Two packrafters journey 250 km through Tuktut Nogait National Park’s pristine canyons and changing Arctic landscape
By Evan Lefebvre
In the upper north regions of the Northwest Territories, where the Roscoe, Brock, and Hornaday rivers carve ancient paths through tundra, lies Tuktut Nogait National Park. Established in 1998 to protect the calving grounds of the Bluenose-West caribou herd, this remote wilderness sees fewer than 20 visitors annually. In July of 2025, our two-person packraft expedition traversed the park from east to west, documenting its timeless beauty and the troubling signs of a rapidly changing North.
The float plane touches down on crystal-clear water 300 km north of the Arctic Circle. Our pilot, Simon, from North-Wright Air, taxis to shore on Nunavut Lake, uncharted territory for both the charter company and for me. I’ve never ventured this far north before. We’re in Inuvialuit territory, approaching Tuktut Nogait National Park where the Inuvialuit and Sahtú Dene have hunted and traveled for millennia. In Inuinnaqtun, the park’s name means “young caribou,” a fitting description for a place where these magnificent animals still roam in abundance across the tundra.
As Simon refuels, a chunk of ice drifts toward our makeshift landing. It’s the middle of the summer here, a brief period when the ice retreats to reveal what’s hidden underneath. The shoreline is a mosaic of rocks in every colour imaginable, many encrusted with crystals that catch the light of the never-setting sun. We make an offering to the land after pushing the aircraft away, watching it disappear over the horizon and take with it our last connection to the outside world.
The four of us, Jim and Brian in a PakCanoe, Steve and I in packrafts, have shared the substantial charter cost from Norman Wells, though they plan to take a longer 28 days for a similar route we’ve compressed into just 14 due to our lighter packs and watercrafts. I fill my bottle from the cyan blue lake. The closest thing I could compare the water to was Aquafina, as weird as that may be. Looking around, there is an overwhelming feeling of gratitude for the fresh water, good people, and beautiful scenery. The landscape reminds me of my home in the Ottawa Valley, but stripped of trees: river rocks, patches of dirt and sand, and wildflowers quilted into the hills, arranged in patterns that seem almost deliberately placed.
We inflate our packrafts, zip into drysuits, and push off. Almost immediately, we discover the Roscoe River’s true character. What should be 90 km of paddling becomes an endless series of shallow dragging sessions over rounded rocks. Our packrafts grind against the riverbed as we hop in and out, scrambling over stones with lines in hand. The four of us stop for lunch, then part ways until later as it’s hard to keep up on the flatwater with Jim and Brian in their much faster and more elegant pack canoe.
Steve and I develop what we dub the “Roscoe Style” of travel: lying flat on our rafts to distribute weight over shallow sections or sitting cross-legged, positioned a foot farther back than normal, anything to float over the impossibly shallow sections. I push hard, and regrettably ahead of Steve for a few moments. Arctic swans with their striking white plumage, glide past our struggles, marking each milestone we desperately hope to reach.
We are relieved to see one decent rapid/swift about half a km long leading into Kettle Lake. Before running it we wave a final farewell to our canoeist friends, who have set up camp nearby. I made sure to get their satellite contact information for later, just in case. The day is hot with little wind; bugs are plentiful. We push roughly 25 km and collapse at a buggy, marshy campsite among gravel hills. It’s around 10 p.m., though time feels meaningless under the midnight sun. Sleep comes in waves that never feel truly restorative. My first night experiencing perpetual daylight makes me wonder how anyone could tell time without a watch.
The next morning at camp, we encounter our first caribou, a male with impressive antlers, trotting carefree across the river from our tents. Flowers of all sorts and colours fill the landscape, with the occasional patch that smells as sweet as a flower shop. Around us, the hills begin to reveal pillars and veins of contrasting rock, hints of canyon country ahead. The whole area seems to sparkle from the glacial till and moraine deposits.
Day two brings more of the same. It’s a hard push against the wind on flatwater, with little current to help and even less time to stop to drink or eat. “Get it while the gettin’ is good,” Jim had reminded me before we left, and it fuels our relentless traverse across the Arctic landscape. I notice large patches of ice on certain hillsides pouring into the river, a good sign that water levels will, hopefully, start to rise. Between heavy breaths, I pause and listen. When the wind dies completely, the silence feels like a physical presence, no distant highway hum, no airplanes overhead, no human sounds whatsoever, aside from Steve’s occasional joke or the splashing of our paddles. That night at our second camp (before we tuck into our tents to avoid the onslaught of mosquitoes) I take a moment to feel grateful for my tripping companion, his knowledge, optimism, and willingness to help in any way needed.
