The Land Of The Electric Mountains:  Canoeing The Yukon’s Snake River

Article and Photos: Erik Thomsen

In the far northwestern reaches of Canada, at the northern edge of the Yukon’s Mackenzie and Wernecke mountains, lies the Snake River – a watercourse of over 300 kilometres that rushes swiftly through a rich wilderness of lush and colourful alpine meadows, imposing mountains and verdant boreal forest. Across the barren slopes and dim woodlands of the Snake valley ambles the grizzly bear, the Dall sheep and boreal mountain caribou; over the river’s roiling din sounds the hollow croak of the raven and the long, plaintive call of the Yukon wolf.

The Snake River falls in the traditional homelands of the Tetlin and Vuntut Gwich’in peoples of the northwest. To the Gwich’in, the river is known as the Gyuu dazhoo njik – the “Worm Hairy River” – from a legend which tells of a colossal worm that travelled upstream from the sea consuming rocks and boulders until it reached the river’s mountainous upper reaches, where it continues to reside. 

The river, which terminates some 50 kilometres south of the arctic circle, is the easternmost of six primary rivers that drain north into the Peel River enroute to the Beaufort Sea (others from west to east include the Ogilvie, Blackstone, Hart, Wind and Bonnet Plume). In a region renowned for its austere beauty and world class canoe routes, the Snake holds a special reputation for its incredible scenery and challenging conditions. 

A canoe trip down the Snake River is an undertaking that requires sound whitewater skills, comfort in navigating class II to III rapids, immersion gear and wilderness tripping experience due to the river’s remote location.  The trip typically takes 10 to 14 days to travel, beginning with a float plane flight to Duo Lakes near the river’s headwaters in the high alpine of the northwestern extent of the Mackenzie range. The trip typically ends with an extraction, also via float plane, slightly past the Snake’s confluence with the Peel River on a gravel spit known as “Taco Bar”. Juri Peepre and Sarah Locke’s Wild Rivers of the Yukon’s Peel Watershed – the definitive guide for the route – notes that the river runs approximately 278 km in length, however, we measured the distance to be approximately 321 km during our 14-day trip in August 2024.

Paddlers will note, from topographic maps, that more than half the route falls within mountains before dropping off into the lower lands of the Peel Plateau. Nevertheless, the river generally retains its speed in its lower sections allowing canoe parties to maximize their time in mountainous terrain, where high-quality campsites and hiking opportunities are more abundant.

Trip Report

Day 1 – 2: Duo Lakes (0km)

On July 31, 2024, our party of six (Jeremy Braive, Kevin Groombridge, Paul Hoy, Lachlan McVie, Nick Pierre, and I) assembled in Whitehorse ahead of our trip. The following morning, our outfitter, Up North Adventures, shuttled our group five hours north along the Klondike Highway to Alkan Air’s float plane base in the small town of Mayo. Here we boarded a 1953 de Havilland Turbo Otter and were soon passing over dusty, treeless precipices of the Mackenzie Mountains.

After an hour, the plane descended to Duo Lakes – a pair of pristine, clear alpine lakes nestled amongst barren mountains. The alpine terrain here is characterized by an abundance of low-lying, shrubby willows, cinquefoil, agueweed and other wildflowers, lingonberries and blueberries, reindeer lichen and arctic butterfinger. 

With our gear unloaded, we bid farewell to our pilot. His plane quickly climbed off the lake, banking in front of the mountains to the west, before returning buzzing overhead. Within moments, the plane disappeared from sight and the drone of its engine faded. The lapping waters of the lake and a gentle breeze through the willows were all that remained to fill the silence. We soon found a clearing and pitched our tents under moody skies with the intention of spending the following day exploring the mountains around us.

The conditions in the morning were grey and cold – a lone raven circled over our camp. Eventually, following several volleys of rain, we ascended the prominent mist-shrouded mountain to the south. We made good progress up the steep slope, owing to the lack of trees.  The view from the top afforded a spectacular vantage of Duo Lakes below, the minuscule figures of our tents hardly visible, but more impressively, the view presented the broad misty expanse of the Snake valley and its serpentine river running its course through crags, ridges and rock faces of rich, earthy browns, greens and greys. Soon we turned back down the mountain as the rainfall intensified.

