NUNAVUT – Standing on a remote beach, I watched our float plane shrink into the horizon, leaving us in a profound silence that stirred a mix of unease and awe. The land before me was unlike anything I had ever seen – a place where trees gradually disappeared, giving way to rolling tundra dotted with massive erratics and winding eskers. It was a world stripped to its essence, both haunting and breathtaking in its starkness. This was Nueltin Lake, and it marked my first experience at the northern edge of the boreal forest.

My husband, Jon, and I had just been dropped off to begin a three-week, 280-mile (450-kilometer) canoe trip into the subarctic barrens. It was a journey of many firsts: our first time in Nunavut, our first encounter with the subarctic taiga, and by far the most remote expedition we had ever undertaken. All of this contributed to the initial shock as we stood on that beach, watching our connection to the outside world disappear.

As the roar of the plane’s engines faded, we were enveloped in a silence that was more than just the absence of sound. It felt like the presence of something vast and ancient, stretching out in every direction.

The day was calm and unexpectedly warm. Jon and I were tempted to set up camp and spend the afternoon enjoying the beautiful beach where we had been dropped off. But after gathering our wits and recovering from those first overwhelming moments – feeling as if we had stepped onto another planet – we decided to take advantage of the light tailwind and paddle a few kilometers before nightfall.

We managed to cover 10.5 miles (17 kilometers) that first evening, eventually finding a small esker with just enough space for our tent. As we paddled, we tried to shake off the lingering unease of being in such unfamiliar territory. I kept reminding myself of our capabilities as paddlers. Though the terrain was new, our experience would guide us through whatever challenges lay ahead.

Nueltin Lake didn’t take long to test that resolve. By the second morning, we woke to a deluge of rain and 25 mph (40-kph) winds whipping across the lake. Just two days into the trip, we found ourselves huddled in the tent for the entire day. Curled up in my sleeping bag, trying to avoid the water dripping through the tent seams, I wondered if we had taken on more than we could handle.

Fortunately, the rain and wind eased up by late evening, and we were able to enjoy our first fire and a warm meal. Watching the sun dip below the horizon, hands wrapped around a hot cup of tea, my resolve returned, and I once again looked forward to the adventure that lay ahead.

Nueltin Lake didn’t take long to test that resolve. By the second morning, we woke to a deluge of rain and 25 mph (40-kph) winds whipping across the lake. Just two days into the trip, we found ourselves huddled in the tent for the entire day. Curled up in my sleeping bag, trying to avoid the water dripping through the tent seams, I wondered if we had taken on more than we could handle.

Fortunately, the rain and wind eased up by late evening, and we were able to enjoy our first fire and a warm meal. Watching the sun dip below the horizon, hands wrapped around a hot cup of tea, my resolve returned, and I once again looked forward to the adventure that lay ahead.

The next 10 days took us deeper into the heart of the barrens, where the last traces of the tree line slowly disappeared. Each day, the landscape became more surreal, as the stunted spruces of the taiga gave way to an expanse of rolling tundra, punctuated by ancient boulders and long, serpentine eskers. There was a quiet excitement in the air, a thrill that came from paddling farther into a world so raw and stripped down. We were moving through a place that felt ancient and untouched, where the sheer scale of the land stretched our sense of time and space. It was awe-inspiring to witness this transformation – the slow fading of the trees, the growing dominance of rocks and sky, as if nature itself was gradually peeling back its layers.

Despite the vast openness around us, not a single mammal crossed our path in those first 10 days. The anticipation of seeing caribou lingered constantly in the back of our minds; this was their land, after all, and we knew the tundra was alive with stories of their migration. Yet, for all the signs of life—the occasional bird call, the antler sheds scattered from migrations past—it was easy to feel as though we were alone in an empty wilderness. Each day brought a new sense of wonder, tempered by the strange silence of the barrens. Even without the caribou, the landscape itself felt alive, and every morning we woke with a sense of excitement about what lay beyond the next bend.

On day 11, the landscape finally offered the first sign of the caribou we had been awaiting. As we pulled our canoe onto a sandy beach, I noticed delicate imprints in the soft sand. Caribou tracks, unmistakable in their shape. Excitement rippled through us. After days of scanning the horizon for any movement, these tracks felt like a promise. That evening, we set up camp on the northernmost tip of the lake, the air still and charged with anticipation. As the sun dipped below the horizon, we couldn’t help but wonder if the caribou were nearby, moving through the hills under the cover of darkness.

The next day, that promise was fulfilled. Paddling along the shoreline, we caught a flash of movement – a caribou galloping across a nearby ridge. Its slender legs moving effortlessly over the rocky terrain. We eagerly pulled ashore and ran up the ridge, hoping for another glimpse. To our surprise, the doe turned back toward us, galloping past in a breathtaking moment that felt like a gift from the wild. That brief encounter reignited the awe we had felt when we first entered this land. Over the following days, the sightings increased. Caribou appeared on distant hills, as lone figures grazing near the water’s edge, and in small groups moving silently across the tundra, their presence breathing life into the barren landscape.

By day 17, we were no longer mere spectators. We were immersed in the migration. That evening, as we sat by the fire, the first few caribou appeared on the horizon, soon followed by more. What began as a trickle quickly became a river of movement and life, as hundreds, then well over a thousand caribou streamed past our camp. Some paused to graze, while others trotted in graceful, steady lines, their numbers stretching as far as we could see.

We sat in stunned silence, watching as the animals passed through the valley, their presence transforming the landscape into something dynamic and alive. It felt as though the world had opened up, offering us a glimpse of one of nature’s great spectacles. In that moment, surrounded by the migration, I realized how deeply connected this land was to the rhythm of the caribou. The barrens, which had felt so vast and empty just days before, were now teeming with life, and we were humbled to witness it.

That night, laying in the tent as the migration continued around us, I was overwhelmed by a profound sense of insignificance. This raw, untamed expanse of the subarctic existed on a timeline that dwarfed our human experience. It had witnessed the rise and fall of glaciers and the migration of countless generations of caribou, and would continue its ancient cycle long after we were gone. The barrens had stripped everything down to its essence, revealing how small we are in the face of such enduring beauty.

As our journey came to an end, I left with more than just memories of adventure. I carried with me a deep sense of connection to this wild, unyielding place. The subarctic had revealed itself slowly, from the initial unease of being dropped into its vastness to the quiet wonder of becoming part of its timeless story. It was a reminder that, in the grand sweep of time and nature, we are merely visitors passing through a world that has existed long before us. And will continue long after we are gone.

To watch footage from and learn more about Jon and Erin’s trip to the Canadian barrens, subscribe to the Lost Lakes YouTube channel.

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