A rougher part of the North Canol Road near Sheldon Lake, Yukon.Jeff Wilson/The Globe and Mail
Stopped in the middle of the North Canol Road, somewhere in the wilds of the Yukon, I stepped out of the driver’s seat to inspect the partly flooded path ahead. Because it was early autumn, the blackflies and mosquitoes were manageable while I poked into the murky water as far as I could reach to assess its depth. After a glance back at the new Toyota RAV4 Woodland, I took a breath, hopped behind the wheel and committed to splashing through.
We were travelling with a few buddies, exploring a route susceptible to floods, rock slides and wildfires that could reasonably trap us down this dead-end path. In the grand scheme of things, we were simply driving down a road – granted, an extremely remote one – but a road that would have been utter hell to create. More than 80 years ago, thousands of labourers were tasked with carving this corridor through some of the wildest weather and terrain in the Yukon and Northwest Territories.
Jeff Wilson/The Globe and Mail
Splashing through a puddle on the North Canol Road near NWT.Jeff Wilson/The Globe and Mail
A route rich in history
During the Second World War, the U.S. military grew increasingly concerned with the possibility of Japanese attacks cutting off the fuel flow to strategic Alaskan military operations. The solution hinged on the neighbourly alliance between Canada and the United States as the Americans planned a permanent road and an oil pipeline from Norman Wells, N.W.T., to a newly constructed refinery in Whitehorse, 1,000 kilometres away. Canol is short for Canadian oil. The goal was to secure an oil supply far from vulnerable coastal shipping lanes, fueling Allied forces in the Pacific and Alaska.
Norman Wells is about as remote a location as one can get in the Canadian North, roughly the same distance from Whitehorse and Yellowknife, and accessible only by air or the Mackenzie River. Undeterred by either the rugged landscape or inhospitable climate, U.S. military leaders boldly set a completion date for the project of October 1942 – just six months after the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers was assigned the task.
Barges with supply materials set off down the Athabasca and Slave rivers from Waterways, just south of Fort McMurray, Alta., toward Norman Wells without realizing the large rapids south of Great Slave Lake were unnavigable. This required costly portages by truck. During winter, an ice road was constructed to help, but the heavy construction machinery routinely failed, unable to function in the extreme cold, and was subsequently abandoned.
The human part of the plan didn’t fare much better, with 52,900 labourers hired to “work and live under the most extreme conditions imaginable,” as the recruitment posters proclaimed. Despite the warning, more than half the workers could not finish a nine-month contract. Worse still, the lack of land surveys or aerial photography for the region meant construction was done on the fly, resulting in numerous false starts.
Awaiting the ferry barge to cross the Pelly River and begin the North Canol Road.Jeff Wilson/The Globe and Mail
The RAV4 and Tundra on the North Canol Road alongside the Pelly River.Jeff Wilson/The Globe and Mail
Leaving civilization
From Watson Lake, on the B.C. border, most travellers these days follow the Alaska Highway toward Whitehorse. We ventured north on the lightly travelled Yukon Highway 4 toward Ross River, 360 kilometres away. The pavement ran out quickly, but the gravel portion was wide and well-graded, giving our team optimism for what we would find when we reached the Canol Road.
Ross River is the last fill-up point for food and fuel before the North Canol Road. While the RAV4’s hybrid drivetrain had proven to be remarkably consistent in its consumption at 6.5 litres per 100 kilometres, we vowed to never pass up a chance to top up the tank. We were also travelling with a Toyota Tundra towing an off-road-ready Arkto trailer to serve as our mobile base camp. Accounting for the truck’s greater fuel thirst, we filled up a pair of 25-litre jerry cans, just in case.
The RAV4 Woodland loaded with luggage for Canol Road adventure.Jeff Wilson/The Globe and Mail
Canol Road bridge crossing the South Macmillan River.Jeff Wilson/The Globe and Mail
More travellers visit the southern portion of the Canol Road – the section south of Ross River – but few tackle the northern route. It is largely a road to nowhere, ending just inside the Northwest Territories boundary where it transforms into the Canol Heritage Trail. Reclaimed by nature, the 370-kilometre backcountry hiking path is available for adventurers brave and fit enough to attempt it.