Back at camp the rain again lightened and we opted to portage our canoes over the relatively flat, but muddy two-kilometre trail that separated our site from the river to reduce our workload the following day. 

Day 3 – 4: Duo Lakes to Reptile Creek (+19.3 km; 19.3 km total)

We awoke to cold and steady rain. The monotone grey skies above presented no prospect of better conditions, and we decided to proceed with breaking camp and portaging the remainder of our gear to the river. By the time we had finished in the mid-afternoon, intermittent patches of blue sky appeared, and the sun emerged as we prepared to push off downstream.

The levels of the river appeared to be relatively high and the river whisked us quickly along. The first several kilometres of the route travel through narrow, winding and braided creeks that present innumerable hazards in the form of blind corners and strainers, with few eddies. We picked our way through this exhilarating section slowly, making an effort to stop and regroup frequently.

Past the creek section the river widens, though retains its speed, as it approaches a spectacular, ancient rockfall that spans much of the flat river valley. Not far beyond this impressive landmark, we witnessed the remarkable sight of a fully grown bull caribou, with a large rack of antlers, grazing alongside the river. The creature, a member of the Bonnet Plume herd of the northern mountain boreal caribou subpopulation, wandered majestically along the shore for some time before becoming aware of our presence and dashing effortlessly into the bush.

From here, the river retains a challenging nature as large waves and innumerable submerged rocks – more than capable of wrapping a canoe – command constant focus and attention. Hoodoos soon appear to the northeast as the river enters the upper canyon where it erratically zig-zags through palisades of steep rock. In one instance, Kevin and I entered a sharp elbow and capsized as the river forced us into the sheer canyon wall. Luckily, we were able to extract ourselves from the river before being swept into the next roiling elbow.

Through the canyon, we arrived late in the day at the gurgling crystalline confluence of the Snake and Reptile Creek. Here an open, spacious site bounded by mountains in all directions was our reward for a hard day’s effort.

After 11pm the sun slid gently behind a mountain peak casting a pastel orange glow over the land as the temperatures dropped rapidly toward freezing. Given the beauty of the Reptile Creek area and the toil of the day, we agreed to expend a rest day at the site.

A cold, clear morning gave way to a hot and sunny afternoon that we spent exploring the Reptile Creek valley and Painted Mountain to the north of our site. 

Fresh signs of grizzly bear – scat and prints along the bank – caused us to proceed slowly upstream. 

After following the creek for some time, we spotted a series of orange hoodoos rising prominently from the creek’s northern bank. It was here that we stumbled across an intact caribou skull complete with a large rack of antlers, evidentially blunted by the gnawing of a hungry beast.

Turning our attention to the Painted Mountain, so named for its red and orange striations, we climbed high up the side of the valley forging our way through dense willow and following intersecting game trails where possible. The panorama from atop the ridge revealed a pristine, open, alpine paradise. Loose scrub across endless rolling meadows were interrupted only periodically by defiant clusters of spruces; the clear, sparkling waters of Reptile Creek merged with the rolling green waters of the Snake; the landscape enveloped by peaks of all shapes and configurations.

Day 5: Reptile Creek to Milk Creek (+38.6 km; 57.9 km total) 

The character of the river changed markedly on the day and the tricky, high intensity paddling that brought us to Reptile Creek gave way to an open, winding and swift flowing river, with fewer obstructions. As we paddled on, however, we soon encountered a pinned and smashed canoe entangled amongst a sweeper – a reminder to retain our vigilance despite the relatively fair conditions.

The skies were cloudless and cerulean, fading to pale blue in the far distance above the grey moon-like mountains ahead. The river itself now took on an iridescent aquamarine tone.

We eventually stopped at a gravel bar and spotted the snow covered peak of Mount MacDonald to the west. At 2,760 m Mount MacDonald is known to be the highest peak in the Peel watershed and offers travelers innumerable opportunities for climbing and exploration, including the prospect of an arduous week-long circumnavigation of the mountain’s base.

