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'There's a land where the mountains are nameless,
And the rivers all run God knows where;
There are lives that are erring and aimless,
And deaths that just hang by a hair;
There are hardships that nobody reckons;
There are valleys unpeopled and still;
There's a land – oh it beckons and beckons,
And I want to go back – and I will.'
Robert Service, 'The Spell of the Yukon'
The Yukon is a triangular-shaped territory in the far north-west of Canada. It’s bordered by Alaska to the west
while, to the north, lie the icy waters of the Beaufort Sea.
Although the Yukon is more than twice the size of the UK, only 31,000 people live there (and 23,000 of those are in the capital, Whitehorse). But there are around 70,000 moose, grizzly and black bears, and wolves as well
as eagles, falcons, hawks and owls. In the spectacular Kluane
National Park there’s a good population of Dall sheep, while a
few muskoxen live on the north slope. In winter the bears go to sleep but snowshoe hares, ptarmigan, red foxes and the very
occasional wolverine are still seen by visitors.
The Yukon is also home to the large Porcupine caribou herd, which
migrates each year between its winter grounds in the Richardson and Ogilvie
Mountains and the coastal plain of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge in Alaska. These caribou have been at the centre of great controversy
for the last several years: the oil lobby of America
wants to drill for oil off the coastal plain; detractors, including the vocal Gwich’in First Nation which still relies
on the caribou for food and clothing, say that this will negatively impact the herd.
Herschel Island, at the far northern extreme of the Yukon Territory, has been included on the 2008
World Monuments Watch List of 100 Most Endangered Sites by the World Monuments Fund. Historic structures from the whaling
period, the missionary posts, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and trading companies are under threat due to the devastating
effects of climate change in the Arctic.
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‘Other people travel to the Yukon in
the summer when they can enjoy the long, balmy days that blend one into another with little darkness between. In September,
though, the tourists pack their bags and leave. The attractions close. The museums’ doors are bolted and the buses are
laid up until May. Even most Canadian people, who so proudly extol their pitiless winters when basking comfortably in the
sun elsewhere, shiver at the thought of coming this far north during the frozen months. The average temperature in the Yukon in January is minus twenty-six degrees Celsius but the mercury
can plunge much lower. Temperatures dip regularly into the minus forties; once, they dived to minus sixty-three.
But there’s another side to winter in this harsh land. As the nights grow longer, the milky jade and blood red
of the northern lights weave across the skies. The snowshoe rabbits’ coats turn spotless white and the arctic foxes
wear plush, dramatic furs. Winter has the late blue dawns, and the warm buttery light of the low midday sun. It has the jagged
gems of hoar frost, and the soft, feathery snow. Winter is the season of solitude and pure, glorious silence. And in winter,
the sled dogs run.’
From Mad Dogs and an Englishwoman by Polly Evans (Bantam, February 2008)
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