Exhausted by a succession of work deadlines, I dozed in the back of the van for much of the five hour drive from Whitehorse, Yukon to the floatplane base in the village of Mayo. Fortunately, my travel companions were understanding, limiting the intense pre-trip dialogue and smiling politely at my incomplete sentences.

A noisy turbo Otter jump-started my recovery, delivering us to the headwaters of the Wind River on a flawless July evening. I could not bear to blink during our 40-minute flight for fear of missing something in the expansive mountain landscape unfolding beneath us. We landed on a glassy alpine lake flanked by eroding peaks. From that first night I remember the warmth of the midnight sun, and, when the plane was gone, a feeling of complete solitude.

The Wind is a crystalline sub-arctic river that begins in the remote mountains of central Yukon. Flowing north through a roadless wilderness larger than New Brunswick, it is celebrated for offering a rare kind of paddling experience found in dwindling supply: two weeks on a pristine mountain river promising wildlife, inspired views and little sign of people.

Our early days on the Wind River taught us the routines of river travel and provided time to absorb the grandeur of the upper watershed. Guides gently refreshed our paddling techniques, while pampering us with savoury meals and imbueing us with their love of the area. We clambered across mossy slopes and stark ridges, stained our mouths with wild blueberries and enjoyed the company of moose, woodland caribou and a quartet of curious wolf pups.

By the end, we were seasoned river travelers, deftly navigating through the Wind's riffles and turns. Attuned and watchful students of the landscape, we spent hours scouring the riverbanks and ridges for animal tracks, wildflowers and the technicolour array of stones.

And the water still takes my breath away.

The Wind, with its sparkling clarity and icy blue-green hue, surely ranks among the world's clearest rivers. Arctic grayling leapt as we floated by, and I could watch them propel far into the eddies. I recall leaning over the gunwale to snatch an alluring purple stone and being startled to discover that the river bottom lay beyond my reach.

Back in my routine, I realize that the journey nourished my soul in lasting ways. I hear the sound of waves lapping at my red canoe. My tongue remembers the tartness of tiny wild raspberries. All of my senses hold the memory of feeling wholly consumed by this place. If a longing to escape is the mantra of busy people in a modern age, two weeks on the Wind River was that wish fulfilled.

Before leaving the river's stunning mountain reach, we camped across from Royal Mountain, a commanding peak aptly named for its crown of tors. The magic of the Wind River was again revealed, this time by the evening sun streaming in under the clouds and casting a blush of light across the ring of peaks.

Before me, a lone caribou forded the river and shook from nose to tail, casting a spray backlit by the setting sun. The downward creep of orange consumed the slopes and washed them in colour, then retreated into grey twilight as the Wind River dissolved into the shadows.