“The Arctic has appealed to us for a long time,” explains Booth, 31, who has completed a canoe trip every summer with Traynor since they were kids growing up in Nova Scotia. “We wanted to see as much as we possibly could, and we thought the best way to do this was through a cross-section of the different ecozones up there.”

The route they designed for this Royal Canadian Geographical Society-supported expedition would take them through one of Canada’s most remote regions, beginning in the boreal forest at the east end of Great Slave Lake and moving north along Kaché Kaɂá, or Pike’s Portage, a historic route used by Indigenous people to reach caribou hunting grounds and, later, by trappers and explorers. Today, much of Kaché Kaɂá falls within the national park reserve Thaidene Nëné and is managed by the Łutsël K’é Dene First Nation, Northwest Territory Métis Nation, Deninu Kųę First Nation and Yellowknives Dene First Nation.

The paddlers planned to tour the Contwoyto River, where, in 1821, explorer John Franklin lost his notes and nearly died trying to cross the waters after a failed attempt to survey the Northwest Passage. Eventually, they’d wind into the Mara River, with its series of wind-exposed rapids and narrows, and then the Burnside River where they’d meet a swift downstream current to whisk them into the Arctic Circle. They’d set the finish line at Bathurst Inlet, a bay on the Arctic Ocean where a floatplane could land safely to carry them back to Yellowknife.

Ice break-up always lingers into the summer in the North, so the group was prepared for some ice — but not like this. And as they pressed on, the ice floes grew larger, blending into one frozen sheet. On the horizon, the paddlers saw what appeared to be a milky blue glacier.

The ice forced the canoes to shore. The group clambered out of their boats and climbed a small hill to look out over the lake and plan their route of attack. As they passed a set of binoculars among themselves, trying to figure out how to navigate past the glacier ahead, they realized something: the glacier was a mirage, created by the contrast between the hot summer air and the cold winter ice pack. There was no glacier, only ice as far as the eye could see. 

“We realized then that we were contending with what would end up being a pretty large hurdle that we would have to overcome,” says Graham.

Ice has always been a defining factor for travel in the region. Subarctic Indigenous peoples originally used snowshoes, sleds and toboggans to travel distances in winter and switched to canoes once the ice had thawed. Warburton Pike, an eccentric explorer from England for whom Pike’s Portage is named, explored Canada’s North in the 1880s and ’90s and wrote two books about his expeditions. In them, ice is a recurring character, upending the plans of anyone seeking to travel through the area.

More than a century and a quarter later, Booth and team, despite their modern equipment, found themselves confounded by the same barrier. “It’s very humbling to see how ice still dictates all sorts of travel up there,” says Booth.

The four men were struck by how far they could see once they were in the barren lands without trees for perspective. Mountains in the distance looked gargantuan but proved quite tiny by mountain standards as they drew close. The air—free of pollen, dust and pollution — felt extra crisp. 

“It was the land of opposites,” says Graham. “You have these massive, massive landscapes. But if you want to sit down and soak up nature, that [means] looking at the smallest details, like how lichens form on rocks or the tiniest plants that are somehow surviving up there.”

One day, they noticed odd black specks in the distance: a herd of muskox, running, their thick manes bouncing.

At the same time, the paddlers observed a notable presence of death. They frequently spotted animal bones that had neither decayed nor moved over time — they had remained frozen in place for years.

In the evenings, they fished to supplement their carefully planned, 3,000-calorie-per-day diet. They caught and feasted on different varieties of trout, fatter and bigger than what they were used to back home. The lakes felt “very alive,” says Graham, perhaps more akin to what rivers in British Columbia were like before overfishing and climate change affected life in its waters. But even with the abundance of fish, the team was burning calories at a rate far beyond their caloric intake. They lost two to seven kilograms each over the four weeks. 

They ended the trip at Contwoyto Lake, which they estimated to be 300 kilometres short of their planned finish. And they’re already considering a return trip. Like Warburton Pike, they’re waiting for the right moment when Mother Nature clears a route for them.

“One lesson I consistently learn on these trips is how important patience is,” says Booth. “Sometimes I just want to go and do the hard work. But there’s nothing we could have done.”

On a cold May morning, friends Amaya Cherian-Hall and Heather Waterous set off on an epic journey from the Targhee Pass trailhead in Idaho. The duo, who have been adventuring together since meeting in 2015 at university in Squamish, B.C., planned to spend five months on the road, hiking, biking and canoeing through the traditional territories and lands of more than 20 First Nations and Métis while taking in the breathtaking landscapes of the famed Yellowstone to Yukon corridor. Along the way, they’d visit the popular geysers of Yellowstone, experience the wonders of

the Rockies and paddle parts of the mighty Yukon River. Unfortunately, an achilles injury for Cherian-Hall and a knee injury for Waterous forced them to re-evaluate their goals mid-expedition. They abandoned much of the planned hiking and cycling section beyond Banff, instead road-tripping to Whitehorse to finish up with a nine-day canoe trip down the mighty Yukon River to Dawson. It was, they reported on Instagram, “a pretty phenomenal way to wrap up a summer of adventuring, growth, big emotions, friendship and love.”

“It opened my eyes,” says Garrow. “I recognized then that the true story of the North is one of sea ice.”

From there, the Pikialasorsuaq Expedition was born. Garrow, Wolf and McClelland set out on May 5, 2022, from Ausuittuq (Grise Fiord), Ellesmere Island, on a 310-kilometre ski traverse aiming to explore, document and research the North Water Polynya, a massive area of open water surrounded by sea ice. The name of the expedition, Pikialasorsuaq, is the Kalaalisut (West Greenlandic) name for the North Water Polynya and translates as “the Great Upwelling.”

“This was really an expedition focused on better understanding sea ice,” says Garrow, “and bringing stories of sea ice and the changes we’re seeing to Canadians.”

Wedged between Umingmak Nuna (Ellesmere Island), Tallurutit (Devon Island) and Greenland in the northern reaches of Baffin Bay, Pikialasorsuaq is the largest polynya in the Arctic. Open year-round, at its peak it spans up to 85,000 square kilometres — about the size of Ireland. It’s an oasis in a frozen desert. Plankton drift in the water column. Shrimp feed on them and are in turn fed on by char and cod. Beluga, bowhead whales and ringed seals peruse the buffet, take their pick, then vanish. Polar bears lurk. This is one of the most biologically productive regions north of the Arctic Circle.

For Garrow and his expedition mates, sea ice was a completely different dynamic to the sturdy glaciers they were accustomed to as experienced mountain travellers.  

Terry Noah, Qikiqtaaluk Inuk and operator of outfitting and guide service Ausuittuq Adventures, and his assistant Nolan Kiguktak transported the team from Ausuittuq to Ward Point on the northern coast of Tallurutit. They shared long-held knowledge critical to understanding sea ice conditions, prevailing winds, polar bear travel corridors and how to move safely through their habitat.