An Unforgettable Adventure to The Great White North

Words by Matty Chessor | Photography by Steve Shannon

From our homes in the Kootenays, British Columbia, we trucked our bikes 700 miles northwest to the small town of Smithers. From there we would unload the bikes and leave the truck behind, beginning a mostly dirt route that would guide us from British Columbia through the Yukon, into the Northwest Territories and over to Southeast Alaska, returning down the Inside Passage on the state-of-the-art 1960s Alaska ferry fleet. Our plans were loose, our gear was tight, and we had three weeks to burn before our ferry date. This is the highlight reel.

Unfortunately, our first leg of the trip on the once-dirt Stewart-Cassiar Highway had now been sealed in asphalt, but the awe of the surrounding wilderness and amazing scenery remained, and the challenges that inevitably come with any motorcycle adventure would ensue regardless. We quickly encountered our first flat tire around Meziadin Junction. A small speed bump to start off with on day one, but the payoff would come from the next 40-plus miles riding west through the jagged mountains and glaciers into the small town of Stewart. 

Stewart is the southernmost access point into Alaska and is rich in exploration history — an outpost for early pioneers and modern two-wheeled explorers like us before leaving the pavement behind and venturing farther into the Great White North. Pack some provisions, fuel up the bikes, and spare your first-born here because it only gets tougher the farther north you go.

A few hours later we found ourselves riding above the spectacular Salmon Glacier, and the breathtaking views left me thinking I was back living on the West Coast of New Zealand. We were on an old mining road that was perched up 300 meters, with the powerful glacier slicing through the valley below. Life was good in these moments, and these were exactly the types of experiences we had desired all winter.

The following day we made it to the small village of Dease Lake, where we scooped up a few six-packs that balanced on the seats between our legs and some Chinese takeout that flapped around in plastic bags hanging from our handlebars. We found a nice campsite by the water and enjoyed a few cold ones and an everlasting sunset on a perfectly still night. The haunting call of loons echoed across the water, and the sunset was perfect. It was 11 p.m. In a fleeting moment, Steve thought he would miss the sunset shot and called out for another camera lens with haste. The quickest way there was the KTM, barking back at the loons to the water’s edge. From that moment on the old girl has been affectionately named The Loon.

Farther north we finally crossed the border into Yukon and onto the Canol Road. The Canol project was both an engineering masterpiece and a blunder by the U.S. army during World War II. Built to provide a secure oil supply to Alaska, the Canol project throttled crude oil through a 4-inch pipe over 600 miles, from the town of Norman Wells through Ross River and Johnson’s Crossing into the refinery in Whitehorse. It operated for only about 14 months before being abandoned, and the harsh environment has since eroded the unmaintained bridges across major rivers, making the route nearly impassable. What’s left is a beautiful, unpopulated land, tarnished only by the remnants of past oil and mining projects left to rust when the markets declined. Nature has slowly reclaimed the land, and the porcupines are delighted, left to chew on the tattered remains of abandoned shelters. 

The southern stretch of Canol Road is well maintained and made for some excellent riding surrounded by broad valleys, frigid lakes, expansive vistas, and copious old mining routes to explore. By this point of the journey, our spirits were high, but we realized our fuel was running low.  We had to turn the engines off and coast downhill, slowly lugging the bikes uphill, valley after valley trying to sip as little fuel as possible, eventually rolling into Ross River on fumes. 

The small, unincorporated community of Ross River sits on the banks of the Pelly River, with access to the North Canol across a cable-driven ferry. Unfortunately, we showed up five minutes late, and we learned the hard way that ferry service ends strictly at 5 p.m. So, we settled in for the evening with some warm hospitality from the locals and camped out on the banks of the Pelly River until we could cross in the morning.

The farther you go into the wilderness, away from civilization, the stranger the encounters with other humans seem to become. After 50 rough miles up the North Canol Road, we stumbled onto a scene that only Quentin Tarantino could conjure up: a man standing there in the road, next to his two-wheel-drive Rokon with a sidecar, German-style army helmet on, dressed in all black, pump-action shotgun in hand, glaring us down as we rode toward him. What do we do? After stopping for a chat, we ended up talking with him for a couple of hours. He said his name was Winter, a fitting name for a man living out here in the wild and frigid North. He lives a reclusive life out here and told us about the secluded camp he had built — his own version of paradise, hidden in what we affectionately deemed the “true middle of nowhere.”

When we crossed the border into the Northwest Territories, the roads quickly degraded into rough tracks, and we were now well past the point of any maintained roads. It began to feel more and more desolate, and more and more dangerous. We pushed on until a moment of reckoning, when we eventually arrived at a snow-covered river crossing 170 miles from the nearest sign of civilization. We decided to spare our lives and call it, so we turned around and started heading back south, eventually stumbling on Winter’s hidden camp. We waited there for a few hours until our ears perked up to the sound of his Rokon bumbling up the trail at midnight. It was the summer solstice a few degrees south of the Arctic Circle, and we all watched the endless sunset dance across the peaks around us. We swapped stories around the campfire, and the sun melted into sunrise without ever dipping below the horizon. Low on sleep but high on life, we packed up and made our way west toward Alaska.

The Top of the World Highway west of Dawson City, Yukon, is a little over 65 miles of dirt road following scenic ridgelines that lead to the Alaskan border. After a thorough interrogation by the border patrol, we were reluctantly let into the US of A, and the beautiful smooth tarmac felt like one hell of a greeting. It was a short-lived 7 miles of relaxation before an abrupt change back to the potholed dirt roads we had become accustomed to. We continued down the winding road into the port town of Skagway, Alaska, where we would catch our scheduled boat back to the south.

Alaska ferries run like a broken Swiss watch, with aging vessels and a care for time not felt back home. Motorcycles below, a bag of wine on the sundeck, the next few days melted away with bliss. With over 3,200 miles of seat time already, this downtime was a welcome break. We stopped at several stations on the way down, and even got off to explore at some of them. 

Sitka and Juneau were both beautiful stops that granted us some limited but fun time for exploring. It was the Fourth of July in Juneau, Alaska’s capital, and it was an American cultural experience I was not expecting. We rode off the ferry in style, illuminated by a fireworks show that lasted a full 8 hours in the sky above. Then, at the seaside town of Sitka, we quickly explored the limited road network (all 14 miles of it) and took another small boat to neighboring Kruzof Island, home to Mount Edgecumbe, a dormant volcano. With our limited time, we blasted around some trails and rode up to the rim of the cinder cone. We then played around on a deserted beach before catching the return boat to Sitka.

Upon arrival at our final stop in Prince Rupert, British Columbia, just as the sun set, we quickly navigated one final border crossing before one last fleeting ride into the fading daylight. After three weeks of never-ending light, it was a surreal feeling to watch darkness enshroud the land. Or maybe that was just the dim joke of my 2006 KTM headlight. During one final night camping along the shores of the Skeena River, we listened to the crickets chirping as the river gurgled us into a short-lived sleep. 

No matter where life takes us from here, this was an adventure that Steve and I will never forget. It’s a time that will live on forever indie of us, to look back on with fondness and fuel more adventures to come. We both feel so lucky to be alive in this moment, and as we arrived back at the truck in the early morning, the abrupt end to the trip was a shock to my system. Just like that, it was all over, and on that long drive home I just kept wondering if it was all a dream.