.
Finally, we took a walk outside at 2:30 am, unable to sleep - because of the travel, I think, not the sun. We're so close now, you know? Almost there! Thoughts like that. Walking keeps the mosquitoes away - mostly - but if you stand still for two seconds, they'll end you.
This is a shit picture, but I'm doing it to show the lighting. This is 2:30 am -ish. Just us, and our buddy, Perpetual Daylight.
The sun has a seemingly normal arc across the sky during "daytime" hours, but it seems to slow down as it approaches the horizon, so sunset feels like it lasts a long time - and then never happens. The sun kind of "rolls" along the northern horizon and then whips back overhead again. It's really cool, and as someone with an irregular sleep schedule, I find it weirdly comforting.
I think this is a good stopping point for now. I'm resting in a place with a good connection at the moment though, so hopefully I can write and share more soon.
After exploring the delta, the tundra, the ice and the ocean, after acclimating surprisingly well to the constant presence of sunlight, after taking as many photos as afforded by opportunity...we (somewhat sadly) had to begin our latitudinal descent.
The Dempster Highway weaves through a few different mountain ranges. The first on the way down - but still above the Arctic Circle - are the Richardson Mountains, named for the Scottish surgeon and naturalist who sought the Northwest Passage with John Franklin, first on the overland end of business.
And wouldn't you know it? It was here we finally had trouble.
The thing about the Arctic is that getting there isn't the endgame. You have to get back, and sometimes (even in 2026), nature does what it will.
The only ominous moment leading up to this point had been the Peel River crossing, the second of two ferries on the "descent." The weather was a revolving door of bright sunlight and sudden downpours, such that the Peel was significantly choppier than when we'd first crossed going north.
We were also the only vehicle in the queue this time, so the boat was considerably more lightweight. We could feel the punch and roll of the water below, the entire operation rocking as if we were at sea. When the ferry reached the other side of the Peel, its crew couldn't align it properly with the approach - the rushing water kept pushing it (and its cable, I assume) downriver.
After several attempts, this sideways approach was the best that could be managed; one of the crew waved us to disembark with a little more frantic enthusiasm than one would normally like, and Chris floored it.
We wondered out loud if the ferry was doomed to close for weather. Perhaps we'd just gotten very lucky.
I wonder now if it wasn't this confidence that made us believe we'd already seen the worst of our obstacles. Maybe, also, we felt we'd made acquaintanceship with the Dempster Highway on the way up. We knew what to expect now - or at least, we thought we did.
Still, not wanting to be reckless, we called ahead to the refuelling outpost to make sure they had gas.
Then, in one of the more desolate (and beautiful) curves of the Richardson Mountains, the right rear tire violently decompressed. Chris had less than thirty seconds to find a suitable shoulder to pull onto - or a stretch of road wide enough to pass as having a shoulder - before the tire was completely airless.
We were alone, on a remote stretch of dirt "highway" above the Arctic Circle, in the pouring rain, engulfed in a cloud of swarming mosquitoes. No sat phone, no cell service, no communication.
Fortunately, we planned for this. We had not one, but two full-size spares, ready to go.
Still, the circumstances were not pleasant. Chris had a moment of panic, and I had to give him a sort of "I'm here too, you know, pull yourself together" pep talk. Then there was nothing to do but pull the supplies and tools out and get to work.
Thanks to the weather, however, it wouldn't be so easy. Chris put down a plank of wood to stabilize the jack, but the plank began to sort of...sink into the road. It was then that he also noticed something else: the edges of the road, heavy with moisture, seemed to have cracks growing in them, like the highway itself was a soft cake beginning to crumble apart.
Very slowly, with great care, we drove the vehicle to a new position further down the road where the ground seemed more stable, and resumed work. With the mosquitoes as bad as they were, it wasn't long before Chris ordered me to stay inside - only one person was necessary for this part, he argued, and he was willing to sacrifice himself (penance for his previous panic, maybe).
So, with no small effort (I cannot emphasize enough how terrible the insects were), Chris removed the dead tire and had its replacement ready. His adrenaline was beginning to drop, taking his energy and strength with it, so I was prepared to hop out again to help finish up when three Canadian bikers (whom we'd already met) just happened to catch up to us.
(Shout out to Nigel and company for helping Chris to get the lugnuts securely fastened, so that I didn't have to. Perfect timing!)
Once the crisis was over, Chris was in a much better mood. Delirious with relief, he joked, "See, if only Crozier and Fitzjames knew how to change a tire, none of this would have ever happened."
But by the time we got to the lone refuelling station - even though we'd called ahead - said refuelling station was, you guessed it: out of gas.