A ferry ride across the Pelly River marked the start of our journey up the North Canol Road. We were greeted by a member of the Ross River Dena Council, who oversee much of the land we would be travelling. They checked our permits, puzzled that anyone would explore this remote corridor without plans to hunt. The first several kilometres revealed the North Canol to be notably narrower than the previous gravel road, carved into steep riverbank cliffs and susceptible to washouts.
A typical Yukon view showcasing wild, expansive wilderness and crystal lakes, near Ross River.Jeff Wilson/The Globe and Mail
A road sign on North Canol Road marking the distance to the NWT provincial line.Jeff Wilson/The Globe and Mail
Travelling the North Canol Road
The road itself was in decent condition, resembling the sort of trail many people take to reach a remote cabin, and probably what Toyota’s engineers envisioned for the RAV4 Woodland. The isolation makes any mishap serious, especially when the nearest Toyota dealership – or hospital – is an eight-hour drive away.
We occasionally encountered flooded low-lying sections, warranting careful scrutiny to assess the depth as best we could. In the few instances of greatest concern, we sent the taller Tundra through first and noted on the map that these spots could become problematic on the return trip if the forecast rain was heavier than expected.
Splashing through a puddle on the North Canol Road near NWT.Jeff Wilson/The Globe and Mail
The RAV4 next to a large overland recreation vehicle in Watson Lake, Yukon.Jeff Wilson/The Globe and Mail
For long stretches there was little to see but trees stunted by the short growing season. Every once in a while, the monotony was interrupted by a breathtaking view of glassy lakes framed by mountains, justifying the effort of the journey. Occasionally we encountered people in large work trucks and rugged overlanding rigs who cast strange looks toward our little convoy of showroom-stock Toyotas.
Sporadic road signs, always off-kilter from winter-heaved ground, warned of particularly hairy curves ahead and reminded us that the speed limit for this highway was 60 kilometres per hour. We imagined a lonely RCMP officer waiting months in hopes of catching a speeder. Even more absurd was the thought that any vehicle travelling more than 40 kilometres per hour would not shake to bits. By the end of a full day’s drive, we had covered only 120 kilometres of our roughly 230-kilometre trip into the Northwest Territories and found a spot to camp for the night.
On North Canol Road with the Mackenzie Mountains in the distance.Jeff Wilson/The Globe and Mail
The following day presented the towering Mackenzie Mountains, where the road repeatedly criss-crosses the South Macmillan River. Following waterways was standard practice for early road builders, but relentless spring flooding regularly washed the bridges away. Today, most are steel-framed bridges with wooden deck planking, engineered to survive a few brutal winters at least.
Surprisingly, the farther we travelled, the better the driving conditions became. A territorial road works crew had been through, cutting back brush from the shoulders, while the width and grading improved as we neared the N.W.T. border. Arriving at the Macmillan Pass Airstrip, the reason became clear: the Macpass Project buzzed like a hive with trucks and equipment, readying the area for imminent investment into a massive zinc mining operation.
Beyond Macpass, it was only a short stretch before reaching the Northwest Territories border. We drove on a bit farther, parked and celebrated our achievement with some sandwiches. We also marvelled at how effortlessly the RAV4 Woodland handled the journey, comfortably and efficiently transporting us and a couple of weeks’ worth of gear over everything in its path. From gravel highways to murky water crossings, and even up steep, rutted inclines, both Toyotas performed flawlessly.
The RAV4 next to Canol Project work trucks near Macmillan Pass, Yukon.Jeff Wilson/The Globe and Mail
The RAV4 Woodland at a territorial crossing sign.Jeff Wilson/The Globe and Mail
Signs of waste and failure
The pipeline was completed at Macmillan Pass in February 1944, but because of leaks and construction issues, oil did not reach the Whitehorse refinery until April 16, 1944.
The Canol Project cost the U.S. government US$133 million – equivalent to roughly US$2.73 billion today. On March 8, 1945, the U.S. War Department shuttered the project with the hope of finding a buyer better equipped to manage the challenging conditions and remoteness of the location, but nobody – including the Canadian government – wanted it. During subsequent years, pieces of the project were dismantled and sold off, while the remains of rusted pipeline and stockpiles of rotting trucks serve as reminders of the colossal waste of resources and environmental damage done to the region.
The Canol Project failed because of poor planning and a lack of respect for the harsh geographic realities of the region. But the remnants of that failure have certainly created a path for an incredibly rewarding adventure.
The writer was a guest of Toyota. Content was not subject to approval.