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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 hard, but 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 most of everything I saved 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 to the U. S. and points south. 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 day 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 sometimes.

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 ‘aloneness’ 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 for the time being. 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 called the ‘Double G’. 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. It also cost considerably less than the other place.

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.

As I came around the last turn the glow of lambent light from the Double G filtered through the whipping snow. I breathed a sigh of relief. I was ‘home’. At least I was home for the night, and I told Rebel. He thumped the door with his tail in his joy, but his chin never left my thigh.

I crunched through the icy rifts piled up around the parking area. Over the five doors, there were four lights still burning. As the sign said, the way their system worked, a lit bulb was the signal that the room was vacant. The only other vehicle there was a Jeep Cherokee. There wasn’t much snow in its tracks, so I knew it was a fairly recent arrival, too.

I left Rebel in the truck and walked to the lighted door two down from the one that was dark. I tried the knob and the room proved to be empty as promised. I returned to the truck and brought my duffel and dog in. I brushed the snow from Rebel’s paws and stomped my boots before removing them. The owners provided an oversized wiry coconut mat just inside the door for the purpose.

I knew already that there was no phone, no TV, and no coffee service. This place was rustic. It was my kind of place for this kind of trip. I fed Rebel and set down his water bowl. After that I just stripped down and crawled between the cold sheets, shivering. The thick blankets contained my body heat and my shivering stopped soon enough. I slept.

The next morning I scolded Rebel, but not too severely. I woke to find his doggy breath wafting over my neck. The dream evaporated -- it was about a leggy blonde who kept snuggling up to me. I pushed him off the bed and felt my nose. It was cool, but not frigid. I slipped out of the bed and hurried to turn on the shower. I stuck my cup under the hot water and stirred in a spoonful of instant coffee. I took it into the shower with me.

Fortunately, Rebel was on ‘road trip mode’. He had become conditioned to wait until I was ready to take him out for his morning constitutional. At times, he became rather antsy with the waiting, but it usually worked out. He was sitting by the outside door when I came out of the bathroom. I dressed quickly and pulled my watch cap down on my damp hair. Before I opened the door I pulled the curtain on the small window back. It was still dark, but the snow and wind had stopped. The lights of the three unoccupied rooms reflected off the ice crystals that topped the snow that lay in a thick blanket over everything.

We went out. I let Rebel range on the end of the leash as I swept the snow from the windshield of the truck with my gloved hand. I opened the truck and started it, closing the door quickly after making sure the heat was on high. By the time the dog was done, the cab was still cool, but warm enough to let him in. He would just have to wait there until I repacked and had finished my business in the office/cafe. The sky was paling fast and I wanted to get a good start.

I paid for the room and used the pay phone to call my brother while my breakfast fried. I ate and enjoyed a cup of real coffee before gassing up and letting Rebel take another spin around the trees. As we were making that second run, I couldn’t help but hear a battery being ground down to nothing. The Jeep Cherokee’s driver’s door hung open. I took Rebel back to the truck and got him, dusting the snow off his paws in as best I could, trusting that he’d stay on his own side.

Closing the door, I trudged through the seven or so inches of fresh snow to the door of the Jeep. Long black hair hid her face. “It isn’t going to start. If you don’t stop grinding it, you’ll ruin the starter,” I said.

I was surprised when the head whipped around and the beautiful lips spat out, “Well, the goddamn thing has to fucking start! I have to get to Fort-fucking-Nelson by tonight!” Even if I hadn’t seen her, I could have told from her accent and the colorful adjectives that the speaker was no novice to the North. The women up here swear as well as the men do, sometimes even more picturesquely. More significantly, she had the bronzed complexion of a native.

“Well, it ain’t gonna start right now,” I said. She stopped grinding the starter and the silence was only broken by the purr of my truck’s engine. She glanced toward it. Then she turned back to me. We assayed each other. I can’t tell you what she saw, but what I saw was okay. I was sure now that she was a native, or at least part native, but her features were a blend. Her skin tone really wasn’t too much darker than mine was after my months at sea.

She looked to be in her mid to late twenties. As I said, her long black hair hung free. She wore a thick parka with a fur ruff around the hood. Her jeans were faded and her pacs were unlaced halfway -- usually a sure sign you’re looking at a Canadian, or at least a person who has spent a fair amount of time up north. Boots frequently need to be removed when you go inside and lacing them and unlacing them all the way is just too much trouble. Facially, she was very attractive. At least she had the potential. Just at that moment her anger and disappointment with her vehicle made her features pretty rough. The thought drifted through my mind that I was really glad her anger was not directed at me.

