The snow was getting deeper. I could barely see through the swirling clouds of crystals. My headlights were so attenuated by the blizzard that the road was invisible more often than not. For the tenth time in as many minutes I cursed myself for starting south so late. At best, I could only see about ten feet ahead. As a result I was only moving about twenty miles an hour – and that was reckless, but I needed to get to the lodge soon.
Normally, I head south as soon as I get laid off. This year, however, I had tarried at the request of friends who were wintering over in Alaska. We played and partied until after Halloween. They insisted the Moose Club's traditional dance and costume party was well worth it. It was fun. But it wasn't worth going through this shit. Nevertheless, here I was, driving through the Northern Canadian Rockies in a blizzard trying to stay alive until I reached the next roadhouse or motel.
I work on a fishing boat in the summers in Alaska. The country and the seas are beautiful and bountiful, the work's a good alternative to a normal life, or to working out (the job is physical enough to allow me to drop my winter fat gain in just a few weeks), and the pay is great. Five months of back-breaking work and long hours allow me to do pretty much what I want for the rest of the year as long as I save up enough of my wages during the season.
Staying through the winter is out of the question, though. I've managed to get an option on some land there and plan to build a little house when I can afford it. But paying Alaskan rent while I'm unemployed would wipe out everything I save all summer. So I became a "snowbird", packing all the stuff I'll need until spring in my truck to head south.
That's the downside of the whole thing -- getting back and forth. It's a long drive from there to anywhere decent for the winter, and, as interesting and exciting as the first few road trips are, it was getting old. This was my tenth trip down through the wilderness that is Northern British Columbia. It is my long-range plan to have homes at both ends and just fly back and forth. With a home and a vehicle at both ends it will be just a matter of packing my clothes and climbing on a plane. The trouble with that is primarily a financial one. A secondary problem is Rebel.
Oh, I could do it differently. A lot of people do. I could drive just far enough to get on the Alaska State Ferry system. I tried the ferry once and for me it was great, though more expensive even than flying. For Rebel it wasn't so good. He had to stay down on the car deck except when we were stopped in the various ports along the way. I guess I should introduce him before I go on.
Rebel is my four year old German Shepherd/Husky mix. I acquired him by accident during my second season up there. I had met a woman named Sherry who was in Alaska for the first time. We had reached the stage of talking about both of us becoming real "sourdoughs" by spending the winter in the North Country. With my unemployment and her wages from the restaurant we figured we could make it. She moved in with me and we split the rent on the house, though I was out fishing most of the time. Of course we had some great sex when I was home.
A woman she worked with had a dog. It had puppies and Sherry fell in love with Rebel. I had to admit he was a cute little fuzz ball and he was smart, too. We became one big happy family. It was great – for a while. Then, somewhere around the middle of August, I came home from work one morning and found a note. Rebel watched me read it. He nuzzled my knee and helped me through the sadness. Sherry and I had only been together a few months, so the pain evaporated fairly quickly. Still, I was left with an empty bed and the obligation of Rebel. He's a good friend but he complicates things.
I'm thirty seven. My story isn't all that different from a lot of other guys. I tried college, but I was nineteen and I wanted to stretch my wings. As a result of my truncated education, I've worked at a handful of different jobs, some for years and others I couldn't get away from quick enough. I have spent a good deal of my adult life alone. So the loneliness of these trips back and forth wasn't really a hardship on me. It was kind of like taking my everyday life on the road. I have had two wives and two divorces.
After the second divorce I headed for Alaska. I dated some local women in my summers up there, but Sherry was the first one who didn't seem to have a problem with me being gone so much. After she left, I decided that a dog was all the long term company I needed. If I was the only one making the dishes dirty, it was easy for me to wash them. In the long run I guess losing Sherry was a kind of blessing in disguise, though the lack of sex was tough.
I've learned that a long road trip alone allows my mind to travel a lot of obscure trails. That's okay in nice weather. It isn't good, however, to let myself get distracted when the snow is whipping around the fenders. A couple of times I had already slid, once nearly into the ditch. While I was remembering Sherry and how Rebel came into my life, I almost missed a curve. I skidded and nearly lost control. My old high school driver's-ed class came through for me, though.
I slowed down even more after that. I knew that the little place I usually stayed at on this part of the road wasn't too much farther. It was an old place along the treacherous road that skirted Lake Muncho. There was a newer place just before I got to it, and I had stayed there once. But to me a hotel room -- especially on a 'point A to point B' trip -- is just a place to flop down and restore from the day's travel. The place I had found on my first trip down the highway was quaint and friendly. It was a café and gas station with a few rooms to rent.
What won me over, really, was the sign. It wasn't the sign on the pole by the road. It was the sign nailed to the side of the row of their five rooms. I arrived late that first time. I wasn't sure there was anybody around. A light shone from the main building's second story, and there were three lights burning over three of the rooms, so I was encouraged. When I pulled in, my headlights flashed across the sign that had another dim, bare bulb above it.
The sign said, "After 9PM, pick a cabin with a light on and see the manager in the morning". It rang my bell. I suppose they occasionally lose a night's revenue from people arriving late and leaving early, but I believe that most people -- up here, at least -- are basically honest. People in the North Country (capital N, capital C) have to depend on each other too much to make a habit of ripping others off. I found a room and crashed for the night.
I wasn't even sure that place was still open this late in the year. I knew the owner pulled his boat ("Fishing Trips! Fish Guaranteed!") out of the lake the last week of September. I passed the newer lodge and kept my fingers crossed as I rounded the next half dozen curves along the lake.