After almost 40km on river, we pulled off at Milk Creek to camp for the evening. The creek is named for the silky white colour of its waters, caused by sediment carried down from high in the mountains, which merge spectacularly with the clear green-blue waters of the Snake.

Day 6: Milk Creek to the S-Bend (+44.1 km; 102 km total)

With clear skies above and rising temperatures, we set off from Milk Creek. The primary highlight of our day came quickly and suddenly downstream from our site, when we were surprised to meet a medium-sized grizzly bear wandering along a gravel bar to our left. Initially, the bear seemed oblivious to our presence, but soon stood upright sniffing and pawing at the air. Upon spotting our group in our canoes the bear appeared undaunted and watched us for some time before wandering back into the bush.

Passing slowly amongst the long, majestic mountains we eventually came to a section of the river known as the S-bend, where the watercourse cuts a distinctive “S” shape through the landscape. It was here that we decided to set camp.

The location of our campsite was found on a massive gravel bar at the base of a long ridge that emerges gradually from the river. The site is divided by the fast-moving Snake on one side and a clear, unnamed creek on the other. Dramatic, vertical rock faces and slopes surrounded the site and fostered an enclosed, intimate sensation. Throughout the site we found plentiful signs of animal activity: grizzly and wolf prints, scat as well as a set of moose antlers.

Day 7: S-Bend to Beyond the Lower Canyon (+30km; 132km total)

Under the shadow of the immense mountains around us, we began the day by paddling a thrilling set of rapids just off of our campsite.

As the current slowed, Kevin suddenly spotted a white creature moving amongst the green shrubs on the left side of the river. We strained to determine what it was and at first believed it to be a Dall sheep. Then, the swift flash of a bushy tail shot up behind the creature and I knew, before it fully came into focus, that we were witnessing a white Yukon wolf.

The Yukon wolf – also known as the Interior Alaskan wolf – is a subspecies of the timber wolf that inhabits much of Canada’s boreal wilderness. Compared to timber wolves, the Yukon subspecies often displays lighter-coloured coats, and holds specially adapted hunting techniques suited to mountainous, alpine habitats.

The creature we captured along the shore was large and graceful and seemed to float effortlessly through the scrub like an apparition. At once, the wolf stopped as it gained our position and cast a sharp gaze in our direction – in its eyes, the wildness and austerity of the northern mountains, the embodiment of the harsh beauty of the Yukon. 

The river moved us along at a good pace; the whitewater far more voluminous than days past. We found ourselves repeatedly navigating sizable class II+ waters and dodging ever present boulders strewn throughout the river. 

At the next major bend in the river, we happened upon the freshly devoured remains of a large bull caribou on a gravel bar near the river’s edge. It was clear from the state of the animal (fresh blood and entrails, minimal insect activity, and the lack of rot) that the kill was extremely recent. We speculated that this was the work of a grizzly bear and decided to quickly return to our boats acknowledging that the predator was likely not far away.

Beyond the bend, enroute to the river’s lower canyon, we passed through a pocket of treeless mountains that resembled those surrounding Duo Lakes at higher altitude. It is believed that the resurgence of the alpine landscape here owes to a recurring pocket of cold air that encases this portion of the range.

At the culmination of this treeless section, the lower canyon funnels the broad and swift-moving Snake into a tight 90-degree elbow that presents a challenging portion of whitewater. After studying the rapids for some time and in recognition of the higher-than-normal water levels we were experiencing, we determined to portage up and over the canyon to avoid complications from swamping or damaging a boat in the fray. The portage was a tough carry, particularly due to its vertical nature and given the hot weather, but we soon made it across without incident.

A few kilometres past the canyon we found an open, meadowy gravel bar that we stopped at for the night. 

Day 8 – 9: Below the Lower Canyon to the Edge of the Mountains (+28 km; 160 km total)

In the morning, we set off from our site with dense forest fire haze moving from the south up the valley, obscuring the otherwise clear skies. Throughout the morning the river presented continuous class II and class II+ whitewater with submerged boulders providing a constant hazard.

