Arctic Adventure: Ultimate Guide to Winter Activities in Iqaluit, Canada

Let's address the obvious first—getting to Iqaluit isn't as simple as hopping on a quick flight from Toronto. This remoteness is precisely what preserves its authenticity and keeps the crowds away. You'll need to fly into Iqaluit Airport (YFB), with most connections coming through Ottawa, Montreal, or Yellowknife. Canadian North and First Air operate these routes, and while tickets aren't cheap (expect $1,200-1,800 round trip from major Canadian cities), the aerial views of Frobisher Bay and the vast tundra as you descend make every dollar worth it.

After landing at what feels like the edge of the world, you'll immediately notice two things: the biting cold that slaps you in the face despite your layers, and the surreal landscape that stretches endlessly in all directions. I've traveled to over 40 countries for both business and pleasure, but that first breath of Arctic air still ranks as one of my most vivid travel memories.

For accommodation, I stayed at The Discovery, Iqaluit's premier hotel. While luxury here isn't defined by spa treatments and infinity pools, the comfort level is impressive considering the remote location. Rooms are well-heated (crucial when it's -40°C outside), spacious, and many offer views of Frobisher Bay. Book well in advance—with limited options in town, rooms fill up quickly, especially during popular events like the Toonik Tyme festival in April.

Before arrival, I strongly recommend investing in proper Arctic gear. My expedition parka was literally a lifesaver during dawn snowmobile rides. Yes, it's expensive, but this isn't the place to compromise on equipment. The difference between good gear and great gear in the Arctic isn't about comfort—it's about safety.

If there's one experience that captures the essence of Arctic living, it's dog sledding. This isn't the commercialized 30-minute tourist ride you might find in more accessible winter destinations—Iqaluit offers multi-hour and even multi-day expeditions led by Inuit guides whose families have been mushing for generations.

I booked a full-day excursion with NorthWinds Arctic Adventures, which began with learning how to harness and connect the dogs—powerful Canadian Inuit Dogs (Qimmiq) that have been bred for Arctic conditions for thousands of years. These animals are working dogs in every sense, with incredible endurance and a natural drive to pull. The connection between the musher and the dogs is something special to witness, a relationship built on mutual respect and understanding.

Once we set off across the frozen landscape, the modern world disappeared completely. The only sounds were the runners gliding over snow, the rhythmic panting of the dogs, and occasional commands from our guide. We traveled about 30km that day, stopping for a traditional lunch of Arctic char and bannock cooked over a portable stove on the ice.

The physical demands shouldn't be underestimated. You'll alternate between riding on the sled and running alongside to give the dogs a break on uphill sections. My fitness background definitely came in handy here—those hill sprints in the gym translate perfectly to pushing a loaded sled up an icy incline! I tracked the expedition on my GPS watch, which handled the extreme cold impressively while capturing our route across the tundra.

What makes dog sledding in Iqaluit special is the authenticity. These aren't tourist sleds—they're the same designs that Inuit have used for centuries, adapted with modern materials. Your guide isn't reciting memorized facts but sharing lived experience and cultural knowledge passed through generations. It's an immersive history lesson and an adrenaline rush combined into one unforgettable day.

Iqaluit sits under the auroral oval—the zone where Northern Lights activity is most concentrated—making it one of the world's premier destinations for aurora viewing. The combination of clear Arctic air, minimal light pollution, and northern latitude creates perfect conditions for this natural phenomenon.

During my week in Iqaluit, I witnessed the aurora on four separate nights, each display more spectacular than the last. The best viewing came after a particularly intense solar storm that had been forecast days earlier (pro tip: download the Aurora Forecast app and set alerts before your trip). Around 11 PM, the sky erupted in waves of green and purple that danced across the entire horizon, reflecting off the snow and creating an almost 360-degree immersive experience.

While you can see the lights from town, the most impressive displays deserve a proper setting. I joined a guided snowmobile expedition that took us about 15km outside Iqaluit to a perfectly positioned viewpoint overlooking frozen Frobisher Bay. Our Inuit guide shared traditional stories about the aurora while we waited for the show to begin, adding cultural context to the scientific phenomenon.

Photographing the Northern Lights in extreme cold presents unique challenges. Batteries drain rapidly, and exposed metal camera parts can literally freeze to your skin. My camera hand warmer was essential for keeping both my hands and camera battery functional throughout the night. For the shots themselves, I used manual settings with a 15-second exposure, f/2.8 aperture, and ISO 1600-3200 depending on the aurora's intensity.

