Canoeing Big Salmon River: Yukon’s Most Beautiful Tributary
The Yukon is a land of big rivers, but the Big Salmon has a special kind of magic. Rising in the alpine lakes east of Whitehorse, it winds through hundreds of kilometres of spruce forest before joining the mighty Yukon River. For two weeks in late July, we paddled from Quiet Lake to Dawson City — 14 days, roughly 730 kilometres, through some of the most beautiful and remote country in North America.
The Road to Quiet Lake
Leaving Whitehorse, the tarmac runs out surprisingly quickly. Soon you’re on dirt and gravel, dust pluming behind the vehicle, the horizon a shifting collage of mountain shoulders and forest. It takes three and a half hours to reach Quiet Lake, and every kilometre feels like you’re leaving the modern world behind.
When we arrived, the lake was still, the air warm and scented with spruce resin. Mountains rose dark green and sharp-edged around the water. Somewhere out in the bay, Arctic grayling rose, making the surface shiver.
That first afternoon, we eased our canoes into the lake and paddled the seven kilometres to the outfall. The pace was easy. This was no race. We camped beside the old cabins near the outlet, their weathered boards a reminder that this remote place was once part of regular trapline and travel routes. In the shallows, large grayling held steady over the gravel bed, flicking their fins in the current.
Through the Lakes
Day two began with a short paddle down a clear, gravel-bottomed channel into Sandy Lake. A loon called somewhere behind us. Another channel, narrow and edged with reeds, led into Big Salmon Lake. The paddle through these lakes felt like sliding through a nature film — sedges waving, the dark shapes of trout below, the sudden clatter of a merganser taking off ahead of the bow.
By the time we reached Big Salmon Lake proper, the wind had risen, turning the surface to riffles. Luckily, it blew from behind, pushing us towards the outlet. At last, in late afternoon, we entered the Big Salmon River itself — a clear, fast-flowing corridor between spruce banks. A First Nations cabin stood nearby, with a high cache shed on stilts to keep food safe from bears.
Logjam Country
The Big Salmon wastes no time reminding you that you’re in wild country. Within hours we met our first logjam — a tangled wall of timber stretching across the river and 100 metres downstream. Portaging was the only option.
Unloading canoes, hauling barrels of food and personal gear along a rough track, and then dragging the empty boats overland is sweaty, mosquito-filled work. But it didn’t take long before we were back in the water — only to find another jam a short paddle downstream. That too required a carry.
We camped that night on a wooded bank, lighting a fire, cooking over open flames, and listening to the river’s quiet pull. It felt good to be back in a rhythm: paddle, portage, camp, cook, rest.
A Pattern in the Weather
From day three onwards canoeing Big Salmon River, the weather fell into a predictable cycle. Mornings started cool and cloudy. By mid-morning, the first sun slid over the hills and warmed the air. By noon, temperatures climbed into the high twenties, clouds gathered over the ridges, and the wind often shifted, sometimes in sudden katabatic gusts. Afternoons occasionally brought rumbles of thunder and brief showers. By evening, the skies cleared again and temperatures dropped sharply under the long Yukon twilight.
The river widened each day. Early on, it was narrow and swift, with ripples and the occasional rock to dodge. We encountered two more logjams, one short enough to line the canoe through after lightening the load. Higher water might have meant fewer portages, but at summer levels the four we had were easy enough to manage.
Wildlife Encounters Canoeing Big Salmon River
The first bear appeared on day three — a young black bear grazing on berries along the right bank. It glanced up, regarded us briefly, and slipped into the trees. By journey’s end, we’d seen six black bears and one grizzly, plus countless beaver lodges and mink slipping along the banks.
In the mornings and evenings, we heard beavers tail-slapping, and in mid-day, pied kingfishers hovered and dived while mergansers shepherded their chicks across the current.
The Fish Weir
After five days, the South and North Big Salmon rivers merged into our channel. The river slowed in places and broadened. Eventually, we reached the fish weir — a metal structure that channels salmon through a counting chute. Chinook numbers here are in long-term decline, with smaller fish returning each year. Ocean warming, habitat loss, and bycatch are all factors. For paddlers, it’s a reminder to stick to the centre channel to avoid damage, and to reflect on the fragility of this ancient migration.
Joining the Yukon
At the confluence with the Yukon River lies the historic Big Salmon Village. Once a significant First Nations settlement, it’s now a place of quiet gravel bars and clear water. We camped here and found, to our delight, far fewer mosquitoes than upriver — proof that the “Bug Salmon” nickname was well earned.
From here, the current was steady at around 12 km/h, making the paddle to Carmacks a relaxed journey. We passed Little Salmon Village, still home to the Little Salmon/Carmacks First Nation, where an annual gathering is held in early July.
Beyond Carmacks
Many paddlers end their journey at Carmacks, but we pressed on for another seven days to Dawson. The Yukon River is a broad, deep giant, flowing through forested valleys. We camped in wooded glades, sometimes sharing the space with noisy red squirrels who seemed outraged at our presence.
We passed through Five Finger Rapids — four rock pillars splitting the river into narrow chutes — without difficulty, and later through Rink Rapids. Both have reputations from the gold rush days, when sternwheelers battled their way through under steam.
Fort Selkirk and Steamboat Days
Fort Selkirk, halfway to Dawson, was once a bustling Hudson’s Bay Company post and steamboat port. In the gold rush era, over 200 steamers worked this river, carrying miners, cargo, and supplies. Today, the Selkirk First Nation and Yukon government are restoring the site as a heritage village.
The Last Days
One evening, I mistook a swimming grizzly for a drifting log until I saw its ears. It crossed the 600-metre-wide river with ease and climbed onto our island. Another night, a black bear tried to nose into camp; we scared it off with shouts and clanging pans, only to watch it swim away into the main channel.
By the time Dawson appeared around the final bend — a jumble of gold rush façades, paddle steamer hulks, and the meeting of the Klondike and Yukon rivers — it felt like we’d travelled not just through geography, but through history.
Check out our blog on the logisitics of canoeing the Big Salmoin River.