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wants,” he said, like a character from a post-apocalyptic Western.
The next four days passed in a muddy blur of existential grit.
We pushed northward through dust, gravel, and the kind of road corrugation that can rearrange your spine alphabetically. The Dempster, in its generosity, offers a full-body massage whether you ask for it or not. Every kilometre is an unpredictable adventure. One minute, it’ s hard-packed gravel and sunshine. The next, you’ re fishtailing through permafrost potholes while rain slaps you like an unpaid loan shark.
I crossed the Arctic Circle in a state of physical disrepair and spiritual elation. There’ s a sign there, where travellers congregate to take awkward selfies and slap stickers from obscure European overlanding clubs. I took my photo, hatless and hollow, with the wind howling through my thinning hair like a reminder of past sins.
The Arctic Ocean, when you finally get to it, is less“ tropical paradise” and more“ wind-driven slap in the face.” But it’ s majestic. Flat, endless, and entirely unimpressed by your journey. I stood there, boots in the gravel, staring at the horizon, and I thought of my cap. Was it lying in the mud? Wrapped around a spruce
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