Conquering Canada's last frontier

Article by: Aaron Spitzer, June 2008

In the old black-and-white world of the Klondike, there were cheechakos and sourdoughs - greenhorns versus grizzled pioneers. Today most visitors to Canada's North come and go as the former, barely scratching the Arctic's frosted surface. But for those willing to get their hands dirty - and maybe a little chilly - a variety of educational-tourism outfits can give you a deeper sense of Canada's last frontier.

Mush!

Near Whitehorse, Yukon, beside the fabled stampede-trail to the Dawson goldfields, Frank Turner of Muktuk Adventures runs one of the world's only dog-sledding 'dude ranches'. Here, at a snowy, sun-dappled compound that's home to some 120 baying huskies, you can learn the ancient art of mushing: piloting dog-sleds through the Northern wilds.

Turner, silver-bearded and looking every bit the goldpanner, is a Yukon legend - a dog-whisperer with an unrivaled legacy as a professional sled racer. The master, however, gives all the credit to his charges. 'The dogs come first,' he'll tell you. 'They've always been the core of this place.'

That's not just lip service, as you'll quickly discover. Before you even mount a sled, there's hours of canine care: preparing and dishing out nutrient-infused kibble; balming dry paws; powdering chafed flanks; massaging tired haunches; and fitting your husky-team with booties, harnesses and sweaters.

The actual mushing is, of course, the highlight. You'll start small, with a guided two-hour run down the frozen Takhini River. Then, the next day, you'll sprint through the woods, learning to maneuver your dog-sled by calling 'gee' and 'haw' (right and left) and, most critically, 'whoa!'

The final test of the week-long course is an overnight camping expedition conducted on the trail of the Yukon Quest, Canada's premier long-distance sled-dog race. If you can emerge from the alpine backcountry with your dogs' tails wagging, the twinkle-eyed Turner will give you a pat on the head and graduate you to full-blown musher.

Take a polar expedition

For those who want to rely on their own two feet instead of four husky paws, the best place to discover polar expeditioning is NorthWinds Arctic Adventures in Iqaluit, the capital of Canada's Inuit-majority Nunavut Territory.

Aspiring polar heroes can take on a two-week course during winter, training under Northwinds' owner, Matty McNair - a slight, middle-aged woman who is the world's premier high-latitude guide. McNair has notched more overland treks to the North and South Poles than nearly anyone and in so doing has transformed pole-bagging from a painful ordeal to a walk (albeit a long one) in the park.

McNair will tell you Arctic adventuring is less about Ironman fitness and more about having the right mind- and skill-set. From her home on the wind-wracked shores of Frobisher Bay, you'll fill your first six days with intensive skills development. Mornings will be spent studying everything from cold-weather nutrition to polar-bear defense, and afternoons will be spent working on skiing, communications and navigation - the last of which is no easy task in a blinding sea of white.

After this intro, it's time for your mini-expedition. Parkas are donned, 100-lb pulks (sleds) are heaped with gear and you will ski for hours across the jagged sea-ice before making camp in temperatures that can plunge to -40°F/C. After three more such days of learning-while-enduring, you're ready for the final test: trekking back to Iqaluit on your own.

I will survive

If planting your flag in the Arctic isn't as appealing as getting the hell back to civilization with your toes intact, Mike Rarog of Arctic Response in Yellowknife, Northwest Territories, runs a multi-day program that provides students with survival and rescue skills essential in the winter wilderness.

Rarog, a gruff and commanding ex-military man, got his start in the North developing search-and-rescue systems for the Canadian Air Force. He's also done aid work and demining in various global conflict zones, and his grim tales of accident scenes keep students morbidly transfixed. Rarog will tell you that if you're stranded in the Northern backcountry, get busy saving yourself: action is half the battle. Most people just give up, and death comes quickly.

With that admonishment, it seems a blessing that day one is indoors, learning classroom theory and reviewing equipment. But after that, it's time to get suited and booted and head out into the stunted taiga that flanks Yellowknife in every direction.

There, for the next few days, Rarog will teach you how to build snow caves that can be heated with a single candle, construct signal pyres visible to far-off planes and warm hypothermia victims using nothing but Ziplocs of hot water. Valuable, too, is discovering what you can't do in deep cold, like going mittenless (fingers become uselessly clumsy), using plastic tents (they tear in half) or eating a bar of chocolate (they freeze solid and inedible).

If anything, that's the main takeaway from Rarog's survival course - that in the North, mistakes have dire consequences. Avoid those mistakes and you'll be survivor - no, a sourdough.