GOOD THING WE HAD A FULL JERRY CAN FOR EXACTLY THIS POSSIBILITY.
By now, we were a combination of salty, bemused, and hysterical - and our luck was still perfectly good, precisely because of our preparations.
We would have just enough fuel (about 100 kilometers of pad) to make it back to Dawson City, which would also have services like gas, food, repair shops, and communication with the outside world - but we needed no further interruptions or unfortunate surprises.
Meanwhile, my body was having strange reactions to the large amount of mosquito bites I'd acquired. Any bites near a tattoo were causing the entire tattoo (sometimes ten years old) to rise again as if the wound was fresh. This bite, on my thigh, began as a circular welt but then spread in odd configurations.
As we continued down the Dempster, we saw that entire sections of the road had washed out, eroded into the ditch or down the mountainsides. Most of these sections were already marked with road cones; some were not. Often, one "lane" was the only available passage when the other side was simply gone.
By now it was very clear to us that this road possesses certain characteristics that are not to be tested or taken for granted.
The section we'd popped a tire on has black shale mixed in with the gravel, and this shale is very sharp. It's used because it's readily available and handles temperature fluctuations well. I would also argue that it's not meant to be driven on at normal speeds; we got cocky and deserved the outcome.
We have also found out, since then, that some recommendations for tires on the Dempster suggest 10-ply; ours were only 4-ply. So it could have indeed been more interesting/even worse, and here we thought we were ready for most situations.
By the time we hit the Ogilvie Mountains, the rain had stopped and the sun was low in the sky, but its light would never quite leave us. We both found ourselves in a contemplative, awestruck sort of headspace, I think.
This journey isn't simple, even in the modern world. Since our departure, the rains have escalated, the rivers have been full to bursting, and both ferries have closed - to my knowledge. The Peel River Ferry actually saw its landings washed out entirely, before its cable then snapped. The boat drifted downstream for about 12 or 15 kilometers before it could be recovered.
As I write this, people are currently stuck on the Mackenzie River delta, or are sleeping on the lobby floor of the over-full lodge where we stayed on our route north. Reports are increasingly anxious as patience runs out. While it's not a life or death situation, I do wonder whether supplies would need to be airlifted in, or people extracted similarly. And then what of the vehicles? I know a few bikers have found safe (albeit expensive) crossing with some enterprising boatmen, but full-size vehicles? (I guess you could always abandon them and walk thousands of kilometers to rescue, but if I've learned anything, it's that scurvy, lead poisoning, and supernatural bears will get you first.)
To paraphrase what someone said recently in those reports: "This is a beautiful road, but it's a dangerous road. And it's the only road - the only road here, and the only road that will get you to the ocean by land. Many people want to get to the Arctic Ocean, and not everyone succeeds. Nature is still the boss here, no matter what we do. If you get to the ocean and return without incident on your very first try, God had your back."
I'm not religious, but I feel the sentiment.
Heard.
A clean hotel room, with walls cracked by permafrost, was our finish line.
Though still in the Yukon, just below the Circle, we felt like we could safely say we made it.
I felt exhausted - mentally content, but definitely some degree of physically unwell. I showered and covered my body with aloe. Most of my exposed skin was now mosquito welts, so that it felt like I was thoroughly sunburned.
Chris, whose eyes had been bothering him a lot on this trip, has been switching from glasses to contacts and back again, somewhat self-consciously. I told him he's handsome no matter what he does.
Can Arctic crisis bonding inspire sexual encounters with your expedition partner, no matter how exhausted you are? YUP! Field tested in real life, you're welcome.
For now, even with loads of DSLR photos to process, I sit basking in the realization that we were lucky, that we've done it - this disbelief of having accomplished this journey exactly as we said we would. I have a charity art auction I'm contributing to next week, we have scripts to go over for an independent fiction series in early preproduction, and our most immediate project - for which I think we have a meeting this week - may or may not involve shooting nudes (don't worry, I won't subject anyone here to that), but my head, in spite of all of this, is just...thinking about the Arctic.
Entering the Circle was like crossing a border whose tangible effects didn't register at the time, and now I return to the world...different. Remixed. A "Northern Reach" version of VanderMeer's Area X.
If you've read all of this, thanks for sticking with me. These travel posts are often lengthy and deeply personal, but nevertheless rewarding to write. I'm sure I'll have more nonsense to come, in some format or other.
This morning someone asked us, unprompted, if we'd seen the Tuunbaq. (For context, we've just driven into the Arctic.)
I unthinkingly replied something to the effect of, "Yeah, and the trauma bonding led to some unexpected moments. We're husbands now." (I don't know, man, I couldn't stop myself. It was the first thing I thought of saying.)