Collapsing our silnylon homes each morning becomes routine, fueled by energy bars and quick snacks to keep moving, no time for a real breakfast. On day three, we cover another challenging 35 km to finish the Roscoe, bringing our total to roughly 100 km. In some sort of trance, the same three lines from Stan Rogers’ “Northwest Passage” that I listened to before leaving loop in my head as we line boats along muddy grass and find footing in caribou tracks. I notice one of my water bottles cracked, leaving me with just a 500-mL bottle to work with, and a constant source of anxiety in this demanding environment.
We reach “Roscoe Lake” where the rapids finally become runnable, which I welcome with hoots and hollers of joy. Caribou appear everywhere now, lone bulls, small groups, and eventually stop and stare at our gray tents, mistaking us for boulders. We camp by flooded grasslands where cotton grass surrounds the football-field looking area. The glacial divide where the Roscoe and Brock once connected, is just a km from our tents. I take a shallow “swim” as a farewell to the Roscoe. Moments later, a caribou comes to the exact spot where I dried off, inspects us from a distance, and moves on. I’ve lost count of the caribou at this point.
The temperature reaches a roaring 35°C inside the tent at 9 a.m. on day four as we convert to hiking mode for the height-of-land portage between the Roscoe and Brock rivers. My 95-liter pack feels ready to burst, loaded with 14 days of food that I’m barely touching due to exertion and anxiety. Adding to this, my extra dry bag rides uncomfortably, alternating between carrying it like a suitcase and hoisting it behind my head like a voyageur.
What we optimistically estimated as a 3-km crossing becomes a 10-km slog through marshland, tussocks, and occasional waist-deep ponds. We keep the rafts inflated and pull them like sleds through water and grass, drysuits on, swarmed by bugs. The pattern becomes hypnotic: march with head down, take breaks sitting in our packrafts like sofas, hydrate, fuel up, and push again. I found that if I avoided looking directly where I had to walk, it wouldn’t take as long to get there. By evening, a storm rolls in. We find shelter on a rocky site at the first large lake between the Roscoe River and what we call “Third” or “Brock Lake.” The midnight sun dries our swamp-scented kit as winds rise and doubts about making our extraction date grow stronger.
Day 5 is a harsh introduction to the reality of volatile Arctic weather. We wake to freezing conditions and thick fog until the wind rises at around 11 a.m. Strong headwinds, snow, and an upcoming lake crossing make getting on the water a mental challenge after the recent heat. I push onward, and into my packraft. The icy wind cuts through my neoprene gloves; pogies (handlebar gloves) would have been worth their weight in gold.
We fight across wind-swept lakes with two-to-three-foot waves. My fingers go from pins and needles to numb, the start of frostnip, I later realize. We improvise with rain mitts as “pogies” and pour hot water on gear in hopes of regaining dexterity.
Partially frozen and finally ready to set up camp at Brock Lake, we discover a historical tent ring, a piece of bright-blue modern rope, and an old rusty can. It feels remarkable to find the ring after choosing the spot purely on sight from afar. We take no photographs to respect their historical significance. Settling into my tent, I notice my Zoleo reads an incoming 10 cm of snow in the forecast, which is a real wake-up call for the coming days. I contact home to let them know of the weather, and an alternate possible pick-up plan.
Starting day 7, for the next 46 hours, we remain tent-bound as winds we estimate at 70+ kph rock our shelters. Rain drives horizontally across the lake, and snow begins to accumulate. During the storm’s peak, I venture outside barefoot, (a practice from my winter paddling back home) to gather more anchor rocks and experience the intensity of the oncoming rain, wind, and snow. The dry Arctic air makes even subzero temperatures more bearable than Ottawa’s humid cold. We wait for the forecasted peak gusts around 10 p.m. Once the worst seems through, comfort grows knowing better weather is coming. Although a forced rest day, my legs and body are thankful for the reprieve. The wind’s white noise finally gives me a few real hours of sleep.