As we continued downriver, it became apparent that the mountains around us were becoming increasingly dispersed and distant. We were fast approaching the edge of the mountains and the lowlands of the Peel Plateau.

In time we stopped at a junction between the Snake and a large dried river bed. Our map had indicated that this was the general location of the Crest iron ore deposit – apparently one of the largest iron ore deposits in North America. 

On shore, we immediately found evidence to reflect this in the form of abundant iron-rich rocks seemingly spilling out of the landscape. We had understood, as well, that a derelict airstrip meant to support regional prospecting could be found a couple of kilometres to the north. Flying our drone, we were able to quickly locate the rough and dusty stretch of land.

Today, the Snake valley is under no immediate threat of mining development. The viability of such development has been challenged by logistical difficulties associated with extracting, processing and shipping minerals from this remote and dense wilderness. Further, the Peel Watershed Regional Land Use Plan, released in 2019, designates the Snake watershed as a Special Management Area with priority given to maintaining the river’s wilderness character and protecting its boreal caribou population. 

Past the iron ore deposit we entered a swath of forest freshly burned by wildfires and came upon a scenic slot canyon on river left, where we set up camp.

Opting to lay over for a day at the site, we spent time exploring the canyon’s innumerable cascading waterfalls and pools. Lachlan, Nick and I decided to see how high we could climb above the canyon and trekked up toward the steep scree slopes of the massive mountain to the west. We slowly traversed the soft, uneven ground stopping periodically to pick cloud berries along the way. Eventually, we climbed as high as we could and admired, again, the sweeping mountain vista that surrounded us. This view, however, offered a dramatically different perspective from the ones we had become accustomed to during our passage through the mountains. Here, for the first time, we could now see clearly beyond the edge of the mountains. With winds swirling and clouds rapidly rolling in, we descended the mountain to gain reprieve from the imminent late afternoon rains.

Day 10: Edge of the Mountains to the Peel Plateau (+39 km; 199 km total) 

Though a thunderstorm battered our campsite for the better part of the night, we awoke to mixed sun and cloud and no rain.

Our first challenge of the day was to navigate a high-volume class III rapid, which according to the guidebook was supposed to represent the last of the Snake’s challenging whitewater. Kevin and I partially skirted the edge of the rapid to the right before thrashing over several massive rollers.

As we left the mountains behind, we entered the vast and scenic lands of the Peel Plateau with their massive canyons of dark shale, rolling boreal ridges and sheer cliffs. We found that this section of river – which continuously careens between cliff faces and rock walls and over ledges – presented some of the more challenging currents, boils, whirlpools of the trip. Late in the day, Jeremy and Paul were caught in one such feature, which rapidly capsized their boat and caused us all to scramble to shore to regroup.

For the better part of the day, inclement weather brewed in the distance behind us. In the late afternoon we glanced back at the mountains and could see a pale shroud of rain in pursuit of our party and decided to pull over to camp amongst a dense thicket of aspen. 

Before dusk, with the sun setting, we looked off to the mountains in the south – now several kilometres behind us. To our surprise the mountains gradually took on everchanging electric hues of pink, purple and orange as the vibrant light of the dying sun cast itself against the mountains’ craggy slopes; a beautifully intense and fitting farewell to the majestic northwest Mackenzies that had been our home for the prior 10 days.

Day 11: Peel Plateau (+54 km; 253 km total)

Steady rains in the morning caused us to delay our departure from camp until noon, though before long we were making up time gliding past large cliffs patrolled by bald eagles and peregrine falcons. 

While the river seemed to present fewer technical challenges, frequent braids and a surge in the number of large sweepers compelled us to remain focused. In one instance, Kevin and Paul had inadvertently travelled down the wrong channel at one of these forks and were separated from the rest of the group, before reuniting with us after a frantic 15-minute period of searching.

It is notable that as the lower stretches of the Snake become increasingly muddy and dense with vegetation; quality campsites likewise become scarce. Ultimately, after investigating numerous potential sites, we settled for a small, silty cobblestone beach for the evening and enjoyed a misty sunset and faint, late day rainbow.

