By Olivier de Vaulx

Looking at the map of the USA in search of a cool ride, I let my eyes drift over the northern border and into the green shape of Canada. Zooming in on my computer screen, I don’t see too many roads. Looking even closer, I follow a thin line up to the Arctic Ocean, ending at a small dot with an improbable and unpronounceable name: Tuktoyaktuk. Reading this name out loud: Tuk-to-yak-tuk, try it! It’s like pronouncing a magical spell that will drive you to a lost world, a last exploration in a modern time where everything has already been mapped and documented. It’s an invitation I can’t unsee, and the preparation for the trip starts that same day.

Planning Ahead

The cool thing with Canada is that the lack of roads makes for easy route planning. Using Gaia GPS, it doesn’t take long to figure out a way from Vancouver, BC, to Tuktoyaktuk, NT. I carry on, adding a loop in Alaska, that will be reviewed in another story. I also mark every gas station as a waypoint, trying to figure out if the intervals are within the range of a 2023 KTM 890 Adventure R. A few stages 250+ miles long will probably be challenging. It’s not a deal breaker though, as the 5-gallon tank of the gas-sipping KTM and a few additional fuel bottles for safety should be sufficient. In total, the trip will be 7,000 miles, including 10 days on pavement and 10 days on dirt. A quick search on various weather websites shows that June seems to be the best compromise between temperature, precipitation, and a lower mosquito population. All computer tasks being completed, it’s finally garage time.

By Olivier de Vaulx

Looking at the map of the USA in search of a cool ride, I let my eyes drift over the northern border and into the green shape of Canada. Zooming in on my computer screen, I don’t see too many roads. Looking even closer, I follow a thin line up to the Arctic Ocean, ending at a small dot with an improbable and unpronounceable name: Tuktoyaktuk. Reading this name out loud: Tuk-to-yak-tuk, try it! It’s like pronouncing a magical spell that will drive you to a lost world, a last exploration in a modern time where everything has already been mapped and documented. It’s an invitation I can’t unsee, and the preparation for the trip starts that same day.

Planning Ahead

The cool thing with Canada is that the lack of roads makes for easy route planning. Using Gaia GPS, it doesn’t take long to figure out a way from Vancouver, BC, to Tuktoyaktuk, NT. I carry on, adding a loop in Alaska, that will be reviewed in another story. I also mark every gas station as a waypoint, trying to figure out if the intervals are within the range of a 2023 KTM 890 Adventure R. A few stages 250+ miles long will probably be challenging. It’s not a deal breaker though, as the 5-gallon tank of the gas-sipping KTM and a few additional fuel bottles for safety should be sufficient. In total, the trip will be 7,000 miles, including 10 days on pavement and 10 days on dirt. A quick search on various weather websites shows that June seems to be the best compromise between temperature, precipitation, and a lower mosquito population. All computer tasks being completed, it’s finally garage time.

Crossing BC

Entering Canada a few miles south of Vancouver, the fully loaded KTM is welcomed by a perfect blue sky and warm temperatures. It’s a good sign but it doesn’t last. As soon as the road gains some elevation, it starts raining hard. On wet pavement, the tires are still grippy enough to keep up with traffic, and the miles accumulate, with poor visibility but a body kept warm by the waterproof Alpinestars AMT-10 jacket. The distances and speed limits are in kilometers here, a non-issue since our modern bikes have digital dashboards that allow us to switch between imperial and metric systems. Gasoline prices are for liters here, and multiplying by 4 gives us $5.50 per gallon. It’s more expensive than in the US, but still manageable, especially since the KTM gets around 50mpg. The first night at a small organized campground is the opportunity to unpack and repack everything. It’s also the moment to ask a ranger about bears. Her answer is not encouraging, as she advises against camping in the wild in the Yukon and further. Well, we shall see… The next days in British Columbia are spent mostly on pavement, except for a 130-mile dirt road shortcut. The Arai XD-5 is comfortable during these long stretches of road, and the cruise control of the KTM is priceless. Crossing BC, the visitor either gets a pastoral countryside that doesn’t scream adventure, or a never-ending forest blocking the view. Every other hour, the occasional grandiose vista point of a lake or a canyon becomes a photo and snack opportunity, before the next long tunnel of green. Exiting a corner, the road sometimes aligns with a snowy summit, and the perspective at this moment is stunning. It doesn’t last though, as the forest blocks the view at the next curve. Slam on the brakes to take a picture and enjoy the view, or keep going and wait for another vista point? This dilemma is frequent, but I end up stopping more often than I should. Traveling is first and foremost about discovering new things, isn’t it? With such vast distances to cover, the temptation of riding fast to get it over with is strong. Going up north, the towns become smaller, the traffic is scarce, and wildlife is more abundant. The first grizzlies, a mother and her cub looking for berries, are spotted a few miles before Meziadin, only two days after the start of the ride. It’s a surreal experience to take pictures of this huge mammal from a relatively close distance, knowing that even with the engine still running, it would be hard to take off fast enough to escape an attack. Luckily, the two of them look at the bike with no real interest, and it gives some confidence for the future.

Entering Yukon

A nice sign welcomes the travelers entering the Yukon. But with a population of 45,000 inhabitants for an area the size of Montana, Colorado, Wyoming, and Oregon combined—which represent a population of roughly 11 million people—it’s the lack of traffic and the absence of villages that define this Canadian territory. Here, it’s possible to stop anywhere on the side of the road, shut off the engine, and have nothing to hear but silence. From Watson Lake, the track on the GPS shows mostly dirt. The route goes north, with a sign warning that the next services are 370 km away (230 miles). There I stand, looking at the sign, with no vehicles in sight, and probably more bears than humans along the road. It doesn’t mean that you get used to seeing them on the side of the road. The sight of a black bear on the exit of a corner is always a bit of a shock. Spooked, the bears can be agitated, and when they are close to the road, it’s better not to stop. Everyone wants their moment of fame, but being in the news for a bear attack doesn’t seem too appealing. The other challenge in this remote part of Canada is to find anything that I need. Fuel? The gas station is further than I’d like. Food? Good luck finding a restaurant, and better luck finding an open one. It’s a place where I quickly understand that survival means self-sufficiency. Saving gas, the range of the frugal KTM is tested to the limit, the engine shutting off by fuel starvation. Refueling with the little reserve from the red bottles, in this surreal silence, is an act of faith. The next miles are taken slow, clutching in the downhill to keep the engine at idle, barely making it to the gas station. Or more exactly to the gas bar, a huge tank of gasoline linked to a card reader. It’s a relief to get gas, but when water or food is needed, it doesn’t help at all. Therefore, the days are usually spent with one meal and a few snacks, trying to save food in case the next grocery store isn’t found until the following day. With no service most of the time, I cannot check in advance if a restaurant or a gas station is open. The good thing is that the days are getting longer, so setting up the camp and cooking some dry meals is getting easier, even late in the evening. The app “iOverlander” gives some ideas of free spots, but any side road in the forest or next to a small lake is an open spot for wild camping. This is Freedom with a capital F! Avoiding the organized campgrounds in the little towns, that don’t give any more safety relative to bears, it’s easy to stay away from civilization. There is seldom anybody in the backcountry, and the only time a person stops for a little chat, it turns out to be a First Nation chief, avid dirt bike rider, and peaceful philosopher. Camping in the wild still requires taking some extra precautions, not because of humans, but mostly to prevent encounters with wildlife. All the food and toiletry items are stored in bear-proof canisters, then hidden about 100 feet from the tent, while cooking is also done far away from the camp. It might be just good luck, but no bear, even spotted shortly before setting camp, ever came to visit.