She stood up and I backed off. Without another word she stomped off toward the café. I could have just gotten into my truck and driven off. Like I said, though, people up here help each other. I didn’t know anything about her. She could be anybody or nobody. She said she had to get to Fort Nelson today. I mean Fort “fucking” Nelson. After a few seconds I followed her. Rebel barked just once to warn me that he was ready to go. I ignored him.

When I reached the office, I heard her yelling at the owner. “I can’t wait for parts! I already told you I have to be in Fort Nelson today!”

“Well, Miss, I don’t know that you’ll need parts, eh? I only said that if I had to order them...” She cut him off.

“What can I do then? Will you please go and see what my problem is?” She seemed to be getting herself in hand. Her voice had dropped several decibels. I guessed she was resigned to the situation.

“Yes, Ma’am,” the short bald man told her. I marveled at his patience. But then, he was seeing the same features I had. I could have been on the road and miles away by then. I wasn’t.

We all traipsed back out to the Jeep after the man got into his outdoor gear. We cleared most of the snow from the roof and windows. Hitting the starter briefly, he signaled her to stop. She and I pushed and the little man steered as we pushed the Jeep toward the open door of his garage. About halfway there, she turned her head to me. She seemed surprised I was still there, but she didn’t say anything.

Once we got it inside, he pushed a button and the door rumbled closed. A large heater hung on cables and pipes running from the ceiling, into it, and back out through the wall. It roared to life and began to drive the cold back. The man hooked up a booster/charger to the battery and a hose to the exhaust. The hose ran across the floor and disappeared through the outside wall. He told the woman to try the starter. It only took a few seconds for him to determine that her starter was shot. “Maybe the alternator, as well,” he added. “In this model the alternator is inside the starter.”

She slumped against the door of her car. Her long hair hung down, shielding her face. I glanced at the man and he looked back at me. He shrugged. It was too bad, it said, but he wasn’t going anywhere. And neither was she – at least that day. I cleared my throat.

She raised her face to look at me. I had expected tears, but her cheeks were dry and flushed an attractive shade of bronze. Her anger had receded, but it was still there. There was sadness, too, and something else. “I’m heading south,” I said simply. “I don’t know what your situation is, but I can get you to Fort Nelson.”

She stood up straight. It’s a great thing to know that something you have done or said has put hope back into a disappointed heart. She seemed to buoy up; as if her car troubles had deflated her and my announcement had puffed some fresh air into her. “I’m just passing through, but I can get you there. Getting back here to get your rig is up to you,” I added. (I have friends down south -- that’s south of Alaska and British Columbia -- in the continental U.S. -- who tell me it is an anomaly to call vehicles “rigs”, as if they were horse-drawn wagons. In the north, that’s what they’re called, so I’m sorry.)

She gave the man all her information while I trudged back to the truck and pulled it around to the door. I shed my own parka since the cab was nice and toasty by then (Rebel was panting). I turned the heat down. She came out and felt the heat when she opened the door. Quickly shrugging out of her coat, she poked Rebel’s butt to move him into the back (my truck has an extended cab -- one of the reasons I bought it was to take these trips with the dog) and jumped up into the passenger seat. She slammed the door and held out her hand.

“I’m Marjorie Johns,” she said. The surname is a common one in the north. “I live in Watson Lake.” If you don’t know, the town next to the lake has its name. She didn’t actually live ‘in a lake’.

“Don Billings,” I said and shook her hand. Hers was cool and narrow, but strong and calloused. Obviously she was used to working. We pulled out onto the road. Along the edge of Lake Muncho, there are no guard rails. I could only tell where the road was by the way the snow broke off suddenly to my right at the shore of the lake. The left side was thickly covered with trees at those spots where the rock face fell back enough. The road was the only unnatural surface in sight. It was flat and currently covered with a thick blanket of snow. I expected to come upon a plow at some point. The Canadian road crews were always working somewhere along the Alaska Highway, no matter the weather.

We drove a while in silence. After about ten miles (about fifteen minutes at the required speed) she turned to me. She asked about me. I told her as much as I wanted her to know. It was a new experience having company for this trip, so I probably let my mouth run a little more than I should have. When I stopped, she looked like she was going to ask something else, but I beat her to it. “What about you?” I asked. “What’s so important about getting to Fort Nelson today?”

At first I thought she wasn’t going to answer. Her mild expression turned stormy and she flashed me with an angry glance. Then her face softened. “I’m sorry. It’s just that this trip is so fucking stupid. I shouldn’t have to be here at all.” I thought that was all I was going to get, but she went on a few seconds later.

