The railway company’s website promises a dream come true: “the adventure of a lifetime.” A 1,700-kilometer journey through the boreal forest and the Arctic tundra, connecting Winnipeg to the subarctic port of Churchill, crowned the polar bear capital of the world. On paper, the journey promises to be thrilling, even in the dead of winter, which is off-season for bear-watching (as they’re hunting seals on the ice floes at this time of year). Still, there’s the promise of the Northern Lights and isolation at the end of the world. Yet, upon arriving at Winnipeg’s Union Station an hour early for the 12:05 p.m. departure, the atmosphere is quite different. The building is deserted, with barely a few travelers in sight. No departure boards, no other trains, no shops in sight—only two vending machines hold out. The wait in this freezing, echoing hall would last nearly seven hours, punctuated by announcements of delays. The train finally pulls out at 5:45 p.m.
The Journey: From Winnipeg to the Edge of the Arctic
Very quickly, a question arises: will the “magic” touted by the travel agencies be enough to make up for the discomfort of the journey? Let’s be clear: the Hudson Bay Line is nothing like the legendary Orient Express. The cars, relics of the 1950s built in the midst of the Cold War, seem frozen in time. Designed to serve remote areas, their hallways are so narrow that it’s impossible to pass each other. The individual cabins, upholstered in faded mint green, may have represented the pinnacle of ergonomics in the last century, but they are showing their age. Each berth is equipped with a chair facing a fold-down metal sink worthy of a prison cell. In the center of this tiny space sits a toilet that curiously doubles as a coffee table. Once night falls, the bed mounted on a heavy metal frame unfolds directly above the bathroom. An experience akin to sleeping in the restroom of a commuter train.
The train attendant, a veteran with seven years of service on this line, makes the introductions. At the end of the endless corridor is the single shower intended for all passengers, followed by a few bunk beds, shared restrooms, and the dining car. A seasoned photographer, a regular on this route, laconically advises us to “make do” without elaborating further.
For two days, the train groans, vibrates, and plows through the frozen landscape at a painstakingly slow cruising speed of around 50 km/h. This slowness is due to the steel rails contracting under the winter frost, increasing the risk of breakage. As we pass through remote hamlets blanketed in powdery snow, it’s not uncommon to see dogs racing alongside the train and effortlessly outpacing it.
A Micro-Society on Rails
On the first evening, the few occupants of the sleeper cars linger under the pale neon lights of the dining car, clearly in no hurry to return to their cramped quarters. On the menu, the onboard cook suggests chicken with butter, reheated in the microwave, candidly admitting she’s never tasted it herself. “We bring our own provisions,” she slips in, somewhat disconcertingly. At dawn, the early risers are already up and about to admire a sunrise that sets the tops of the stunted pines ablaze, forming a brilliant pink halo worthy of an extraterrestrial phenomenon.
Among the travelers is Michel, a former railroad worker who devoted 28 years of his life to freight and passenger transport in Canada. “I helped rebuild this line; it’s the only one in the network I’d never traveled on for pleasure. I’ve always dreamed of seeing Churchill, its wilderness, and the Northern Lights,” he confides. While the train can theoretically carry about a hundred people, there are only thirteen of us on board that day: nine passengers in the cabin and four crew members, not counting those who hop on and off the standard cars along the way.
The map displayed in the car illustrates the vital importance of this single track, which connects a string of isolated communities, ranging from tiny Indigenous reserves of about a hundred people to larger towns of 12,000. For these communities, the train is a lifeline. People take it to stock up on supplies in the south before heading back north with bins full of groceries, diapers, or auto parts. Beyond certain small towns, no road leads to Churchill. Without a plane, it’s the only way to get there.
Over a decent breakfast, the travelers’ profiles begin to emerge. There’s the woman from Ottawa, seeking total disconnection to take stock of her life. There’s also Forest, a wildlife enthusiast sporting multiple tattoos, who’s come to celebrate his birthday. “This trip gives you time to reflect on your place in the world,” he muses, proudly sporting a T-shirt encouraging people to ‘give hugs.’ He enthusiastically lists the impressive statistics of the predators awaiting us at our destination.
For the bus conductor, who has been on the job for nearly three decades, this route is much more than a job—it’s a way of life. She even homeschooled her daughter here. “During the pandemic, we couldn’t stop. It’s an essential service,” she recalls. As the miles go by, isolated from the rest of the world and stripped of modern comforts, these strangers eventually form a small, fleeting family in the middle of the white wilderness.
