Travel: Chasing Northern Lights in chilly Yukon

As the flight lands at Whitehorse, the capital of Canada’s western most territory Yukon, it is difficult not to be struck by the winter light. It is soft and gentle, exuding a warmth that has nothing to do with temperature. Despite a thick blanket of snow all around, the low angle of the sun ensures it is neither sharp nor harsh.

Once outside the plane, frigid air hits immediately. Breath and words promptly turn into plumes of smoky droplets.

Viewed on a flat atlas, Yukon feels like it is almost at the end of the world. So, I arrive into Whitehorse expecting icy wilderness. But despite the sub-zero temperature, the city exudes warmth.

For a capital, it is small: just 28,000 people call it home, and the eponymous Main Street stretches for only six blocks. But cafés and stores are warmly lit and most buildings have cheery colourful façades. You see people going in and out of stores, greeting each other, and stopping for conversations mostly during the five-six hours when sunlight appears.

About 30 minutes outside of Whitehorse, the Yukon Wildlife Preserve is a sprawling wilderness home to more than a dozen native species, such as lynx, moose, caribou, bison, mule deer and fox.

The preserve is partially covered in snow and even though it is sunny, walking here feels like too much effort. So, I join a motley crowd for a guided tour in a heated bus.

The 90-minute tour follows a 5km loop and we see plenty of wildlife while a staffer offers a constant flow of information and insight about the preserve, its history, the animals and the local environment.

By early evening, it gets pitch dark. I head out for the first of many attempts to catch a celestial show. I fancy my chances since it is closer to the new moon. I am transported far outside Whitehorse, to open fields and a seemingly white wilderness. There are ways to keep warm: a crackling campfire, a tent with hot beverages and thick rugs.

A camaraderie develops with a handful of others gathered. Soon the air smells of toasting marshmallows and sausages. Constellations, planets and falling stars are pointed out and discussed. We exchange stories about the aurora borealis, of messages from spirits, celestial games and signs of connection from other worlds. In the flicking light of campfire, the shroud of darkness and intense stillness, the stories are both fantastic and plausible. But the Northern Lights stay elusive and I head back past midnight. This is a pattern that repeats over the next few days.

During the day, I wander around Main Street and gaze at colourful murals on the building façades or pop into cafés and sit with a coffee or hot chocolate while conversations flow around me. I head outside town for little trips, like to Miles Canyon, a basalt filled gorge and stare at the flowing water of the Yukon River that is an incredible shade of blue. I come away only when the wind picks up and hits like a cold blast, piercing any uncovered skin like needles.

Feeling the need for a brisk activity one morning, I head out of town to the area around Annie Lake, about 45 minutes south of Whitehorse.

I strap on snow shoes and clomp around in the snow. It is a bit disorienting at first. The foot sinks at least 2ft into the snow; lifting and putting the other one in front takes a bit of getting used to. But once I get the hang of it, it is incredibly enjoyable. The soft crunch of the snow and the whoosh sound as the foot sinks in are fun. I’m surrounded by white wilderness and bare trees covered in snow. The silence is broken only by the sounds of breath. The tranquility is soothing. In the distance, I can see people skiing and snowmobiling. There are also options to go dog-sledding. But snowshoeing grows on me.

On a cloudy day, I decide to go museum-hopping. The MacBride Museum of Yukon History is filled with stories told through more than 40,000 objects, art works and exhibits.

At the Yukon Transportation Museum, I get a lowdown on the many and unusual ways that people transported themselves and goods in the region, amid often inhospitable weather and terrain. From the ways of the indigenous people to the bravery bush pilots, the museum offers ample insight into the region’s history of movement.

But even before stepping in, I am riveted by the weather vane: a full-size DC-3 plane, restored and mounted on a sensitive swiveling pedestal. The plane turns with the gentlest of breezes, ensuring its nose is always pointed in the direction of the wind.

The museum-hopping is complete at the SS Klondike, moored on the Yukon River. A massive paddle-wheeler, a prominent form of transport, and a tribute to the region’s inland transportation. Unfortunately, the vessel is currently closed for renovation, but even from the outside, it is a mesmerizing presence and I gape until the stiff breeze blowing in from the river freezes my face.

However, no matter what I do during the day, nights are reserved for aurora-hunting. I head out after dark, a different direction each night for a glimpse of the magical lights. Most days I have had no luck. But on the last night of my stay in Yukon, the cloud cover lifts briefly and I see a fleeting green aura near the horizon. It is too faint and short-lived to be worthy of being called a sighting. The clouds soon mask everything again. I reluctantly head back, but draw solace from the Native American belief that the Northern Lights represent the “circle of life”. Perhaps I am meant to revisit. It’s a thought that gives great hope.

Anita Rao Kashi is an independent journalist based in Bengaluru.