“My damn boyfriend has gotten himself into trouble,” she began. As the story came out, I learned more than I wanted to know about the Canadian justice system. Her guy had gone with a friend to help him remove some possessions from the house the friend had shared with his already ex-wife. He was moving out. Well, the split wasn’t as clear cut as the friend had led them to believe. The ex-wife called the cops. The end result was that Marjorie’s boyfriend and his buddy were in the custody of the Mounties in Fort Nelson, charged with burglary. They were both waiting for Marjorie to bail them out. Another kink in the tale was that if the boyfriend didn’t get back to Watson Lake in a timely manner, he would lose his job.

“I can’t thank you enough for helping me,” she said. I looked at her. She was looking back. Her anger had, at least for that moment, disappeared. She smiled and it was as if the interior of the truck had lit up. I felt my face flush and saw how truly beautiful she was. I just shrugged an ‘aw, shucks, ma’am’ and said that I was making the trip anyway and the company was welcome. I turned my eyes back to the road and looked around us as the day brightened. The sky was still overcast but it was broken a bit. The snow reflected the gray light. Through those stretches where we left the lakeside, everything was a fairyland of white, nearly unbroken snow. There were animal tracks here and there, leading to and from the lake. There were a few places where the water was still open and they could drink. When the overcast started to break up more, the sun peeking over the tops of the mountains, things got uncomfortable for my eyes. I pulled my sunglasses from the visor and put them on. She dug in her parka and put hers on.

“I make the trip every fall and back north every spring,” I told her. “I’m usually alone, so it’s kind of nice to have company, especially when the company is so attractive.” It was her turn to hide her blush, hiding it by turning her face to look out the window. I don’t know if it was my compliment or just her own way of doing things, but Marjorie began talking again. A half hour later I knew all there was to know about her disastrous relationship. Her boyfriend seemed to be a real dick. I always wonder why these women hook up with this kind of guy. We drove through the impossibly beautiful landscape and she talked. “Joe is a real handful. We got married just after I got out of high school in Whitehorse. I was pregnant at the time, but I lost the baby. We got divorced, then we got back together. I refused to marry him again.” It was a few minutes before she continued. “We didn’t have any more kids. Anyway, we moved around. He is a driver and heavy equipment operator. I asked him if we could go south -- to Vancouver or somewhere. He loves the North, though. I was born and raised up here, so I guess it’s okay. But it’s also a trap. I learned that a long time ago. My dad died when he didn’t make it walking home from a party one night in the winter. He slipped and hit his head. By the time they found him, he’d frozen.

“Joe could be my father.” She glanced at me and then hurried on. “I mean, he’s so much like him. He drinks more than he should and he stays out all night some nights. His boss has warned him already. He’s a great guy, but he has some bad habits. One of his bad habits is letting his love for his friends outweigh his obligation to me. That’s why this whole thing pisses me off so fucking bad. I told him if he loses this job, I’m history.” I really didn’t have anything to say about all that, so I said it. She fell silent for a while. When I glanced over at her I saw that she was asleep. At least her eyes were closed, so I drove on in silence.

The trees glowed in the bright morning sun. There was no track from earlier traffic. The snowplows hadn’t been there yet, so we just broke trail, four-wheel-drive all the way and following the flat break between the tall snow-shrouded pines and aspens that flanked the road and the flat expanse of the lake on the other side.

I came around a turn and had to stop myself from slamming on the brakes. A short way beyond the curve a mound of dirty looking snow, rocks and ice blocked the road. It was at least three times the height of my cab. Two R.C.M.P. cars -- SUV’s, of course -- were pulled up on the shoulder on the opposite side, about a hundred yards away. Mounties in orange parkas and gloves were waving as we came around the trees.

I had wondered why we’d seen no opposing traffic. Here was my answer. Apparently, from what the Mounties said, the slide had come down about dawn. As I sat with the frigid morning air rolling through the window, they gave me the disappointing news that we’d have to turn back. Marjorie made no sound at all. Just as the Mountie was trying to decide the best way for us to turn around, a clanking behemoth approached from our rear. It was a heavy duty snowplow truck with chains on, and pulling a trailer with a backloader on it. The driver unhitched the trailer before wheeling smartly around us in the truck. The Mountie backed off as the truck began pushing the snow, its blade biting into the bush alongside the road.

The driver obviously knew his job because after shoving that load aside, he backed off and cut into the edge of the mounded snow that was blocking us, shoving it toward the lake. His efforts soon bared a wide shelf of solid ground off the left side. Once it was clear he backed past us and a good ways behind, and just waited. With the Mountie’s help, I turned the truck and we returned the way we had just come. Marjie took Rebel off to pee while I got us checked in back at the Double G. I pulled around to the side door and grabbed our bags from the back. When I returned to the truck for the cooler, Marjie was running toward the door. Rebel was bouncing along beside her. He was in heaven. I never ran him like that. The idle thought drifted through my mind that I could leave him with her in Quesnel. Then she could keep him or I could pick him up when I went north again.

