The Dempster Highway has captured my imagination ever since I first heard about it—a remote, rugged road winding its way to the Arctic Ocean, tempting adventurers with its untamed beauty. After cycling from Montreal and making my way north, the moment felt surreal: I was finally here, ready to tackle one of the most challenging and isolated routes I’d ever attempted.

I had spoken several cyclists who had tackled this route, many said it was a rough ride, very few said it wasn’t so bad. I was about to find out for myself.

I had poured a lot into preparing for this stretch—carefully packing the right gear to stay warm and dry, strategizing my food supply for the long stretches without civilization, and mentally bracing myself for the solitude and harsh conditions ahead. The journey promised to test me in every way, but it also held the allure of adventure.

Before embarking on the Dempster Highway, I made a 40 km detour to Dawson City to rest and stock up on food and gear. While there, I dropped off a box of food at the visitor centre—something I highly recommend for cyclists tackling this route. This box is passed along to the next traveler heading north, who delivers it to Eagle Plains, the halfway point to the Arctic Ocean. With my resupply complete, I cycled back to the start of the Dempster Highway, ready to begin this stretch of my cross-continent journey.

August 20 2024

The weather was mostly clear with moderate wind heading north, I took a pause at the iconic Dempster Highway sign for a quick lunch. As I left the pavement behind, I told myself, “This is it, no turning back now.”

The gravel road was fairly compact at first, but it didn’t take long before I encountered washboard surfaces. The vibrations rattled me and my bike, and I quickly realized that I made it to the most difficult part of my whole ride after four months of crossing the continent. The towering peaks of Tombstone Territorial Park loomed in the distance.

I learned early on to ride “the sweet spots” of the highway—the smoother, more compacted sections shaped by the wheels of passing vehicles.

When motorists approached, I shifted to the shoulder of the road, but the sandy, rocky terrain made it difficult to stay steady with my 75 pounds of gear.

Around 40 kilometres in, hills began to appear. The rocky inclines forced me to take it slow. My plan was to make it 70 kilometres in for the day, aiming to reach the Tombstone Territorial Campground by late afternoon.

At one point, a truck sped by, sending small rocks flying in my direction; one hit me in the eye.

As the mountains grew taller, the weather changed rapidly. Dark clouds rolled in, and the rain started. Just as quickly as it began, the weather cleared. This rapid change in conditions became the hallmark of the Dempster—quick transitions, like flipping a light switch.

A couple pulled up to me and offered a lift, but I declined. There was no reason I couldn’t continue. I pushed on, fighting the growing headwinds and battling muddy roads that slowed me even more.

My solar panels, strapped to the back of my bike, met a tragic fate when a strong gust of wind tore them loose, ripping the small electrical system from the panel as it remained connected to my battery pack. I felt gutted. No longer able to charge my electronics, I would have to be very conservative with my power usage, especially out here.

*A veil of dark clouds loomed over Tombstone Territorial Park*

By 6 pm, I was exhausted and wondering if I’d have to camp somewhere on the side of the road. The remaining 15 kilometres felt like a huge feat, but as the sun began to set behind the mountains, I pushed on, reaching Tombstone Territorial Park’s visitor centre, and then the campground. There, I met two men travelling together who offered words of encouragement. After hearing about my solar panel mishap, they generously allowed me to finish charge my devices in their trailer.

I pitched my tent near a stream and retreated to the cookout shelter to warm up. One of the men later came by with a can of chilli, a tomato, and a box of chocolate wafer cookies (my favourite, coincidentally).

August 21 2024

Feeling tired from the day before, I decided to take a rest day. I found a nearby hiking trail and spent some time exploring, enjoying the surrounding scenery. The colours of the landscape at this time of year are mostly golden browns and greens, with hints of red starting to show.

At one point, a group of hikers warned me about some grizzly bear fur they had just come across on the side of a tree trunk, so I decided to head back with them.

Back at camp, I spent the afternoon finishing a painting I had started of the Salmon Glacier just off the Stewart-Cassiar Highway. It felt good to complete another piece of from this trip.

