Toward the North Pole

The new road between Inuvik to Tuktoyaktuk opens up a world of landscape and legends; Elizabeth Chorney-Booth had a drive

Photos by Lucas Scarfone

The road from Inuvik to Tuktoyaktuk is long and dusty. As I ramble along the new unpaved highway past the tree line and across flat tundra dotted with icy lakes, it’s easy to visualize myself driving to the very top of the globe—well, to the Arctic Circle, pointing towards the clear waters of the Arctic Ocean. In the fall, the sun is bright but consistently low, reflecting light off of the frost-covered low-lying shrubs and illuminating on the crystalline ponds just metres from the highway. While the odd truck comes my way in the opposite direction, and a pair of what look to be either moose or reindeer cross the road at one point, this part of earth is eerily still, like I’m travelling along land that’s been completely unspoiled by human intervention.

And in a way, I am. While Canada’s Inuvialuit people have inhabited the Tuktoyaktuk area (or “Tuk” as it’s called by locals) for generations and the larger centre of Inuvik has been settled since the mid ’50s, until recently there has never been a permanent all-season road connecting the two communities. With the exception of the winter months, when cars travel on ice roads, Tuk was only accessible to the rest of Canada by boat or plane. After years of planning, the Inuvik-Tuktoyaktuk Highway (ITH) opened in November of 2017, allowing for year-round traffic between the two communities and, incidentally, completing a network of highways that now touches all three of Canada’s oceans. As a result, Tuk saw a significant increase in tourism this past year, something that’s bound to grow further as the community develops more services catering to visiting tourists.

The journey to Tuk starts with a drive or flight to Inuvik, a town that has most of the creature comforts that southerners are used to—hotels, restaurants, a liquor store, a hospital—with an undeniably Northern look (the Catholic church is fashioned to look like an igloo). Almost all of the structures are raised off of the hostile permafrost and above-ground water pipes are visible between buildings. While the land is fairly barren, visitors can get a look at Inuvik’s extraordinary community greenhouse, home to individual garden plots bursting with bounty and the world’s very first Arctic apple tree.

As interesting as Inuvik is, Tuk itself is the main draw for tourists—the town has long been part of Canadian lore. I made the trek in a brand new Chevy Silverado and while there aren’t a lot of tricky turns or traffic on the ITH, I’m glad for the comfort and reliability of the pick-up truck. The terrain is more rugged than it looks—the slushy texture of the gravel could send a small car flying off the highway’s silty shoulder at a number of points. After about two and a half hours on the road, Tuk itself emerges on the desolate landscape, with the Arctic Ocean glimmering around it. I’m at the end of the road; there is literally nothing but water between me and the North Pole.

Just being in Tuk, taking photos in front of the “Arctic Ocean” sign on the shore and bravely dipping a bare foot into the water, makes it worth the trip. I quickly learn, however, that experiencing the community and the openness of the people is what makes this an essential pilgrimage for anyone who wants to embrace the full scope of life in Canada.

Tuk is largely populated by Inuvialuit Canadians, whose ancestors chose the area because of its natural harbour on the Arctic Ocean. It was officially founded as Port Brabant in the 1920s and gained fame in 1950 when it became the first Indigenous community in Canada to revert to its traditional name. I ask local residents what they like to do, and the most common answers are hunting, fishing and enjoying the bounty of the land. John Steen, a local tour operator and lifelong resident, tells me that he is grateful for the beauty of the land, the nightly visits from the Aurora Borealis and the sheer magic of living on the edge of the continent.

“Even in winter, when the sun doesn’t come up, it never gets truly dark here,” he says. “Everything is covered in ice and snow and with the reflection of the moon you can always see your way. The moon glistens off the ocean.”

On the journey to Tuk, the people and the landscape give visitors a sense of awe.

Beyond the beach lies the Beafort Sea... and the North Pole.

Joanne Edwards-Steen runs Grandma's Kitchen.

The town has yet to catch up to tourists in terms of hospitality services like hotels and full-service restaurants, but Steen’s wife Joanne Edwards-Steen, is the proprietor of a beachside take-out eatery called Grandma’s Kitchen. Edwards-Steen serves burgers and other familiar standards, but she says that most visitors want to try uniquely northern delicacies like muktuk: small chunks of beluga whale skin and blubber that represent Tuk’s status as a legitimate whaling town. Her husband is a muktuk fan and urges me to try it myself.

“Some people say it tastes like pork, some say it’s fishy—I like people to decide for themselves,” says Steen who personally prefers his muktuk served raw but chilled. “Our community would typically harvest about 40 whales a year.”

I get my own chance to try Edwards-Steen’s wares at a community feast at the Kiti community hall. A couple hundred Tuk residents attend, sharing plates of turkey, ham, fresh-caught whitefish and cubes of authentic muktuk. The hall is abuzz with smiling children grabbing crunchy pieces of fry bread and custardy tarts, elders in traditional garb, neighbours chatting about community affairs and a table of local women selling hand-sewn fur slippers, mittens and hats. The feast ends with a performance from the local youth drum dance group, with the dancers pulling visitors out of the audience as the entire hall celebrates as a community.

A community feast doesn’t have to be on the books for one to get a feel for Tuk’s friendliness. Locals randomly wave as I drive along the main drag, past replicas of traditional sod houses, Tuk’s gas station, a few shops and a small community cemetery. Looking for some adventure, I take a boat tour to the nearby pingos— mounds of frozen earth that erupt from the shores of the ocean. Tuk is close to the Pingo National Landmark, which consists of eight protected pingos, including Canada’s tallest. Visitors can also hike out to the pingos, though climbing them during the summer months before the ground freezes is prohibited.

As I leave Tuk, the kids from the community feast gather around my Chevy Silverado, asking for their picture to be taken, hoping that I may have some trinkets from the south to add to their collections. The road back to Inuvik is even more beautiful at twilight, and as I cruise towards the tree line, I reflect on the beautiful community behind me and feel like I have, in every sense, visited the very top of the world.