Dad and the Dempster: A Journey Through Time

Way, way up north in the mid-1990s, summer’s end was near in the village of Tuktoyaktuk. All was quiet in the hamlet of around 500 people on the Arctic Ocean, basking in the midnight sun. This was about to change, however, as this tiny town in Canada’s Northwest Territories, nicknamed “Tuk,” was preparing for a huge concert. On September 3, 1995, some 800 contest winners from across Canada and the United States arrived via Boeing 737s for the Molson Ice Polar Beach Party. The festival lineup featured the bands Hole, Veruca Salt, and Moist, with Metallica as the headliner. 

• 
• 
• 

The bands all arrived in private jets. All of the planes had to be equipped with special “gravel packs” to land on Tuk’s gravel runway. Transporting the sound equipment was logistically difficult because there was no road into town at the time—it wouldn’t be built until 22 years later. The only land access was via ice road in the winter. Gear had to be barged up the Mackenzie River from Inuvik, 150 kilometres to the south. Everyone from the community was invited to the show, and those aged 50-plus were given special treatment. “We had to reserve a special seating section for the elders near the stage,” said my father, Brad Weir, a lifelong cyclist and the creator of the Polar Beach Party. “They all showed up. But we tried to tell them, you know, this is a really loud band!”

Twenty-nine years after the event, my dad, now 68 years old, returned to Tuktoyaktuk with me, his daughter. This time, it was by bicycle via the Dempster Highway, commonly referred to by travelling cyclists and motorists as simply “The Dempster.” The Dempster Highway is 740 kilometres of gravel road, starting 40 kilometres east of Dawson City, Yukon, and ending in the town of Inuvik in the Northwest Territories. From there, it is another 150 kilometres to Tuktoyaktuk on the Arctic Ocean via the Inuvik to Tuktoyaktuk Highway (ITH). The gravel road was only opened in 2017 after four years of construction. The trip would be 940 kilometres of wilderness riding to the Arctic Ocean. There was no resupply for the first 409 kilometres. 

* * *

Growing up, my dad told me stories of his time working in the music and entertainment marketing industry with the likes of the Jackson Five, Lenny Kravitz, Joan Jett and Metallica, among others. I was only nine years old when the Polar Beach Party happened, and I viewed the event as sort of legendary. 

“We liked the name, Tuktoyakyuk,” my dad said. “It seemed like a place at the edge of the world, sort of like hearing the name Timbuktu.” But in between all the thrills and the big ideas of the entertainment industry, he told me that he thought about biking and camping in the wilderness. He was away often, working long hours, flying back and forth from Toronto to New York or Los Angeles. 

• 
• 

“Back then, I bought into the idea and got all the stuff—bike, bags, gear—thinking that I would go on all these trips, but it never happened. I never had the time,” he said.

He told me that his fascination with camping started when he was a kid. He built tents from blankets in his room. Even though my dad had completed shorter paved road tours, the ride to Tuk would be his first true wilderness riding experience. It was a chance for him to return to a place where the story began 29 years ago. Except this time, it would be a completely different kind of journey. 

We planned a two-and-a-half-week ride and left Dawson City in mid-August 2024. We carried all of our food for the first seven days to Eagle Plains, a hotel and gas station over 400 kilometres away. We arranged a food drop at the Dawson City Visitors Centre for the second half of the journey. My dad, of course, had many concerns: the remoteness, bugs, bears, being “too slow,” and riding loaded off-road. Being a lover of remote bike packing routes, I could at least contribute some years’ worth of experience. 

“When we are wild camping and the bugs are bad and biting, how do you go to the bathroom, like, number two?” my dad asked me before the trip. 

“Be fast,” I replied. 

After months of stressing and preparing, we finally rolled out of Dawson City towards Tuktoyaktuk. 

* * *

We climbed steadily for the first two days, entering the sub-arctic splendour that was Tombstone Territorial Park. The transition in the landscape from meadow to peak was so fluid, it was as if the earth was heaving. Slivers of sunlight in between clouds turned sections of the permafrost valley lime green, highlighting a small pond below. The interplay of browns and greens on the hills created a smooth, rippling effect, like a series of waves frozen in time. We experienced it all in a thrilling descent to one of the most scenic wild camp sites of the trip—a gravel pullout surrounded by mountains, perched above a small stream. 

