Pedalling into the unknown: Riding the world’s longest winter road
Four years in the making, this documentary captures the hardships of Expedition Ontario's ambitious journey
Photo by:
Eric Batty
In March 2020, just three days before Canada went into COVID-19 lockdown, a team of adventurers set out to do something that had never been done before: ride the world’s longest winter road entirely by bike. Their goal? To push the limits of winter bikepacking, navigate one of the most remote landscapes in North America, and raise $10,000 to support youth activity programs in Shamattawa First Nation.
Their journey would take them 720 kilometers across frozen tundra, past only two Indigenous communities and through the heart of polar bear country.
Into the arctic wilderness
The team started in Peawanuck, Ontario, rolling westward toward Fort Severn, the province’s northernmost community on the shores of Hudson Bay. From there, they followed the Wapusk Trail, a seasonal ice road that connects remote communities in Ontario and Manitoba before finishing in Gillam, Manitoba—deep in the subarctic.
But this was no ordinary winter ride. This was a journey through one of the coldest, most unforgiving landscapes on Earth. Their bikes, loaded down with 100-lb. of gear, would carry them across frozen rivers, open tundra and dense boreal forests. Along the way, they’d battle -35 C temperatures, relentless headwinds, deep snowdrifts and the ever-present risk of polar bears.
Riding through polar bear country
With March being peak season for polar bear mothers leaving their dens with newborn cubs, the team had no shortage of warnings from locals.
“If you see a Wapusk, don’t take pictures,” they were told. “Just leave.”
On the first night, they debated whether to set up their electric bear fence—not because they felt unsafe, but simply because they had it. By morning, fresh polar bear tracks crisscrossed their camp, just a few hundred meters away.
And the tracks didn’t stop there.
Every 50 km or so, they’d come across another set of prints, reminders that they weren’t alone in this vast frozen expanse. Reports from passing trucks told them that at least six bears had been spotted along their route in recent days.
The brutal reality of Arctic cycling
Days blurred into one another as the team adjusted to the grind of Arctic survival. Sweat was dangerous—it froze instantly. Batteries died. Cameras refused to function in the extreme cold. Every morning started with frozen gear, every night ended in exhaustion.
Food became fuel rather than enjoyment.
And then there was the wind.
On one particularly brutal stretch, gusts slowed them to a crawl, dragging their average speed down to just 10 km/h. Moving forward took every ounce of energy.
Moments of humanity in the cold
Despite the isolation, the team encountered small but powerful moments of connection.
At one stop, a truck pulled over. The driver, a local from Peawanuck, had heard about their fundraising efforts. Without hesitation, he pulled $60 from his pocket and handed it over.
“Thank you for doing this,” he said, shaking their hands.
He didn’t see them as outsiders or thrill-seekers using the land for personal adventure. He saw them as people trying to give back.
The final push
By the last day, the team was running on fumes. With 120 km left, the cold was relentless and gear was failing. Ryan Atkin’s bottom bracket seized up from the cold, leaving his pedals barely turning. With no other choice, they rigged up a makeshift tow system—one rider pulling another through the Arctic wind with a bungee cord. Finally, after days of white-knuckle survival, the end was in sight.
As they rolled into Gillam, battered but victorious, they knew they had not only completed a world-first expedition but had also raised over $10,000 for the youth of Shamattawa First Nation.
They had ridden into the unknown, faced the cold, the exhaustion, and the bears—and come out the other side. What they didn’t know at the time was that this would be their last true taste of freedom for more than a year.
Days later, the world shut down.