Adaptation, courage, transformation
Three words that capture the essence of White Fang.
The desire to reach the Yukon began long before departure. For me, it is rooted in childhood memories—in images that stayed with me for years: endless snow, silence, the far North as told by Jack London. Landscapes so cold and remote they feel almost unreal.
Wolves, gold seekers, and unknown lands
As a child, that world was inhabited by one figure above all: the wolf. An animal that moves through hostile terrain and, in doing so, meets values that matter: endurance, adaptability, loyalty. Values shaped only through direct contact with nature, where snow is not a backdrop, but the true protagonist.
Later, that imagination was joined by the real history of these places: the Klondike, the Klondike Gold Rush. Men who, at the end of the nineteenth century, travelled up frozen rivers and crossed mountains without knowing whether they would return. Not so much prospectors as explorers.
The journey begins in Skagway, Alaska, near the Canadian border. Even arriving here by plane feels unusual. Skagway is a transit point, a threshold. In the late 1800s it was one of the main ports of entry for gold seekers bound for the Klondike. From here, the great ventures inland began, often without return.
THE WEIGHT OF HISTORY
Walking its streets, it’s impossible not to feel the weight of history. Skagway is not just a destination: to me, it marks the start of a movement inland, both physical and mental, the same impulse that drove gold seekers to set out from here more than a century ago.
From here, you cross the White Pass: a mountain gateway of snow and rock linking Alaska to the Yukon. During the Klondike Gold Rush it was one of the most travelled routes, tackled on foot, with sleds and impossible loads. Even today, the train that runs through it follows that historic line, cutting across steep slopes, glaciers, and landscapes that seem unchanged.
Where there are no roads
Beyond the pass, you enter the Yukon. You arrive in Whitehorse, the capital of Yukon. The name comes from the Whitehorse Rapids, once on the Yukon River, said to resemble the mane of a white horse. Founded as a stopover for those travelling upriver toward the Klondike, Whitehorse marks a precise moment in the journey, when imagination gives way to a direct encounter with the North and its conditions.
From Whitehorse, the route continues toward Dawson City, but not along a single road. Part of the journey takes place aboard a small red plane, which often lands on frozen lakes.
To fly over the Yukon is to look down on an immense, almost uninhabited land, where distance is measured not in kilometres, but in hours of silence.
Nothing can be left to chance
During stopovers, the aircraft cannot be left exposed. The wings must be covered and protected to prevent ice from forming during rest periods, ice that would make take-off impossible.
Even departure demands care and preparation. The night before, the pilot would make repeated passes along the strip, lifting off and landing again shortly after, skimming it slowly to compact the snow. It is long, exhausting work, necessary to avoid being grounded the next day.
Slowing down to arrive
The other part of the journey is done by dog sled. The tempo shifts. You slow down. You face the cold in stages. Movement is paced by the animals’ breathing and the hiss of runners on snow.
In those moments, childhood imagination returns in full. The scenes I once watched in stories and films take on real form. No longer a romantic adventure, but a concrete experience shaped by attention and restraint.
Along the way, in the distance, moose appear. Wolves, too, and small wild cats. Silent presences, always alert, reminding you that this territory is never neutral. It is alive, and it sets the terms.
Adapting to survive
On some stretches we move on snowshoes made from natural materials, including seal intestine and other animal parts. Traditional solutions designed to work in extreme conditions, far removed from modern snowshoes. Here too, every choice is shaped by the need to adapt to the ground and to the cold, with no room for compromise.
At times we come up against the practical realities of survival in these lands, such as fishing directly through the ice. It is an activity that demands precision and respect for the conditions, where the cold dictates slow timing and measured movements.
The true nature of the North
The North reveals itself for what it truly is: restraint, adaptation, responsibility.
But the journey does not end here. From Dawson City onwards, its character changes.
End of part I
- Gilberto Ferrari
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