Yukon Travel for Families
I’d never been to the Yukon Territory before. When I was much younger, I’d marched out my front door, stuck my thumb out, and hitchhiked across Canada. Because I considered “across” our great country more of an east-west concept, I never ventured into our amazing Northern Territories.
As life went on, my family and I often found ourselves routinely heading to Florida, Caribbean, Mexico or Disneyland instead of taking our precious vacation time to discover our own country; the North just seemed so inaccessible. We could see trees and mountains outside our back door in Vancouver, so why bother?
We were wrong. We should all experience our own country—maybe even before we embark on adventures around the world. This is what the Yukon taught us, and, that it is so much more than dog-sledding, horseback riding, wildlife preserves and panning for gold.
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We were mesmerized by the endless rivers, lakes and mountains that floated by 20,000 ft below us as we flew Air North from Vancouver to Whitehorse, then to Dawson City—north of the 60 parallel—a hop, skip and a jump to the Arctic Circle.
Upon arriving at the Downtown Dawson Hotel we couldn’t help but notice the accents that filled the saloon were German, maybe Irish, British and...another I couldn’t quite decipher. Loud cheers erupted as another brave soul drank a stiff shot of whiskey until the infamous Sourtoe hit their lips.
We’re thousands of miles north of the Canadian cities that hug the 49th parallel, bordering the United States of America. In fact, the only actual city in the Yukon, Whitehorse (population 25,000), is a seven-hour drive away from here.
Yet, somehow the small town of Dawson City, with its brightly painted buildings that haven’t changed since the turn of the century, is bursting with life. It’s two weeks after Labour Day. The pubs are full, the restaurants are full, Diamond Tooth Gertie’s Gambling Hall is full; everyone seems to be out enjoying life.
Fall has set the mountains ablaze with the yellow leaves of Poplar trees that, thanks to the tailings of the gold rush, have found places to root amongst the endless evergreens.
Locals offer you rides.
Locals say “you’re welcome” and genuinely mean it.
Locals are those who were raised here or have relocated from other parts of Canada; a surprising number of “locals” are from other parts of the world.
There are no traffic lights and only dirt roads. Boardwalks line the streets. On the outside, Dawson City still resembles life from the height of the Gold Rush—a stampede of some 40,000 miners that headed here in 1896 in hopes of staking a claim and striking it rich. Almost all of that has long since disappeared.
Yet, gold remains the number industry and, in many respects, the fever still remains as well.
As night falls, the Northern Lights surely dance somewhere in the nearby sky.
Rest here feels peaceful.
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We headed through the mountains to the magnificent Tombstone Territorial Park; the dirt highway bisected the land of the Tr'ondëk Hwëch'in. Frosted brush glistened as the sun tried to warm the chilly autumn air.
Rolling hills and brilliantly coloured leaves gave away to DDHÄL Ch’èl cha nÄn—“Land of the rugged Rocky Mountains.”
Tombstone is aptly named the Goliath of the Blackstone Mountains. What golden leaves remain, hold on tightly as chilly gusts of mountain air tear at their lasts days of the season. It was hard to believe that it was still summer back home.
Farther north still...as far we’d go…the rugged Olgivie Mountains give way to burgundy and brown moss of the subarctic tundra.
The land here begs you to be with her. Sit with her in silence. Feel her presence. Connect with her.
Vast. Bold. Quiet. Beautiful Nothingness.
Our girls danced amongst the fireweed and fragrant Labrador tea as if under an Arctic spell—just being.
Despite it now being evening, the sun still hung patiently in the pale blue sky as if a gift from the gods for those who must endure a long dark winter.
Little ponds slowly turned to ice. Somehow the world seemed to slow down further to a point in which time mattered little….
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I recalled Whitehorse and the log cabin at Muktuk Kennels where we stayed for three nights; the joy of Dog Mushing; the gentle pull of the water while canoeing down the Takhini river; the warmth of the fire; and the canines that chose to curl up next to us.
Our girls had picked vegetables from the cold earth and fed the dogs...as if the chore was not a chore at all but the thrill of a lifetime.
Somehow this place had transcended time. North of ordinary—as the marketing posters had said when we first touched down—felt more ordinary than anything I’d ever experienced. The type of ordinary that left the Earth just as it was: Natural. Perfect.
I looked over at our guide, who’d done this exact trip and sat in this exact spot a hundred times. Her eyes were closed, chin up, with the sun softly upon her face. She was smiling.
It dawned on me that we’re all chasing “gold” of one kind or another. Up here, the people and nature will teach you that the richness of life has nothing to do with gold at all.
It’s about something to truly cherish:
Community.
Nature.
The moment.
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In a trance, my girls asleep and resting their heads on me, we drove back down from the mountain. I recalled the friendliness and generosity of the people in town—and of our guide. A hospitality born of life during remote cold winters where your neighbour isn’t just a door beside yours without a face or name, but somebody who is there for you. A spirit born of a closeness to nature, the high it gives beyond anything a phone, movie or a roller coaster ever could.
In all my travels, I don’t know if I’ve ever been to a town where everyone seemed so happy and content. It was so different from life a 3-hour plane ride south.
There is something about this northern life. A reminder that you don’t have to spend your life chasing gold. There are people out there who remember the old ways and still choose to live that way.