Day 1: The Freezing Arrival in Churchill (-30°C)
Reaching our final destination is almost a relief. After 45 hours of jostling, we disembark in the middle of the afternoon, many hours behind schedule. The welcome is brutal: a blinding white light reflects off vast expanses of pack ice and walls of snow as tall as houses. The indescribable cold bites and pierces through our clothes instantly. A real jolt that brutally reminds you that you’re very much alive. There’s no time for daydreaming now; we have to stay alert.
Shuttles cranked up to full heat await us. Churchill is a border town laid out in a strict grid pattern, where squat buildings bend under the weight of the snow. Once a fur trading post in the 18th century, then a grain port, the town was home to as many as 5,000 people during the Cold War. Today, its population has dwindled to under 900, and the town has embraced a new identity: ecotourism. Although it proclaims itself the polar bear capital of the world, the true masters of the land are nowhere to be seen at this time of year. We have to make do with their likenesses: a stuffed specimen at the train station, countless murals, and documentaries playing on loop on the screens of local hotels showing adorable mothers and their cubs.
Yet danger dictates daily life. Paradoxically, this is the only time of year when you can walk or bike without risking your life. “Locals always leave their car doors unlocked so anyone can take refuge inside in case of an encounter,” warns our local guide. His instructions at the start of the trip are strict: never walk alone, avoid the beach, and memorize the bear emergency number, which can dispatch an armed patrol in two minutes flat.
Exploring the region’s iconic sites—from urban murals to the impressive abandoned grain silo overlooking Hudson Bay—is done safely from the comfort of a heated vehicle. The pristine vastness is breathtaking. Come evening, nature puts on its most spectacular show: neon-hued northern lights undulate across the dark, starry sky. To fight off the numbness, we jump up and down in the crunching snow. Despite air so frigid it burns the lungs, its purity is such that we breathe it in deeply.
Day 2: In the Heart of the Tundra (-34.5°C)
“It’s an extreme temperature, even for the locals,” admits the manager of our hostel. Bundled up in thick layers of clothing, we brave the street to meet an ecologist specializing in the study of plantigrades for a renowned university. Her research focuses on the delicate coexistence between the growing tourism industry and wildlife. “There’s no perfect survival guide for living alongside them,” she explains. “I always go out with a flare. And above all, you must never run away. Fatal attacks are rare, but they do happen.”
To manage the overly familiar animals that venture into the streets in search of food, the city has set up a detention system unique in the world: a “bear prison.” Housed in a former aviation hangar, the facility can hold about twenty bears at a time. The bears are given water but no food. The goal is to create a trauma that associates the city with a very negative experience. After a few weeks, they are winched by helicopter far from human settlements and marked with a spot of fluorescent paint to ensure their tracking.
The researcher, who initially had no interest in polar regions, has developed a passion for this hostile environment. In this unforgiving environment, every organism, from the tiniest lichen to the largest predator, fights a daily battle for survival. She lucidly reminds us that these giants of the ice, far from the idyllic image, remain ferocious and territorial animals.
The Future of a Port at the End of the World
In light of this tourism success, new questions are arising about the region’s development. The rail infrastructure, managed by a consortium since the severe floods of 2017 that destroyed the tracks, is a major geopolitical issue. For 18 months, the city had been completely cut off from the world, leading to soaring prices and an unprecedented logistical crisis. Now acquired by Indigenous communities and northern authorities with government support, the port and the railway represent much more than a tourist attraction.
It is the only Canadian deep-water port in the Arctic connected by rail. A strategic infrastructure at a time when new shipping routes are opening up in the north, promising to stabilize the local economy through sustainable jobs, beyond the seasonality of tourism. However, this national ambition raises environmental concerns. A local dog-sled tour operator bitterly recalls past industrial projects that diverted waterways and destroyed part of the local biodiversity. The challenge is immense: reviving the economy without sacrificing what is the very essence of this white sanctuary.
On the way back, the small regional airport takes on the atmosphere of a village festival. It is the gathering point where locals come to pick up loved ones or retrieve precious packages. Our train companion was right: you don’t emerge unscathed from such a journey. Here, the superfluous fades away; life moves to the rhythm of the relentless weather, the shifting light, and indispensable solidarity. The experience brings to mind those words describing Earth as seen from space: the answer to all our questions lies in nature. I may not have encountered a majestic white predator this time, but one thing is certain: I will return to lose myself in this magnificent cold.