What many travelers don't realize is that the aurora often appears differently to cameras than to the naked eye. While cameras can capture the vibrant greens and purples in all their glory, the human eye sometimes perceives them as more subtle, ghostly white movements. Don't be disappointed if your first glimpse seems underwhelming—give your eyes time to adjust to the darkness and you'll begin to appreciate the true complexity of the display.

The silence of the Arctic night adds another dimension to aurora viewing. With temperatures dropping below -30°C, the air becomes incredibly still—no insects, no rustling leaves, no distant traffic. Just complete silence broken occasionally by the mysterious crackling sound that sometimes accompanies particularly active auroras.

Growing up in Los Angeles, fishing meant charter boats and sunny days. Ice fishing in Iqaluit couldn't be more different—it's a test of patience, resilience, and connection to ancient traditions that have sustained Inuit communities for millennia.

My experience began with a snowmobile journey across the frozen bay to a traditional fishing spot known to our Inuit guide's family for generations. Using a traditional ice auger (though modern gas-powered ones are also common), we drilled through nearly a meter of solid ice to reach the frigid waters below.

The target here is primarily Arctic char, a cold-water fish related to salmon and trout that thrives in these extreme conditions. Unlike the complex technical gear often associated with modern sport fishing, traditional Inuit ice fishing is remarkably minimalist—a simple line, basic lure, and incredible knowledge of fish behavior and ice conditions.

While waiting for bites in the portable shelter, our guide demonstrated traditional fishing techniques and shared stories of how these practices have evolved yet remained fundamentally unchanged for thousands of years. The juxtaposition was striking—using techniques passed down through countless generations while occasionally checking a smartphone for messages.

When we finally caught several good-sized char, we prepared some of them right there on the ice. Fresh sashimi-style Arctic char, just minutes from the water, eaten in the traditional way with just a touch of soy sauce our guide had brought along—it was one of the purest food experiences I've ever had.

The physical challenge of ice fishing here isn't in the activity itself but in withstanding the environment. My insulated fishing boots were crucial for standing on ice for hours without losing sensation in my feet. The extreme cold demands constant awareness—remove gloves for too long to handle equipment, and frostbite becomes a real concern within minutes.

Beyond the fishing itself, this experience offers a window into sustainable Arctic living. The Inuit approach to harvesting only what's needed and utilizing every part of the catch provides a powerful lesson in environmental stewardship that predates modern conservation movements by thousands of years.

Any visit to Iqaluit would be incomplete without engaging with the rich Inuit culture that defines this region. As a fitness professional who's traveled extensively for both work and pleasure, I've found that understanding local culture transforms a trip from simple tourism to meaningful experience. In Iqaluit, this cultural dimension is particularly powerful.

The Nunatta Sunakkutaangit Museum offers an excellent introduction to Inuit history and art. Though small by southern standards, the collection of traditional tools, clothing, and sculptures provides crucial context for everything you'll experience outside. I was particularly moved by the display of traditional qajaqs (kayaks) and the explanation of how these hunting vessels were perfectly adapted to Arctic conditions using only materials available in this sparse environment.

For a deeper cultural experience, I arranged a traditional skills workshop through the Unikkaarvik Visitor Centre. Over a half-day session, I learned the basics of soapstone carving—an art form central to Inuit expression. My clumsy first attempt at carving a seal was laughable compared to the instructor's fluid expertise, but the process gave me tremendous appreciation for the masterful sculptures I'd seen in the museum.

The highlight of cultural immersion came through an evening spent with an Inuit family who opened their home for a traditional meal and storytelling session. We enjoyed caribou stew, Arctic char, and bannock while our hosts shared legends that have been passed orally for generations. The stories—many featuring Sedna, the goddess of the sea—wove together spiritual beliefs, practical survival knowledge, and environmental stewardship in a way that revealed the sophisticated worldview underlying Inuit culture.

What struck me most was how thoroughly adapted Inuit culture is to this extreme environment. Every aspect of traditional life—from clothing design to hunting techniques to social structures—represents thousands of years of accumulated knowledge about surviving and thriving in conditions that would be lethal to the unprepared. This isn't primitive technology; it's highly specialized expertise perfectly suited to one of Earth's most challenging environments.

Before visiting, I prepared by reading Inuit cultural guide, which provided valuable context for the experiences and helped me ask more thoughtful questions during cultural exchanges. This small investment in cultural understanding made every interaction more meaningful and respectful.