August 22 2024

As a landscape artist, getting to see Tombstone Territorial Park on this trip was a priority. Unfortunately, I woke up to thick clouds hiding the mountains, and rain that had started overnight. I decided to stay put until the weather cleared, I couldn’t miss the surroundings out here. In this part of the world, weather forecasts are often unreliable. The visitor centre had predicted a clearing sky in the afternoon, though that was yet to be seen.

*Speeding downhill towards otherworldly place*

I spent the morning hanging around camp and the centre nearby. Thankfully, by 2:30 pm, the fog started to lift. I packed up and headed out, making my way uphill toward the Goldenslides trail, where I would take a quick hike to photograph the view.

Riding down into the valley after, the weather remained unpredictable, alternating between sunshine and rain. The mud quickly clogged up my bike chain, a common issue cyclists face out here on the Dempster. I hopped off my bicycle to clean it, and then continued, seeing why some call this place Patagonia of the North. I was in awe of the stunning scenery all around me, in the distance the road looked like a thin ribbon snaking through the mountainous landscape as rainbows appeared and then disappeared.

I started scouting for a place to camp in the late afternoon. At kilometre 88, my chain jammed again. I took a break to clean it and noticed a trailer and truck camper parked there in the roadside pullout. They were a family of five—Two grandparents, two parents and a teenage son—on their annual trip out here. I decided to ask if they’d mind me pitching my tent nearby. They were incredibly welcoming, even inviting me into their RV for snacks. I was invited again later that evening to have dinner—sausages and more delicious food.

When the rain cleared, I thanked them and retreated to my tent to get some much-needed rest.

August 23 2024

I woke up to a clear, cold morning. On my way out, the family camping nearby offered a few oranges and some water to take with me.

The ride out of Tombstone Territorial Park was smooth with the exception of a few potholes. The road was under maintenance further along, making it a bit softer and more challenging to ride on as the tractors passed over the surface. Luckily, they they moved at a slower pace than I was riding, and I managed to pass them after about 20 minutes.

As I ventured further into the landscape, the sky darkened. When I spotted a truck camper just off the side of the road, a man appeared from behind the door and asked if I wanted to join him and the couple with him for a coffee. I accepted, and they generously gave me some more instant coffee and a bag of curd cheese for the journey.

The landscape shifted drastically once I was past Tombstone Territorial Park, the barren stretches of land gave way to a taiga within the valley. It was around this area I got to witness some caribou and horses in the distance. I even saw a black fox on the road. After lunch, I flew my drone to capture some photographs of the surroundings.

As I took a turn to start heading west, I encountered a side wind and started climbing a hill that felt much steeper with the weight of my gear on the gravel surface.
At the top, a motorist warned me about the big hills I had ahead of me in the coming days, but on the bright side, I had an exhilarating ride downhill in the meantime. As I sped down, the mountains continuously stunned me at every turn.

I decided to camp by the river at Engineer Creek that evening. Upon arrival, a motorcyclist who passed me earlier in the day kindly lit a fire for me in the cookout shelter. I hanged my wet gear to dry and spent some time chatting with him as we ate.

August 24 2024

After eating breakfast, I set my sights on the Olgivie Ridge Viewpoint as my destination for the day. I had stayed in touch with a fellow cyclist throughout this trip who was also riding across the continent and had tackled the Dempster Highway just weeks earlier. Before I started my ride up here, he warned me about the lack of water 120 kilometres before Eagle Plains, so taking his advice, I made sure to fill up my extra water bladder before setting out.

Looking at my electronics, I was running low on power and would have to be extra conservative for the next two days until I reached Eagle Plains.

Shortly after leaving Engineer Creek, I realized why people complained about this section of the Dempster past this location: potholes, rocks, and washboard surfaces made progress slow. The weather was clear with a light tail wind, and with the road being dry, the dust from passing vehicles made it difficult to see at times. I pulled off to the side of the road for a moment when a truck passed to let it settle.

As I approached the Gwich’in lands, the road conditions improved ever so slightly, but the real challenge was yet to come. I started pedalling up steep hills, and while taking a break, I noticed a dust trail from a vehicle quickly coming up from around the corner. I shifted off the highway just in time for the reckless driver to speed past, his pickup truck sliding to the other side of the road where I’d been moments before. It was a stark reminder of how dangerous some of the drivers could be out here.