We wake to 2+ cm of snow. Cliffs are painted white, contrasting with the usual browns and greys. My gear has frozen solid outside the tent, and panic briefly sets in until I remember I can thaw my neoprene gloves and hat between my PFD and drysuit while packing. I notice my hands have begun to crack and scale from the constant exposure. I am slowly becoming the landscape that surrounds me. This is when my mindset shifts from optimistic to realistic; things feel serious and I am unsure that we will be able to complete the trip in time.
Winds still blow at about 30 kph but are dropping as we push upwind to finish the last 2 km of lake. The storm has raised water levels just enough to make the first few sets runnable. Pillars and formations reminiscent of the Grand Canyon begin to appear on the riverbanks as the Brock River reveals its true character. Walls rise around us like a Mars-scape of layered limestone, stacked in bands of ochre, brown, and gray that reach heights of 30 m or more. Bright purple wildflowers seem to choose specific rock veins for their homes, creating vertical gardens on the cliff faces.
The paddling becomes everything we had dreamed of. Pool-drop rapids, clear emerald water, and stone formations that defy imagination. We thread the needle through boulder gardens, ride standing waves, and marvel at the geological artistry surrounding us. Dark slate gives way to hematite and agate, with geodes scattered across the shoreline. I thought about all the months I spent looking at this exact spot on satellite imagery, trying to tell if it would be possible or not as we floated through a canyon section. We wondered if anyone had ever paddled the water in this section since the glaciers created it?
Lone ungulates watch us from the plateau above. We move downriver into more northwest wind and multiple “stasis in rapids” moments, standing still caused by waves traveling upstream under the gusts. The canyon walls amplify wind like a subway tunnel. Small raptors, likely falcons, perch atop cliffs, curious about our passage. Where the river widens to 100-200 m, flatwater and headwinds make progress difficult. Where it narrows under 50 m, continuous rapids bring great speed. By the day’s end, we’ve made nearly 25 km and regained much of our lost time. The original plan was to be at this site for day 6 and 7 so we were roughly back on track minus one safety day. I thank the heavens.
Right at the confluence of the two channels of the Brock River where we set up camp, we hit our biggest rapid yet, a short class II+ with haystacks. River right, a high cliff drops into deep, cyan water warped by a swift current. River left, a long field of manicured-looking grass stretches toward another Brock source we’d only seen in satellite imagery. That night, we camp near wildflowers and a pile of bones that remind me that bears frequent these lands too. That being said, throughout the trip I’m mainly worried about disturbing a group of bees or hornets on the ground. While gathering anchor rocks that night, I uncover a wasp nest, but it’s inactive. I thank the heavens again.
The next day, and several km later, we reach the entrance to the main Brock River Canyon and what we mark as our “last call” takeout on river left just after a pushy S-turn. The mysterious horseshoe canyon section lies ahead, its depths hidden from our scouting attempts. Satellite imagery suggests class IV+ rapids, possibly waterfalls, with limited portage options in the sheer-walled canyon.
Wisdom and my mother’s voice in my head prevails over bravado. We execute a 6-km portage over the plateau, climbing 100 m up a caribou trail and path created by erosion over many years. At the top, the horizon opens up to a 360° panorama that is about as flat as a hockey rink and as if the surface had been sanded down by a carpenter.
The portage around the horseshoe section meanders past views I’ll never forget: monolithic rock pinnacles, snow-capped ridges, and large boulders far below looking like scattered pebbles in a vast cathedral of stone. An enormous dolostone figure looks exactly like a bronze bust, nose and all, and perhaps 40 m tall. The Brock carves through Precambrian bedrock with patterned layers of dolostone and igneous rocks, pillars such as the statuesque head weathered down over thousands of years.
About 5 km in, we find a grassy slope with the remnants of a creek, and a route down previously pointed out to us by Brian. Standing on the plateau, we rest and recharge, staring at the canyon ahead. Thousands of mosquitoes cover us like fur as we descend the 30-45° slope with steeper pitches, winding through soft grass and moss to save our knees. We work our way down through yellow, purple, and blue wildflower bushes to rejoin the river below the horseshoe.
We rejoin the river below the horseshoe (a section of the river we named which indicates the crux), running multiple class II and III rapids and a short ledge feature. The walls around us stand nearly 10 stories tall with some areas that look as though a sneeze would cause them to collapse. I couldn’t help but think the rapids we were paddling were once tall rocks towering above the river. We paddle through a tall and narrow hole carved in the wall, laughing as it feels like a Disney ride of sorts. Tributary gorges pour in looking like tracks made by a massive snowblower. Once the canyons open and the dolostone shifts to sandstone, the clear blue water turns silty brown with each inflow. At one left-hand bend, a 20-m, shale-like bank comes sliding aggressively into the river just below the rapid we are about to run, throwing a wave and dust cloud into the air. We run the rapid fast and far from the cliff, a stark reminder that the land is alive and dangerous, still actively reshaping itself.