• 
• 

He was adjusting well to the wild camping life and developed a routine that he seemed to follow methodically and with satisfaction. Set up the tent, organize, cook, eat, sleep. 

“What time is it?” My dad asked before we retreated to our tents. “It’s amazing how much I lose track of time out here,” he added. Working in the fast-paced marketing and music business, time wasn’t always on my dad’s side. He glanced over at the panniers that he had purchased decades ago at the height of his marketing career. For years, they remained squeaky clean, unused. Now, they were christened with Dempster Highway dirt. 

We continued north into the Yukon. We passed what looked like gigantic mounds of white gravel. If I were to imagine mountains on the moon, this is what they would look like. The road conditions and the weather, however, started to take a turn for the worse.

With two days left to our resupply point at Eagle Plains, we experienced it all: rain, cold, wind, washboard, and a long climb with heavy bikes. We were each carrying 10 litres of water for the long 100-kilometre dry stretch to Eagle Plains. My dad was getting frustrated by the inevitable slower pace we were riding. “Don’t even look at your bike computer to see how slow you are going,” I told him, laughing, “That will make it a lot easier. Just keep moving.”

Immediately, I saw a change in my dad. We only got colder and wetter, and the road only got worse, but he handled it like a calm monk. Then, to my surprise, he started singing, his voice vibrating from the rattling of the washboarded road. 

“Hey T, check out my new song! This ro-ad is a p-piece of shiiittt! Ohhhhh, this road is a piece of shiiitttt!” We both laughed. He was getting good at this.

• 
• 

We were relieved to arrive at our campsite for the night after a challenging and very wet day. It was a large pullout with two bonus outhouses overlooking the Ogilvie Mountains. We strung up a clothes line between the toilets, which also doubled as a cooking shelter. The view beyond was magnificent. The mountains this time were more of a chrome colour, standing stark against the green valley. We came across a few locals in their pickup trucks at the rest stop. One was from Inuvik and the other from Tuk. In the conversation, my dad mentioned his involvement in the 1995 Polar Beach Party.

“My grandpa went to that!” he said. “You were the guys who built the community centre!”

* * *

On the days we reached real, serviced campgrounds, my dad revelled in the relative luxury. “These campgrounds feel like the Hilton!” he said. “And in the bathroom?! I was like, ‘Wow, two ply toilet paper!'” he laughed. After experiencing newfound luxury, we had our first and only bear encounter, except we didn’t actually see it.

We had passed through the notorious “Hurricane Alley” segment into the Northwest Territories. The wind in the area can reach hurricane speeds, and we were seriously lucky to mostly have it at our backs. After a ripping descent with the Richardson Mountains in view, a vehicle slowed down beside us.

“Hey!” The lady inside said, “I just wanted to let you know, you guys biked right past a grizzly bear hanging out on the side of the road, but I guess you didn’t notice. It looked peaceful, anyway.” 

* * *

Further up the road, two ferry crossings took us across the Mackenzie and then the Peel River into the tiny, charming communities of the Northwest Territories. Villages became more frequent, and we had opportunities to interact with the wonderful Inuvialuit people. We were lucky with our timing because we would make just before the annual traditional Gwich’in music festival at Midway Lake. The locals came here for the summer and had tiny cabins built all along the lake. Some would stay for months to hunt caribou, as one told us. We bought burgers from a local food stall out of a trailer, and an elder Gwich’in woman approached my dad.

• 
• 

“How old are you?” she asked.

“I’m 68,” my dad replied. 

“Wow, you inspire me. I hope that I can someday ride a bike like you can.”
 
I stayed up later than usual that night at the festival, wanting to fully experience the midnight sun. Because it never really got dark at night, we needed eye masks to fall asleep in our tents. My dad was spent, so I wandered around the festival grounds alone. I stayed up until 1 a.m., listening to the music with the sun still bright and hovering in the mid-sky. Summer had never felt so intoxicating. 

 
Later, I was spontaneously invited to join a family reunion celebration with mountains of food that included stews, pasta, salads, bread, and desserts. It was overwhelming. In fact, there seemed to be no shortage of food for anyone at the festival. Community appeared to be strong here in the north. 