The hills kept coming and growing. They were the most challenging I had encountered on the whole trip—far tougher than the Rocky Mountains. I thought of the pack of caffeine Jujubes I was given by someone in Dawson City; he told me to use them specifically for the hills on the Dempster. I popped one of them in my mouth, and the energy boost kicked in almost immediately, keeping me going strong.

Despite the dust and constant hills, I managed to reach the viewpoint, and immediately picked a spot to pitch my tent. The landscape in the distance looked like something out of a fantasy painting; jagged rocky mountains coloured pink and orange by the setting sun as patches of rain storms travelled across the sky, leaving a trail of rainbows behind.

A kind couple from New Zealand who spotted me from across the view point, offered water and an electrical output to charge my devices. They invited me for dinner that evening. The steak and eggs I ate were mouth watering, especially after the long day of intense climbing.

During our conversation, I was warned that the hills would continue all the way to Inuvik. The road conditions wouldn’t improve until I reached the Northwest Territories.

After thanking them for their kindness, I retreated to my tent to sleep, mentally preparing for more hills the next day. Looking at the road heading north, the next morning I would be kicking the day off with a big one just a few kilometres away.

I created this sketch months prior to leaving Montreal, when I was still in the midst of planing this trip. Little did I know this would be an almost accurate representation of what the landscape would look like many times along the way.

August 25 2024

I woke up to thick fog, but decided to ride carefully that day. I had a quick chat with a traveler who camped close by my tent during the night in his jeep. He had driven all the way from Ontario. We both had trouble sleeping due to the noise from the big trucks that had pulled in overnight—the drivers left their generators running for hours. I was offered another refill on water before we both left the viewpoint.

Visibility was limited to only about 15 feet, maybe less. I put my two lights on the front and back of my bike and shifted gears as needed as I pedalled. I pulled off the side of the road and waited when I heard a vehicle coming.

I thought about the big hill I had seen the day before from my campsite. I found myself wondering, Had I already ridden over it? After checking my GPS map, I realized that I had—without even noticing. It struck me more than ever then that the challenge of riding uphill was less about physical effort and more about mental perception.

Within the fog, what little I could see around me shifted from lush, short coniferous trees to the blackened tree trunks of a forest fire that once passed through the area. It felt eerie here, the charred remnants appearing and then disappearing like ghosts. The landscape almost went hand in hand with the somber mood I was in that morning, probably due to the intensity of yesterday’s ride.

By midday, the fog had lifted, and the road conditions had improved slightly. I started to feel good again. My goal was to reach Eagle Plains that day, and although I had extra food, I was running low on snacks. The thought of a big meal kept me going—specifically, the cheeseburger I planned to order once I arrived.

25 kilometres from Eagle Plains, I came across Johannes, another cyclist who began his cycling journey in Germany, then took a plane to Guatemala to make his way north. He had reached Tuktoyaktuk days before, and was now riding south. We chatted briefly in the middle of the road before parting ways, even causing temporary traffic as two vehicles came from opposite directions. It was a funny moment, considering there was barely any traffic in this part of the world.

Lucky for him, he had the advantage of riding with the wind that afternoon, while I continued against it.

*I thought for sure Eagle Plains was just over this next hill…*

With the last few kilometres to go, the hills seemed endless. At one point, I thought Eagle Plains was surely over one of the final hills that day, but of course, it wasn’t. After a gruelling 45-minute climb, I finally reached flatter ground and saw a twinkle of white in the distance—my destination was down and up the next mountain. It felt like the universe was teasing me, but luckily I was almost there.

Despite the exhaustion, I pressed on. While I normally feel at peace when riding, I now felt impatient, tired and hungry. Every little crack and rock I rode over amplified my annoyance. Over the previous two days, I had pushed myself physically more than I ever had before.

My legs felt like jelly when I finally reached Eagle Plains, and I couldn’t get off the bike fast enough. The order of my plan to set up camp, shower and then eat changed. I immediately dove into the restaurant for a meal, not caring that I was covered in dirt.

A woman approached my table while ate. She seemed nervous, and I thought for sure she’d mention something about my current state of cleanliness.

“I saw you earlier on the road, and I just wanted to say what you’re doing is amazing.” I felt relieved.