After many good rapids and fast wide sections, we reach the end of the Brock around 7 p.m. and camp river left near the First Creek source lakes. Bear tracks run between our tents and a hill of willows and other shrubs. Aside from the sound of rockslides happening around the river, the only other sound we notice is from the large male caribou who swam across the river in front of us.
The next morning, we climb a steep, muddy 40-meter hill to the plateau, then head toward First Creek through waist-deep shrubs and knee-deep moss. I can’t help but wonder how much longer this crossing will remain possible. We observe 4-6 m trees (likely willow or cottonwood) as well as vast shrub growth that may soon make overland travel impossible. These observations will later be reported to Parks Canada as to inform ongoing climate monitoring in this region. Before leaving for this trip, I learnt of the phenomenon of “Shrubification”, the increase in the abundance, size, and coverage of shrubs, particularly in Arctic tundra regions. Caused by higher annual temperatures, it is one of the threats facing many northern ecosystems today.
We keep our rafts inflated with packs strapped on top to hop lake-to-lake, dragging through gaps and poling beaver-cut channels with our kayak paddles. The beaver activity shocks us this far north, dams and lodges everywhere around the creek system, turning the water muddy and waste rich. We also note this to report to the Paulatuk community (where our trip will end) because of the risks it poses to drinking water and the local char fishing.
Halfway down First Creek, we have our most intense and magnificent wildlife encounter. A large grizzly sleeping in the mud just 25 meters ahead, right where we need to go. The moment Steve says, “Hey dude, is that a bear?”, its cinnamon brown head lifts. I freeze for a brief moment, then we stand together, bear spray ready, paddles raised high, making ourselves known through loud conversation. I feel the pent-up energy from the last few weeks inside of me, in that moment I (somehow) convince myself that I could take on the grizzly with my own two weathered hands. Luckily, the bear examines us briefly before disappearing downriver in a hurry. Tracks in the mud show its quick pace. We keep up a steady chorus of singing and talking for the next several km. Just to be safe.
Once we feel that there is enough distance between us and the bear, the final push begins: a grueling 15-km march through ankle-breaking terrain towards the Hornaday River. Beaver activity has transformed the creek into a maze of muddy channels, backed-up lakes, and treacherous tussock fields. The creek bed has eroded about 3 meters below the surrounding tundra and cotton grass is scattered across the land which reminds me of something out of Dr. Seuss.
My ankle, fractured just over a year before in a climbing accident, screams with each step through the tussocks. Blisters the size of coins cover my feet but hold up under moleskin. Before leaving, my girlfriend, Phoebe, had engraved my watch with “Find strength with each breath,” and I repeat this mantra to myself with every painful step.
I try to get to a mental state where I could push as far as possible as long as I stayed hydrated and fueled up. I pictured my family in danger and fabricated scenarios of my loved ones needing help, a fact I later admit in my journal. Anything to get me through this. Steve guided us along this last land crossing; he is a professional ultralight hiker and has lots of experience when it comes to hiking from A to B or even C. With his motivating energy we went from short 100-m jaunts up to 1 or even 2-km stints. Although we had our moments where we were frustrated with each other, I feel so grateful for Steve for helping me to tap into the mindset needed for this section of the expedition. Having the right tripping partner can make all the difference in moments like this. Eventually, a 10-m cliff gives us a clear view of the Hornaday River. Our energy peaks as we finish the last few meters, hoots, hollers, dopamine, and 15 km of slogging behind us at last.
Steve wakes on day 13 to a pierced packraft. Without skipping a beat, he patches it with Tyvek and Gorilla Tape, a fix that holds beautifully. The Hornaday River runs high compared to his previous time visiting, with fun rapids at every bend and easy lines. We cover 11 km in just two hours, taking in the last of the whitewater thrills, then pull our rafts up a 5-m bank at the edge of Rat Lake using our throwbags. From there, we can see Darnley Bay and the Beaufort Sea – a view that feels like everything we’ve worked for.
