In his poem, “The Spell of the Yukon,” Robert Service wrote of valleys unpeopled and still, of moonlight and mystery, of the wilds where the caribou call. He spoke of a land that beckons and beckons and how he is stuck on it all.

These words, written more than 100 years ago, still provide an accurate description of the Yukon of today. And for myself, my wife Jan, and our friends Jay Brahe of Boise, Chuck Dorsey of White Salmon, Wash., Cheryl Brown of Bellevue and Doug Miller of White Salmon, these words convey the connection we feel to this incredibly raw landscape.

Our eight previous adventures to the Yukon have all been in the summer months. This year’s trip — a 12-day paddle on the Big Salmon River and five days of hiking in and around the Arctic Circle — occurred in late September and early October. We chose the fall mainly because there’s a better chance of seeing wildlife (bull moose are actively in rut, black bears and grizzlies have grown their thick winter coats, sand cairns by the thousands have started their migration south, and Barren-Lands caribou have nearly finished their migration from calving grounds in and around the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge). Another reason why fall is ideal: The persistent mosquitoes and black flies ever present during the summer months have “almost” died off.

Still, we had concerns about getting hit hard by early snow. Fortunately for us the weather held. We had a few days of light snow and rain. Night-time temperatures fell into the low- to mid-teens, and days were in the 40s and low-50s. The night before we flew home four inches of snow covered the ground, and the peaks above us — which three weeks earlier had been lightly covered in what the Yukoners call “termination dust” (the first light snows of the year that signal the termination of summers warmth) — were covered in a blanket of white.

We arrived Sept. 19 in Whitehorse, the largest city in the Yukon Territory. We had made arrangements for a business called Kanoe People to rent us canoes and shuttle us to Quiet Lake, the starting point for the first leg of our trip.

The shuttle to Quiet Lake takes several hours so we planned spending our first night on the lake and getting an early start for what we anticipated would be a 2 1/2-day paddle across Quiet, Sandy and Big Salmon lakes to the mouth of the Big Salmon River. But thanks to perfect tail winds we reached the Big Salmon River just before dark the first day.

We quickly stored our gear in a small restored trapper’s cabin at river’s edge, got a fire going and cooked dinner. We were fortunate. That night it poured and had we been out on one of the lakes all our gear and tents would have been soaked.

The following day, with dry gear and tent in hand, we portaged two log jams and made six miles before pulling off the river early. The Big Salmon River starts to widen at that point and though we wouldn’t come across any more log jams for the remainder of the trip, we constantly had to maneuver around sweepers (trees sticking into the river off the banks of the river) and half-submerged logs.

On Day 12, we reached the confluence of the Big Salmon and Yukon rivers, and from there paddled another 40 miles to Little Salmon Village, where we had arranged for a ride back to Whitehorse. Back in the town our group split, some returning home and three of us — myself, Chuck Dorsey and Doug Miller — continued on (a six-hour drive) to Tombstone Territorial Park, the Ogilvie Mountains and the Arctic Circle to do some hiking.

Once settled in Tombstone, we used our camp, which featured a shelter and a wood stove, as a staging ground for day hikes. The days were noticeable shorter and colder than when we started the trip so we were unable to hike for more than a few hours a day. Hikes in this region take you through sub-arctic tundra and boreal forest. In general, the trails are well marked and easy to follow. Venturing off them often leads you into a seemingly endless sea of tussock (small, unevenly spaced mounds of compact grass and other vegetation) and dense underbrush that can be time consuming to navigate.

We spent two days in the Tombstones before heading farther north (another six-hour drive on gravel roads) to the Arctic Circle and the Ogilvie Mountains, where we hoped to see part of the winter migration of the Porcupine caribou herd. By this time of year, huge caribou herds have broken into smaller bands. One of these bands traditionally crosses into the Ogilvie Mountains just south of the Arctic Circle. Fortunately, we were able to see two small bands of about 30 animals. However, we missed the largest part of the migration by a day. It was evident from tracks in the snow — and the number of gut piles scattered about by First Nation hunters — that several hundred animals had crossed the area just a few hours before our arrival.

Looking back, the entire trip was spectacular from the first day to the last. We were lucky on the weather. The mosquitoes were virtually gone and the black flies were limited in number. Wildlife especially moose and bears was abundant. Often we found ourselves within 20 yards of big bull moose and on one occasion got very close to a large grizzly feeding on grub she was pulling from the ground. It was not our intent to get so close to these animals, but because the river is winding and small, has several blind corners with logs and trees that force you to take specific channels, we were sometimes forced into an uncomfortable closeness with these large animals. However, I never felt threatened at any time.

For most of the journey, the Yukon was dressed in autumn colors lit by the sun and, as some Yukoners say, a hunter’s moon. Leaves of the underbrush were blood-red, willows glimmered in gold, crowberries, cranberries and blueberries hung plumb and full, and birch gave off an orange hue. With snow-capped peaks as a backdrop, it all added up to a dazzling display of color and light.

Have a story or photos you’d like to share with World readers? Contact Sports Editor Steve Maher at maher@wenatcheeworld.com, or call 664-7154.