August 26 - 28 2024

A loud explosion snapped me out of a deep sleep at around 4 am. A moment later, my tent collapsed on top of me. Being in grizzly country, I immediately felt a rush of adrenaline, but the cause turned out to be my tent poles snapping after several years of use. I quickly fixed them in the dark before returning to sleep.

Waking up later that morning, I felt very ill, and the rain was pouring down. The roads were nothing but a few inches thick of muck, there was no way I was going to ride today. I spent the day in the motel lobby, avoiding the rain and barely able to eat, despite feeling hungry.

A kind worker on site noticed me and asked if I was okay. I told him about my trip and mentioned that I was avoiding the foul weather. Later that evening, when I was about to head back out into the rain to make my way to my tent, I was handed a key to one of the rooms and told to take it for the night. This caught me off guard, and I felt both grateful and relieved that I could recover indoors, in a real bed. I packed up my tent and made my way back inside.

I stayed in the room for the next few days as my health hadn’t fully recovered, and the weather continued being bad. During my time resting, I took a moment to stop at the motel’s reception desk where I retrieved my food box I left at the visitor centre in Dawson City. I was now restocked on meals and snacks.

August 29 2024

After taking a much-needed rest, I was eager to get back on the road, even though it was still in a rough condition. The weight of my bike felt twice as heavy as I struggled through the mountainous landscape. I was cautious going downhill; uphill was slow and more gruelling.

By mid-afternoon, I finally reached the Arctic Circle. The moment was surreal. I took time to chat with others who had stopped there and capture the spectacular fall colours—vivid reds, oranges, and yellows blanketing the landscape. A rainbow appeared as usual, this time in the middle of the tundra.

As the weather cleared and the mud began to dry, I gained a bit of momentum which felt amazing—though it didn’t come without its challenges. My mud-clogged clip in shoes regularly jammed in my pedals, causing me to crash twice when I couldn’t unclip in time to let vehicles pass. One trucker stopped to check on me—a humbling reminder of how vulnerable I was out here.

By the time I reached Black Rock, the rain began switching on and off. After setting up camp by the river, my tent poles had snapped yet again. I patched them together as best I could.

Despite everything, as usual kindness found its way to me. My neighbours offered a quinoa salad, and two fishermen who had seen me earlier on the road stopped by to chat. Their generosity buoyed my spirits.

August 30 2024

Rain poured relentlessly through the night and continued into the morning. When I peaked out of my tent, I discovered small lakes had formed all around me. After having breakfast in the cookout shelter, I decided the weather was too harsh for riding and crawled back into my sleeping bag.

Later, one of the neighbouring travellers came by with words of warning, urging me to reconsider heading further north. “The roads only get worse,” she said. Her concern was genuine, but after cycling for 4½ months from Montreal, I was not turning back—I was already expecting rough conditions.

The rain turned to wet snow by mid morning. I spent the rest of the day huddled in the shelter, reading by the fire and letting the weather rage outside. By that point, I moved everything inside, including my tent, as it was warm and dry. That evening, a motorist pulled into the campground in a panic, reporting a vehicle and trailer had flipped just a few kilometres away and was looking for a phone to use for help. It was sobering—these roads weren’t just challenging; they were dangerous if one wasn’t careful.

August 31 2024

I enjoyed a cup of coffee, warming my hands by the fire. I set out cautiously after, the morning greeted me with snow-covered peaks on the horizon. I passed the wreckage from the flipped trailer a few kilometres ahead of the campground. Although the vehicle had been retrieved, the trailer hadn’t yet, and it had taken significant damage.

The muddy, pothole-ridden road dragged my pace to a crawl—I rode just 15 kilometres in three hours. However, the landscape demanded my attention: red tundra stretched endlessly, framed by snow-dusted mountains. The way the light was hitting the landscape, I had to stop several times and take it in, capturing the beauty through my camera.

The climb to the Northwest Territories border was brutal. Every motorist that passed by stuck their thumb up out their window. I was always grateful for these small gestures of encouragement.

When I reached the summit, the scene before me was like stepping into another world. The autumn tundra bluntly gave way to a pristine winter wonderland, snow blanketing everything as far as the eye could see. I took a moment to admire it along with a few other travellers who stopped at the border’s viewpoint.