But THEN they asked which one of us is the Fitzjames and which one of us is the Crozier in this relationship
Two days, a little over 1,450 km (900 miles). Feels like hardly a dent, but at least we're on schedule (it's been slower going thanks to the innumerable glaciated passes and gorges we've driven through on the first leg north).
First day was all north, today was mostly west, tomorrow's north again.
And tomorrow feels like it'll be the real day one, given that things have been fairly populated and lively so far (moreso than where I actually live, even), but services start to thin out soon.
Camped last night in a (massive) burned out valley outside of Jasper, setting up the tent by the light of a 10:30 pm sun. (I've been trying to watch how the sunlight changes, and as I write this it's still quite light outside, but a sunset before midnight doesn't feel too extreme to me yet.)
It was warm enough yesterday, but we made camp just in time for temps to drop sharply and for us to get heavily rained on. The wind was pretty wild, too. I hesitate to say katabatic, but I think - maybe? After the first wave of storms passed, the air finally got a breath warmer again...and you could hear it almost roaring down the slopes in all directions.
Every time we had to check the tent or use the facilities, we took turns wearing Chris's rain jacket, and inevitably crawled back into bed shivering. Huddling together for warmth is absolutely a real thing - and it was only night one. 😭
I slept in my sweater and brushed my teeth in the washroom nearest our site, where I noticed a sign about keeping the taps open slightly to avoid frozen pipes. There wasn't anything specifying what time of year this protocol's in effect, and after the night I had, that felt correct.
Today was beautiful as well but the scenery varied less - fewer scenes to shoot and fewer ways to shoot them - and we were critically underslept, so we took turns driving. (I'm usually a passenger princess in charge of "maps" or "directions" or whatever needs doin', but we both know I'm just good for morale.)
Saw a tall, gangly black bear crossing the highway today. I have seen a massive black bear do the same thing on the highway nearest my actual home, but that was once in five years. Seeing a black bear in the same circumstances on day 2 feels more auspicious.
Arctic Drive is a first-person co-op survival adventure game is the ultimate frozen road trip Linux, Mac, and Windows PC. Thanks to the creative spark of Pebbles Games and the teamwork of PlayTogether Studio. Due to find its way onto Steam.
Here, you and three friends crammed into a beat-up pickup, its engine coughing against the cold while snowstorms howl across an endless sheet of ice. You’re freezing, hungry, and out of water. But if you can just keep the truck running, maybe, just maybe, you’ll make it to the next outpost. That’s the raw survival energy of Arctic Drive, a brand-new co-op adventure from indie teams Pebbles Games and PlayTogether Studio.
This isn’t just another survival title where you’re running around chopping wood or punching trees. Arctic Drive is all about teamwork and one crucial lifeline: your truck. It’s you, your friends, and this dependable pickup against a procedurally generated wasteland of snow, storms, and straight-up misery. The truck isn’t just transportation, it’s your kitchen, your bunkhouse, your heater, and your only shelter when the Arctic throws its worst at you. Lose the truck, and you’re done.
Every run is different. The frozen routes are procedurally generated, which means you’ll never face the same journey twice. One run might be a tense haul through blizzards where you’re burning fuel just to keep the heater on. The next, maybe it’s scavenging for scrap to bolt a scanner to the dashboard so you don’t drive straight into a whiteout. There’s no coasting here, every mile is a battle for survival.
Arctic Drive - Announcement Trailer
And the teamwork? That’s where it really shines. Arctic Drive supports 1–4 players, and you’ll quickly realize survival is impossible without coordination. Someone’s gotta drive. Someone’s patching up the engine. Someone else is digging through supplies or keeping an eye on teammates’ hunger, thirst, and body temperature. If a friend collapses in the snow, you’ll need to drag them back into the truck before the cold claims them. It’s messy, it’s chaotic, and it’s the kind of multiplayer drama that makes for unforgettable stories.
The physics-driven design makes everything feel real. If you can pick it up, you can haul it into the truck, or cram it into a trailer until the wheels scream in protest. Engines, heaters, bunks, and instruments aren’t just cosmetic add-ons, they’re meaningful upgrades that can make the difference between limping into the next safe zone or freezing to death on the side of the road.
Best of all, Arctic Drive has us in mind. The devs are launching with full Linux support at release, with cross-play across Linux, Mac, and Windows. Finally, a co-op survival adventure where we don’t have to sit out or wait for a port. Unity is the platform, but the vibe is all grit, teamwork, and survival storytelling.
If you’ve ever dreamed of a survival road trip with your squad, Arctic Drive is shaping up to be a brutal, emotional ride through the ice. Keep your eyes on Steam, it’s going to test not just your survival instincts, but your friendships too. The release date is TBD.