My dad always spoke about the Inuvialuit with profound respect. He returned to the north several times over the years for business and personal trips and had befriended some of the locals. 

“Up there, no one cares about your job, your social status, or what you own,” he said in a conversation before our ride. “Everyone hangs out together. What really matters is…. If you were out with someone in -40° temperatures and the snowmobile died in the middle of nowhere, what would you do? What kind of person are you then? That’s what matters.”

Leaving Midway, we were hit with a major heatwave. It got up to 35°C, something unheard of in the north. After two days of brutal heat and an inspiring ride through flat, black spruce swamp land, we reached Inuvik, the official end of the Dempster Highway. 

• 
• 

Out in the black spruce, dealing with mosquitoes became a part of the nightly camping experience. My dad had now developed a “bug camp” routine; basically, doing everything at twice the speed so we could hide in the tents as fast as possible. The weather changed drastically again for our final 150 kilometres to Tuktoyaktuk.

The weather was cold and drizzly, but the tundra felt expansive and teeming with bird life. That first night on the tundra, we experienced the worst bugs of the trip: mosquitoes, black flies, and horse flies all at once. Eating dinner was a bit of a nightmare as we attempted to shovel spoonfuls of rehydrated slop into our mouths under our head nets. My dad eventually gave up and doused his face with bug spray. When we finished eating, we dove into our tents, frantically zipping the doors shut. A handful always got in, and thus began the nightly massacre before bed. The sun circled around the sky at the same position, simmering, for hours. I pulled down my eye mask, eventually falling asleep to a chorus of strange birds. 

Two days later, with only 30 kilometres left to Tuk, I woke up to the sounds of my tent being slapped sideways by the wind. We were camped at another gravel pullout, the sun illuminating a field full of snowmobiles. The locals stored them here until the snow returned. I could hear my dad rustling around in the cramped one-person tent that he had now grown sick of. 

“We don’t need to get to Tuk today,” he said firmly.” These conditions are dangerous.” 

“It’s not dangerous, it’s just a headwind, and it’s only 30 kilometres,” I replied, aware of my cockiness.

“Maybe I’ll just hitch then,” he said. 

“Dad,” I groaned, “It’s 30 kilometres. This didn’t stop you on an 80-kilometre day with wind, cold, rain, or 35-degree heat. You can do this. It will be slow, but who cares.” 

Eventually, we reached an agreement. We decided to wait around three more hours until noon to see what the wind was doing. We headed back to our tents. Only 30 minutes later, I heard my dad unzip his tent and start to shuffle things around. I went outside to see him fully geared up. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go. I’m ready.”

* * *

It was a grind, but we arrived in Tuktoyaktuk that day. Just before town, a large pingo came into view—an ice-cored hill, typically conical in shape, that only grows in permafrost. We pedalled through the quiet, oceanside hamlet with small, coloured houses. It was hard to imagine that this tiny village was the site of a concert featuring Metallica in the 1990s.

We ended up at the house Eileen Gruben, a local who ran an unofficial restaurant in her home, serving traditional food. We devoured rich caribou stew, and I tried muktuk (whale blubber) for the first time. It was almost crab-like. We also met Eileen’s cousin, Walter, who was born and raised in Tuktoyaktuk. As a child, he was given the nickname “Gringo” for his blue eyes. He was my dad’s age, and he fondly remembered the weekend Metallica came to town.

• 
• 

“Oh yeah, I was there. It was great. Everyone was hanging out together, us and the bands, after the show,” he smiled.

Another local showed up with a gift for my dad. We met him at the Visitor’s Centre earlier, and he was excited to hear that the Polar Beach Party guy was back in town. He brought specialty smoked whitefish, a gift from his father to mine.

Almost 30 years later, the memories in the village still remained, and now new ones were being made. “This was a life highlight,” my dad said about our bike ride. Entertainment marketing genius or long-distance dirty bikepacker, it didn’t matter. He is my dad, and I am proud of him. 

The journey to Tuk was not an easy one, but perhaps the end of the road was also the place for a new beginning. A new chapter in a story that began 29 years ago when Metallica touched down on that gravel runway by the Arctic Ocean.

“Hey T,” he said. “I think I finally have a name for the new bike. Dempster.” 

Further Reading

Make sure to dig into these related articles for more info...