*An aerial view from the Northwest Territories border*

Past the border, the road conditions greatly improved, and I coasted down long stretches of snowy terrain. I felt euphoric as I rode.

Fog later clouded my view again for a while, however the mists and snow eventually cleared after I left the mountain passage, revealing fiery reds and oranges again. Despite the cold, swarms of black flies descended on me, their persistence as relentless as the journey itself.

Looking back at the road after climbing another round of hills, it felt rewarding to see how far I had come.

That evening, I descended down from the mountains entirely to the Peel River crossing. I took the short ferry ride across and cycled a few kilometres just short of Fort McPherson. I stayed at a little campground there, where a lukewarm shower at the end of the day felt like the height of luxury.

September 1 2024

I started the day with high hopes of finding a bit of food in Fort McPherson. After riding 10 kilometres into town, I found the local food truck closed for the season and grocery stores shut. They wouldn’t open until 1 o’clock in the afternoon. Life here in the Arctic moves to a different rhythm.

*An endless forest fading into the mists*

The the scenery had transitioned into what some call “tree tunnel”, a stark contrast to the sweeping mountain vistas of earlier days. Along the way, a road-tripping couple offered me a roadside coffee—freshly brewed and soul-warming. It felt like another small miracle.

Rain came and went, slightly soaking through my now, worn-out rain gear. Cold and damp, I pushed onward, a vast coniferous landscape around me faded into the mists and light rain.

I shivered as I reached the Mackenzie River. After waiting for the ferry’s arrival, employees welcomed me into their office to warm up, offering brief respite from the chill. It was nice to enjoy some company for a bit.

Climbing the steep hill on the other side, I realized how much stronger I’d become. My legs burned, but the steep climb felt almost effortless compared to what I’d faced earlier on this journey.

The headwinds tested me during the final 30 kilometre stretch, It was getting late, and all I could think of were hot cinnamon buns. Still, a moment of wonder broke through—two of the most beautiful, fluffy Arctic foxes appeared in front of me on the road, one red and the other tricoloured.

A few minutes later, a vehicle pulled up, and a couple stepped out. They turned out to be two Instagram followers, Melanie and Dan, who had been following my journey for a few months. Melanie had reached out back then after another cyclist from an online cycling community put us in touch. She and her husband were close friends of Iohan Gueorguiev, a well-known cyclist in the bike touring community who tragically passed away in 2021. They had decided to take this trip to find others who had met him during his travels, and mentioned she’d be heading up the Dempster to follow in his footsteps. We agreed to stay in touch in case our paths crossed. The three of us spent a bit of time chatting on the side of the road, but as it was getting late, we soon went our separate ways.

That night, I discovered that my supposed “campground” was nothing but a gravel pullout in the middle of nowhere. Upon arrival, an RV traveler had just arrived there from the opposite direction, he had also thought it was a campground that was marked on the map online. We both decided to stay put there for the night as it was late, and I was offered a hot bowl of chilli and a chance to warm up. It felt great after a damp, cold day of riding.

September 2 - 3 2024

As I set off, the morning sun was blinding—I hadn’t seen a sky this clear in what felt like ages. The road gradually smoothed as I neared Inuvik, and to my amazement, it turned to pavement just outside town. It felt extravagant, like cycling on silk after weeks of rough gravel.

I was greeted by another cyclist on the road, who turned out to be my host from the warmshowers community online. He rode out to greet me and guide me back to his place, where a hearty meal and a scalding hot shower awaited. I spent the following day resting and grabbing a few extra food items from the grocery store, preparing for the final stage of my journey.

September 4 2023

With just 150 kilometres left and a clear blue sky, I started the day with a mix of excitement and melancholy—soon, it would all be over.

After leaving Inuvik, the trees thinned out, revealing another expanse of flaming red tundra, this time dotted by ultramarine blue lakes. There were still hills out here, but they were nothing compared to what I had faced days earlier.

The road 40 kilometres ahead was rumoured to be the roughest stretch of the Dempster Highway for cyclists. However, I found it manageable—but very bumpy. The washboard would go on for the final 110 kilometres.

Occasionally, far in the distance, I spotted small cabins perched on the waterfront. Later in the afternoon, I came across a couple of snowmobiles and sleds parked just off the road. It felt like the perfect spot, so I decided to camp there, right in the heart of the tundra.

