We have to keep reminding ourselves … it’s about the journey, not the destination. When we reached the Arctic there was a moment of jubilation followed by the slap in the face reality that we now had to work it, flip it and reverse it.
To beat a dead horse, the Dempster is 550 miles (one way) of arduous ass kicking. At the GNAF festival closing ceremony and awards, a couple from New Zealand won the award for farthest distance traveled. They flew 7700 miles over 18 hours and got picked up at the Inuvik airport and transported to the festival. WE, OTOH, drove 5,062 miles over 40 days, including a 4 day layover due to a suspended ferry crossing (arduous) AND battled the consequences of rough roads, unrelenting mosquitoes and broken equipment (ass kicking!). Not to mention, when the awards were being awarded they were nowhere to be found. There we were, representing in the third row with our new best Canadian friends! Just sayin’. The last 100 miles to touch the Arctic became both necessary (to achieve the goal) and obligatory (to not fold under pressure). We had something to prove.
The afterglow of the cold Arctic Ocean washing over our hands eventually gave way to the aftermath of beating our equipment and bodies to extremes, which is often the case with “bucket list” journeys. Shrinks call it the arrival fallacy. Our brains are wired for the dopamine hit associated with pursuit and struggle rather than attainment. When you do eventually attain, you are left with a Now What feeling. For us, the Now What was how to get home.
After a tinned trout and olive on saffron rice celebratory departure dinner back at home base in Inuvik, we got a good night’s sleep and woke to the pitter patter of raindrops on the roof, which gave way to ploppers and eventually a steady downpour. No one gets out without being punished and the the Dempster served up the fun task of packing up wet in a downpour. You’d think the rain would keep the mosquitos at bay. You’d be wrong.
Eric dried and taped every seam on the T@G; covered everything we could cover inside with blankets and tarps. Sheri turned the last of the fridge into a pickley egg salad on rye. Despite the soggy start, we felt experienced … empowered … infallible even. The Dempster may have kicked our ass on the way up, but we got this on the way down.
Acclimated to the drive, we felt okay on the 230 mile run to Eagle Plains, laughing about all the influencer and RV videos we watched about the Dempster and how none of them mentioned dust, taping, or scrambled brains. Lies! No mater how it appears, influencers package to sell. Reality is always far different. By the time we pulled into Eagle Plains, truck and T@G were covered in dust and mud with a new twist to deal with. The T@G doors would not open. We had no way to enter.
Eric dismantled then climbed through the back window to release the doors on the inside then went to work on cleaning them. Water, canned air, WD-40 … nothing would release the handles. So he removed them , yes removed them, and took them to the Millen Lounge, ordered 2 Yukon Brown Ales and worked on them til his fingers swelled and thumbs jammed while Sheri spun tales with Laura, Devon and Julie about the madness of the situation. Devon brought plates of the hotel’s infamous fish and chips. Later, relaxing with WIFI in the lobby to avoid the inevitable, the night manager offered us blankets if we wanted to sleep in the worn faux leather love seats.
We declined and braved the light rain in our dusty night clothes back to our T@G, with the doors duct taped shut to keep the mosquitoes from invading on the windless and wet night. On either side of us, motorcyclists on bucket rides snored in their micro-tents next to their rides. It’s too ridiculous to comprehend.
After a hearty Arctic Circle breakfast of eggs, sausage and hash browns, we left in the drizzle and bumped our way through fickle weather bursts of sun, rain, fog, downpour, wind, repeat en route to Dawson City. A low riding blue minivan blasted around us while a tandem truck team that passed us on our crawl through the tough roads of Engineers Creek was sidelined changing tires as we passed them an hour later. We plodded while others scurried, a moose crossed our path and while the rain kept the dust down, it coated our rides in a thick cement crust that has to be chiseled and scraped when unlimited water presents itself.
Settling in at the Dawson City RV park, we did 3 loads of laundry, took 5 minute coin showers and celebrated minimal dust intrusion. Some mud had crept in along the edges of the mattress, but overall the T@G was dusty but sweepable. A bucket-lister leading a convoy of three 32 feet fifth wheels noticed the patina of our rig and stopped by to gather intel on Dempster conditions. They did not know that Eagle Plain had no water, sewer, or electricity. Honestly, looking at those monster rigs and recalling the trip, we did not have the heart to tell him the truth. Instead, we said, “Take it real slow to Eagle Plains. Once there, look up manager Laura . She will take care of you.”
Jonesing for pizza in Dawson, we drove into town to the Pan ‘O Gold for two Labatt Bleu and a large Canadian Yukon Gold. The doughy crust, spicy sauce and gooey cheese were so delicious until Sheri took a savory bite and broke a tooth. As the late great Roseanne Rosannadanna would say, “it’s always somethin’”
After a week of living north of north, Dawson RV Park provided hot showers and clean clothes. Some 550 miles south of the Arctic Ocean, we were still 300 miles from routine cell coverage. The following morning, nursing a broken tooth, sipping luke warm coffee, we flowed south to Whitehorse where medical services, auto parts, and laundromats are widely available. North of north, every activity is an exercise in survival. As we made camp on the banks of Lake Labarge on the outskirts of Whitehorse, life felt fat and easy in a way that you can never appreciate until you’ve been North of North.
