Mountain Biking in the Yukon in Photos

RB:

Tag along as we Exploring the Yukon in photos and show Scotty Laughland the wonders that lay in Canada’s north western territory.

Exploring the wilderness of the Yukon in photos

In an exhausted state of bewilderment the travel clock ticks over 30 hours. I’m teetering on the edge of consciousness, nodding backwards and forwards toying with the idea of falling asleep. After chasing the sun around the earth it departs with an almighty goodbye. I’m suddenly wide awake with my nose pressed up against the window, as if the strongest shot of espresso in the world was being fed to me via an intravenous drip. I can’t stop staring. The sun, now a red fireball, was being absorbed into the black mountains, lighting up the vein like network of river tributaries like flows of molten lava. The Yukon had me hooked, and we hadn’t even touched down yet.

Joining me on this Yukon in photos trip was Scotty Laughland who, in typical relaxed Scotty fashion, had booked his flights a week prior… and Marissa Fallon, a local BC ripper who we’d managed to wangle away from her Whistler trail paradise. We had a whirlwind few days to cram in as much as possible before heading back south to British Columbia to do the same. The trail hit list contained everything from the high alpine all the way down to flowing along the meanders of the Yukon River. All diverse and each with their own flavour, but it was our final evening fling that really left our jaws on the ground.

Clunking up a washed out gravel road Sylvain pats the dashboard in encouragement in the hope the van would miraculously find more traction and power. It doesn’t, but, despite gravity’s best intentions we scramble to the top of the road and onload bikes overlooking a ribbon of lake contained within a range of snow capped mountains. As we stand looking down upon Whitehorse it’s closing in on 11pm, the sun is beginning to set with the meadows dancing in the golden light and making our Yukon in photos spread look out of this world. We begin to crank downwards, turns ebbing and flowing with the contours of the hill, slashing through the dust lingering in the air from the riders ahead. Bidding farewell to the sun, our path is now lit by the leftover pink glow which steadily increases in vibrancy. Our bear calls become progressively more excited until they’re no longer bear calls and just blurts of satisfaction and appreciation for the loam spraying up our shins. Arms in tatters, I have to stop and simply look around. Sheer silence. The towering pines are silhouettes against ripples of pink, it’s after midnight and I can still (just about) spot my lines on the trail. Totally surreal. Darting through the shrubs and brush it just keeps giving, fast corners and compressions releasing new levels of endorphins and adrenaline I had no idea existed. By now the light has all but gone. One last steep helter skelter corkscrews us through a chute and tight switchbacks before rudely and abruptly dumping us back onto the road. Heart thumping, sweat beading, and hair standing on end. I cannot compute what we have just ridden. It’s 1am.

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