After unloading my bike, I discovered that I was surrounded by the most plump, juicy wild cranberries. I indulged in handfuls as the sun dipped.

That night, I stepped out of my tent, hoping to see the northern lights. Although I didn’t see any, the Milky Way spread across the sky in a display so vast and vivid it made me feel impossibly small.

*An aerial view half way between Inuvik and Tuktoyaktuk*

September 5 2024

The day I had dreamed about for four years had finally arrived. I ate breakfast—oatmeal with a handful of cranberries—while watching the sunrise, black flies swarming around me as if to mark the occasion.

The ride was quiet, with blue sky and clouds, and very minimal wind. I crashed again after hitting a patch of sand while pulling off to the side of the road to let a few vehicles pass. The travelling tourists stopped to make sure I was alright, which I was.

In the distance, I began to spot pingos—those curious, dome-shaped mounds rising from the tundra. They are formed in the landscape when a body of unfrozen groundwater is trapped beneath a layer of permafrost. When the temperature drops, the water freezes and expands, pushing the overlying soil upward into a hill.

15 kilometres from Tuktoyaktuk, my bike’s gears stopped working. Cleaning off my bike did nothing, I had to push up the final few hills. When the town’s colourful houses came into view, I was unsure how to process everything. This was it— I had cycled all the way to the Arctic Ocean.

As I pulled up to the sign marking the end of the road, the group of tourists who passed earlier, now surrounding the “Arctic Ocean” sign, applauded and cheered, making it a memorable arrival. After unloading my packs off the bike, I found the culprit for my gears not working: my shifting cable had snapped. I thought it was impeccable timing for this to happen right at the end of the journey.

When all was said and done, it was time to officially conclude the journey by taking the plunge into the ocean. Shortly after arriving, I ran into a couple who helped me find the perfect spot for this.

Walking in until I was waist deep, the icy water shocked my system, but I embraced it. Despite the weather being 10 degrees celsius with a bit of wind and complete overcast, I completely submerged myself; letting the cold carry the weight of this incredible journey. The rush I felt after was so invigorating, I dove in a second time.

I was invited to warm up and have tea in the couple’s van afterwords.

That night, I sat in my tent and the end of the road, watching a flaming red sun dip behind the ocean that hid the distant, cold, remote islands of the Arctic.

*A spectacular sunset to mark the end of the ride*

Aftermath

*A shed on the sea, spotted from Grandma’s Kitchen*

I spent a day in Tuktoyaktuk after my arrival, taking the time to explore the town and enjoy a good meal at “Grandma’s Kitchen”—One of the only two restaurants in town. Overnight, winds picked up to gusts of 100km an hour, causing my tent to completely collapse on me. As I struggled to gather my belongings from the shore, two nearby travellers offered me their tent for my final night—a gesture I was deeply grateful for.

Remarkably, despite everything I’d heard about this route, I completed the journey without a single flat tire or even needing to pump my tires once. The only repairs needed were my shifting cable that snapped. When I returned to Whitehorse, I replaced my chain. It wore out surprisingly quickly, considering I had installed a new one just a week before reaching the Dempster.

My plan was to find a way back to Dawson City, where I would continue my journey south. Winter was approaching fast, and the temperatures were steadily dropping. Thankfully, I crossed paths with another solo traveler—a woman with a small truck camper—who invited me to join her for the ride back. She was continuing into Alaska, and along the way, we shared stories and spotted a grizzly bear across the river near Engineer Creek—the first either of us had seen on this road.

The Dempster Highway was, without a doubt, the most physically demanding ride I’d undertaken since I began bike touring in 2020. Delays earlier in my trip meant I finished the route two and a half weeks later than planned, enduring much colder and wetter conditions. However, this late-season timing came with its own rewards: I avoided the hoards of mosquitoes and had the chance to witness the tundra’s stunning, colourful transition to autumn. I never expected that, even in such a remote place, the kindness of strangers would regularly find its way to me. Both travellers and locals seemed genuinely keen on making sure I was okay.

Every turn along this route left me in awe of the scenery, which left me with a collection of reference shots to inspire my work—each one tied to this once-in-a-lifetime experience.

The Dempster Highway 2024