Day 12: Peel Plateau to Taco Bar (+67 km; 321 km total)

We determined that Taco Bar – our extraction location – was now only approximately 60 km away. Given the poor quality of sites we knew we would encounter ahead, we decided to attempt a push to the end.

The rugged and impressive beauty of the plateau’s canyons and bluffs are pronounced in these lower reaches and are tempered only by the splendour of the mountain country that we had left behind. The plateau features low lying wetlands and muskeg as well, which provide important habitat for water birds and other creatures. As we entered this new domain, we found abundant signs of beaver activity and were greeted by a large otter playing in the river. 

Though the weather conditions were fair for much of the day, dark clouds and visible curtains of rain washed over the landscape ahead. Somehow, we managed to dodge the worst of the passing rains and soon found ourselves approaching the final stretch of the Snake. Here the river’s current finally mellows and takes on the opaque, dark brown colour of silt; a stark contrast to the pure, crystalline waters of the river’s higher altitudes. 

The Peel River was now in sight, and we burst through the tricky currents of the convergence to join the broader waterway. Two or three kilometres downstream we landed at Taco Bar where we celebrated the culmination of our journey.

Day 13 – 14: Taco Bar (0 km; 321 km total)

We spent the final day and a half of the trip recovering at Taco Bar and preparing our gear for the flight home. In the early afternoon of August 14^th, 14 days after landing at Duo Lakes, the same Turbo Otter that had dropped us off in the mountains had returned to accommodate our egress. Once loaded, the plane took off steadily upstream and lifted off the Peel’s silty waters. Within moments we had passed the terminus of the Snake below and drifted into low clouds en route back to Mayo.

Epilogue

The Yukon Territory is a land of rugged, enthralling beauty, high adventure, great legends and history, and great stories.

Famously, in 1903, the world became acquainted with one of the great enduring stories of the Yukon through Jack London’s beloved novel, The Call of the Wild. Set during the Klondike Gold Rush of the late 1890s, the story tells of a dog named Buck that is taken from his home in California to work as a sled dog in the north. Over the course of his time in the Yukon, Buck progressively rediscovers the primal elements of his being and embraces the freedom of the wild:

“There is an ecstasy that marks the summit of life, and beyond which life cannot rise. And such is the paradox of living, this ecstasy comes when one is most alive, and it comes as a complete forgetfulness that one is alive. This ecstasy, this forgetfulness of living, comes to the artist, caught up and out of himself in a sheet of flame; it comes to the soldier, war-mad on a stricken field and refusing quarter; and it came to Buck, leading the pack, sounding the old wolf-cry, straining after the food that was alive and that fled swiftly before him through the moonlight. He was sounding the deeps of his nature, and of the parts of his nature that were deeper than he, going back into the womb of Time. He was mastered by the sheer surging of life, the tidal wave of being, the perfect joy of each separate muscle, joint, and sinew in that it was everything that was not death, that it was aglow and rampant, expressing itself in movement, flying exultantly under the stars and over the face of dead matter that did not move.”

The story of Buck, of course, speaks to our own nature as well. Alive in many of us – perhaps somewhere in all of us – is a primal flame that has flickered through the ages; one that has survived the ceaseless march of human development, our increasing integration with technology, and the infinite complexities of modernity itself. Time invariably continues to separate us from our earlier state, when we were closer to nature, but the flame will never be extinguished. It is what drives us to seek adventure in faraway places; to embrace the restorative solitude found atop some high alpine pinnacle; to roll the dice in the frothy mayhem of a wild rapid; to acquit ourselves in the joy of living simply, where basic nourishment, shelter and warmth are the only elements that truly hold sway. 

The ecstasy that marks the summit of life – I found it in the tumbling water trails of the Snake River in the northern Yukon, in the electric mountains of the northern Mackenzies, in the wild flowers and berry bushes of its multi-coloured alpine meadows, in the graceful canter of the boreal caribou, in the commanding amble of the grizzly bear, and in the wild piercing eyes of a white Yukon wolf.

Some footage of our trip: https://youtu.be/p_qlcOmdrTU?feature=shared