Great Northern Expeditions

Having recently returned from Yellowknife, where I spent time east of Great Slave Lake in the region that inspired Helge Ingstad's classic work Pelsjegerliv (The Land of the feast and famine), I have been reflecting on a trend that has become increasingly noticeable in recent years.

Norwegians are well known in Yellowknife and across the Northwest Territories for their wilderness expeditions and adventures. However, not all observations about Norwegian explorers are unreservedly positive.

Over the past decade, it has become increasingly popular for young Norwegian men to undertake ambitious solo expeditions in the Northwest Territories and Nunavut. These individuals are motivated by a genuine desire to challenge themselves, explore remote landscapes, and experience wilderness on its own terms. Such aspirations are commendable, and many of these adventurers are celebrated as role models for pursuing experiences beyond the ordinary.

Most possess considerable experience gained from travelling through the Norwegian mountains and wilderness. The question, however, is whether such experience alone is sufficient preparation for extended solo journeys in the immense Canadian North, where the scale, remoteness, and consequences of mistakes differ dramatically from those encountered in Scandinavia.

It may be a provocative comparison, but one could argue that the Norwegian wilderness bears the same relationship to the Canadian wilderness as Frogner Park does to a true wilderness area. The difference is not merely one of size, but of accessibility, infrastructure, climate, wildlife, and the availability of assistance in an emergency.

Over the course of my six visits to Yellowknife, I spoke with a number of highly experienced northern travellers and residents of Yellowknife who have themselves had conversations with some of these Norwegian adventurers. Many expressed surprise at what they perceived as a degree of naivety regarding the realities of travelling alone in remote parts of the Canadian North. Some of the most experienced even described certain proposed expeditions as reckless, given the distances involved and the hazards that can arise hundreds, or even thousands, of kilometres from the nearest community.

Historically, prospective travellers undertaking major wilderness journeys in northern Canada were often required to demonstrate their competence. Helge Ingstad himself applied for permission to travel from Snowdrift (now Łutselkʼe) to Hudson Bay and was refused on the grounds of insufficient experience. Whether such a system would be appropriate today is open to debate, but it raises an important question about preparedness and risk assessment in some of the world's most remote environments.

The reality is that a significant number of expeditions are interrupted or abandoned because participants have underestimated the challenges involved or have not been adequately prepared and equipped. Search and rescue operations, emergency evacuations, and logistical support are costly, complex, and often place others at risk.

This is not an argument against exploration. On the contrary, exploration and adventure are deeply valuable pursuits. However, genuine wilderness travel demands not only enthusiasm and determination, but also humility, local knowledge, sound judgment, and a realistic appreciation of the environment.

Perhaps that is a discussion worth having.

Visiting the museum before heading for Snowdrift River in a couple of hrs.

We woke up early today after enduring what can only be described as a full‑scale symphony of snoring from the group. A mighty breakfast was consumed – the kind of meal that makes you question whether you’re preparing for a tundra expedition or bulking for a powerlifting competition.

Fully fueled, we launched into mega‑shopping mode, clearing shelves of food and gear like a team of highly motivated Arctic squirrels preparing for winter. We now have enough supplies to survive comfortably even if the tundra decides to keep us longer than planned.

After that, we checked in with Air Tindi to figure out exactly how we’re supposed to behave before the bush plane tosses us out into the wilderness. Forms, procedures, nodding seriously – the whole ritual.

We finished the day with a warm and meaningful meeting with Juni Gahdele, talking about Handgames and how things are going in Lutselke.

After 30 hours of planes, airports, and questionable neck positions, the entire crew finally stumbled into Yellowknife — exhausted, slightly dehydrated, but undeniably happy.

Day one has now been completed, and we’ve already met several of the city’s most hardworking residents. The moskusrotte at Niven Lake was busy with whatever extremely important muskrat business muskrats conduct, and the fox in Old Town gave us a look that suggested we were the tourists and he was the local celebrity.

We’ve inspected the shops’ selection with the seriousness of a professional expedition, and concluded the day with a very civilized visit to Bullocks Bistro, where both atmosphere and food were significantly more awake than we were.

Stay tuned—our journey begins with a week in Yellowknife, Canada. We’ll share what we can—photos, fragments, moments—before we leave the last traces of signal behind and disappear into the wild.

We are Lars Petter—an experienced backpacker, yet still a greenhorn in this kind of journey. Åge Svinøy, seasoned and steady, part of the 2013 expedition. Erling Sagneskar—who has crossed Greenland and returns for his second time. Svein Erik Stenseth—a true greenhorn, though no stranger to life with a pack on his back. And finally, Peter Engelschiøn—setting out on this journey for the sixth time.
A rare and remarkable band of men!

When we first began planning this journey, the group included quite a few other men. One by one, they fell away. Fear of the unknown, perhaps? The reasons remain as unclear as the wilderness itself—but the fact stands and duly noted.

In their place, we’ve gathered a team of capable men—seasoned, steady, and with the skill and resolve to see a journey like this through, and come out the other side in one piece. I am exited about the group!

Mot Barren Lands – juli

Sommeren kommer ikke plutselig der nord. Den bygger seg langsomt opp – i lyset som blir værende litt lenger hver kveld, i tankene som begynner å vandre østover, forbi tregrensen, inn i det åpne landskapet de kaller **Barren Lands**.

Forberedelsene startet tidlig. Ikke med store ord, men med små, velkjente ritualer. Teltet ble tatt frem – det gamle **Fauna Stadjan**, trofast gjennom år med vind og vær, et telt som ikke lenger produseres, men som bærer historiene i duken. Det ble reist på plenen, testet, kjent på. Som å håndhilse på en gammel venn før en lang reise.