We drag ourselves and our trip-worn packs up one last 50-m hill to what we think is the Rat Lake Road pickup point, I unload all of my gear and collapse on the soft ground. We see headlights flashing far in the distance but not coming any closer. I soon realize we’re a few kilometres off from the official pick up. Darn. While hoisting my pack in a hurry to catch our ride, my phone falls out of my pocket. I only notice this halfway towards the car, and I feel my heart drop with it. Every image and video from the trip (other than my GoPro and disposable film camera) and my resources to get back home, lives on it. I yell out a silent scream into the wind, then I retrace my steps. Thankfully, my phone is right next to where I put it in my backpack. I muster up the very last of my energy and truck onwards towards the headlights in the distance and the promise of a warm shower.
Craig Ruben from Parks Canada is waiting to meet us at the pickup point and helps gather gear. Only a few years older than I am with a warm smile, he makes us feel welcome and supported from the moment we shake hands. We arrive at Northmart in Paulatuk just two minutes before closing. The shelves of food overwhelm us after two weeks of carefully rationed expedition meals. We buy dinner rolls, beans, cheese, a taco kit, and corn chips to go with leftover freeze-dried tacos I made at home and carried the whole way. The simple pleasure of fresh bread and cheese feels like the greatest luxury imaginable. Once we are well stuffed, I try and wash the grime off my face, and then collapse into the pillowy goodness of a real bed.
After a tour of Paulatuk by Craig, our journey home begins: Aklak Air from Paulatuk to Inuvik where we stay for fish and chips with beer, then Yellowknife to Edmonton. Steve heads to Toronto while I fly through Montreal to Ottawa. To home, at last.
Weeks later, Jim and Brian check in via satellite. They’d skipped First Creek for a coastal Arctic Ocean route. Despite similar weather challenges, they managed to successfully complete the trip on schedule. On the plane ride in I remember them mentioning how seeing everything through my fresh perspective had rekindled their own passion for Arctic travel after dozens of expeditions. Equally inspired by them, I hope to get a few more dozen expeditions under my belt in my lifetime.
I hope to return to Tuktut Nogait someday. If I were to do this trip again, I’d skip the Roscoe entirely and fly directly to the Brock source lakes, especially the lake where we were windbound. I’d scout and paddle the canyon sections and aim for a pickup at the Brock delta or a nearby fish camp.
I will dream about paddling through the incredible Brock River canyons for the rest of my life. The barriers we create in our minds are often more limiting than anything the natural world can throw at us. Sometimes you just have to put your head down, find strength with each breath, and keep moving forward.
ROUTE AT A GLANCE
● Route: “Nunavut Lake” → Roscoe River → Brock River → First Creek → Hornaday River → Rat Lake
● Duration: 13 days out (July 1st to 20th with travel)
● Style: Packrafts
● Distance: Approximately 250 km total (paddling + extensive portaging/dragging)
● Whitewater: Mostly class I–II on the Roscoe River (when it runs), class I–III rapids on the Brock River
● Access: Charter from Norman Wells to “Nunavut Lake”
● Exit: Rat Lake Road near Paulatuk (confirm exact pickup location)
● Season: Mid-summer still brings snow, gale-force winds, and low water in places
● Notes: Extreme remoteness; sporadic water levels; storm risks; steep walls in canyon sections; extensive portaging around mud and tussocks; challenging First Creek traverse
ENVIRONMENTAL OBSERVATIONS
● Beaver dams and lodges on First Creek; muddy, waste-rich water reported to Paulatuk due to risks to drinking water and char fishing
● l observed 4–6 m trees (likely willow/cottonwood) between Second Creek and First Creek and shrubs, research needed to confirm if due to the phenomenon of shrubification.
● Very low flows on the Roscoe; storm brought levels up on the Brock; water level dropped around 4cm over night; wind-churned lakes turned silty
● Frequent bank failures and fresh rockfall around canyons; active geomorphology
● Wildlife: abundant caribou (lone bulls, small groups, large mixed herds), Arctic swans with cygnets, geese, a golden eagle, loons, ducks, likely falcons; one short but close grizzly encounter
Evan Lefebvre is an Ottawa-based paddler who specializes in wilderness expeditions to remote locations. When not planning his next Arctic adventure, he can be found sliding canoes down snowy hills to reach open water in the Canadian winter. His observations from the Tuktut Nogait expedition have contributed to ongoing climate change research in Canada’s Arctic regions.