Årets tur handler ikke bare om å komme seg ut. Den handler om å vende tilbake. Til landskapet øst for Great Slave Lake – eller **Tu Nedhé**, slik Dene-folket kaller det. Et sted hvor kartene aldri helt forteller sannheten, og hvor avstand måles mer i innsats enn i kilometer.

Planen er enkel, som alltid:
Pakk alt vi trenger. Ikke mer, ikke mindre. Bære selv. Padle der det er vann. Gå der det ikke er det. Fiske når muligheten byr seg. Leve i rytmen av vær, mygg, ild og stillhet.

Vi vet hva som venter – og likevel ikke.

For i Barren Lands er ingenting gitt. Vinden kan snu på et øyeblikk. Elver kan være enten veier eller hindringer. Dager kan være stille og uendelige – eller fulle av slit, stein og våte støvler. Men det er nettopp derfor vi drar.

Ikke for komforten.
Ikke for sikkerheten.
Men for følelsen av å være helt til stede.

Kanskje vil vi finne spor etter de som var der før oss. Kanskje bare våre egne fotavtrykk i sanden. Kanskje fisk i kveldssola, kanskje lange timer uten napp. Kanskje stillheten blir det sterkeste minnet.

Når vi legger ut i juli, bærer vi med oss mer enn utstyr. Vi bærer erfaring fra turer i Norge, fra kanoferdene i Nordvest-Canada, fra alle nettene i telt hvor verden føles både enorm og helt nær.

Og et sted der fremme, bak horisonten, ligger det vi egentlig søker:

Ikke et mål.
Men en tilstand.

Summer is coming up and we are starting to get ready for The Barren Land. Today checking the fav tent. This tent is not in production any more. It is the Fauna Stadjan 3. it is a little heavy, but on the other hand, it is the only 100% bug free tent i know of.

The Barren Lands: A Story of History and Today

East of Great Slave Lake lies a country that seems, at first glance, untouched by time. A vast sweep of tundra, lakes like hammered silver, and sky that feels too large for the world. The Dene call it Denésoliné Ndé ( i believe) , their homeland for countless generations; to outsiders it has long been known simply as the Barren Lands.

But “barren” has always been a misunderstanding.
The land is quiet, yes—but never empty.

Long Before Maps

Long before Europeans imagined a northern interior, the **Dene** moved across these lands in seasonal rhythms as old as the caribou trails. They followed the **Beverly and Qamanirjuaq herds**, harvested fish from lakes with names no map has ever captured properly, and lived in a landscape where survival depended on knowledge passed through stories, not books.

Elders still tell of how the caribou were once so numerous that “the land itself moved.”

Trails connected the interior to the Thelon River and beyond—silent highways of snow and muskeg, used for trade, hunting, and visiting families spread across thousands of kilometres of country.

Winter nights were long, but people navigated by the feel of the snow crust, by wind, by instinct. In summer, the midnight sun stretched shadows across the tundra while children played beside fires that never quite needed extinguishing.

Nothing about the land was wasted. Nothing was taken casually.

When Strangers Came

The first non‑Indigenous newcomers walked into the Barren Lands with the desperation of men seeking salvation in a place that owed them nothing.

Samuel Hearne passed through in 1771, guided entirely by Chipewyan Dene knowledge.
Sir John Franklin’s mencrossed and re-crossed the region in the 1820s, nearly starving in terrain they never truly understood.

A century later came trappers, prospectors, surveyors—some successful, many not.

And then, in the late 1920s, a solitary Norwegian named Helge Ingstad arrived.
He lived among the Dene, traveled the length of Great Slave Lake, and spent winters deep in the Barren Lands with only dogs and the unbroken silence.

His writings helped southern readers imagine the North, but the truth is that the land had already shaped lives for thousands of years before his arrival, and continued to do so long after he left.

The Harsh Generosity of the Land

The interior east of Great Slave Lake has a beauty that reveals itself only to those patient enough to look closely.

In winter the land becomes a world of blue shadows on white, where the only sound is snow squeaking beneath your boots at –40°C.

In summer the tundra transforms into a mosaic of green and red, dotted with lakes so clear they mirror the sky exactly. Mosquitoes rise in dense clouds; wolves trot unhurried along eskers; the caribou—when they still came in great herds—crossed rivers in columns stretching to the horizon.

It is a land that gives nothing easily but gives honestly.

Today

Today, the Barren Lands remain among the **least disturbed ecosystems on Earth**, but they are no longer as remote as they once were.

Modern communities—**Łutselk’e, Fort Reliance, and others**—balance traditional life with new pressures: mining interests, conservation debates, climate change, and the gradual northward pull of the modern world.

The establishment of **Thaidene Nëné**, one of Canada’s largest protected areas, represents both continuity and change. It protects ancient travel routes and hunting grounds while welcoming researchers, adventurers, and those who want to understand the North rather than exploit it.

Floatplanes still lift off from Yellowknife toward remote lakes.
Caribou migrations are smaller and less predictable.
The old trails remain, though fewer people know them by heart.

Yet the land endures. Its silence is the same silence Ingstad heard. Its wind carries the same scent of lichen, water, and cold stone that the Dene have known forever.

Land That Remembers

The Barren Lands do not change quickly.
But they remember.

They remember the thousands of fires.
They remember the voices of elders telling stories in the glow of the aurora.
They remember the lone travelers who passed through, humbled by distance and sky.
They remember the caribou thundering across frozen rivers.

And they will remember those who walk there today—scientists, Dene hunters teaching their grandchildren, expedition teams following old routes with new tools.

Because here, east of Great Slave Lake, the land is not barren.
It is alive with history, carrying its stories in the wind.