I discarded the idea almost immediately. I’ve never been one to slough my dogs off on other people. I was raised learning how to care for pets and the responsibility had taken root. Rebel was mine until he died -- or I did, whichever came first. Her cheeks were rosy when she got to me. The rain had soaked her hair and made mats out of Rebel’s fur. I grabbed the trash bag with Rebel’s towels in it from the back of the truck. He was going to need them.

In my room Marjie stripped to the skin and used one of the bath towels to dry off while I did the same for Rebel. I didn’t do such a good job on the dog because I was too busy watching Marjie. Her belly was flat and she had very little pubic hair. In the light from the nearly closed curtains I caught sight of a silvery line just below her navel that I hadn’t noticed that morning. I realized I was looking at a stretch mark from her pregnancy. It meant that she had been fairly well along when she lost the baby.

She was sitting on the bed with her hair forward as she toweled it. Suddenly she jerked her head up, flipping the curtain of hair to the back. She caught me watching her and her lips curled into a slow smile. She leaned back on her elbows and moved her knees apart. My heart thumped in my chest. It was such an erotic move I felt my mouth water. I dropped Rebel’s towel on the floor and walked on my knees to the bed. I moved between her legs and caressed her thighs. Her smile never wavered. I leaned forward. Her taste was wonderful. Once she climaxed, I stripped down and moved up on top of her.

Later we finished the vodka before we dressed and went out for dinner. I was surprised at how much she ate. When I commented, she just said I’d made her work up an appetite. We laughed and clinked our beer glasses together. We had another beer after dinner. Marjie had a shot with hers. I looked at my watch and saw that it was not quite 7:00. Before returning to the motel I made a stop at the liquor and grocery stores. I knew they were right next to each other so one stop took care of both needs.

I told Marjie to go in and get some stuff for snacking on while I walked over to the liquor store. We’d discussed the relative merits of American vs. Canadian beer over dinner. I bought a half case of my preferred (American) brand and a six-pack of Molson’s for Marjie. I stashed the beer in the truck and joined her in the grocery store. She was already in line. I examined what she’d picked out and dashed off to grab a couple more things that I wanted.

Back at the room we put everything that needed cooling in the cooler with some fresh ice. Marjie turned on the television and flipped through the channels. I called my brother and told him where I was. I hadn’t told him about Marjorie yet, since there hadn’t been any opportunity. It didn’t seem like a good time to try to explain her right then, either so I hung up letting him think it was just Rebel I meant when I accidentally said ‘we’ a couple of times during the conversation.

I opened the atlas and found the map of B.C. I confirmed what I thought I remembered from previous trips. It looked like roughly 60 or 70 miles to Chetwynd and another couple hundred to Prince George. Beyond that it was about 70 more miles to Quesnel. Under normal circumstances it was an easy drive. I’ve covered twice that much in a day on my earlier trips. Even with my slackened schedule I might have gone on to Williams Lake -- for a total mileage of just over 500.

I reminded myself that the road from Dawson Creek to Prince George led back across the Rockies. There was no telling what we’d run into up there in November. We were about 230 miles south of Fort Nelson at Dawson Creek, and the weather was fair. Climbing back into the mountains would take us back into winter. There was no certainty we’d make even Prince George by tomorrow night.

Between Chetwynd and P.G. there was only one place on the map that might have shelter that time of year. I’d never stayed at McLeod Lake, but it was a year-round community so I was confident something should be open. Long haul trucks make the trip all year round. Still, it was only a little over 200 miles from Dawson Creek to there. If it was an emergency, then we’d be fine. I hoped to get farther than that, however.

I closed the atlas and slid down to the pillow. Marjie had been watching some Canadian or British sitcom. I waited until it ended before asking her for the remote. She handed it to me and gave me a quick kiss before stumbling off to the bathroom. I recalled how much I’d seen her drink that night.

I flipped through the channels until I located the weather channel. So far they were forecasting decent weather where we’d be traveling the next day. I offered up a little prayer that it would hold. I sat up and took off my shirt. I sat on the bed and popped another beer while waiting for Marjie to finish getting ready for bed. She came out just as I was draining my beer. I stood up and looked at her. She was naked. We hadn’t been together long enough for the wonder of her beauty to have paled for me. I just let my eyes caress all her curves and valleys. She continued across the room to me and hugged me. She smelled great. She hadn’t showered, but she didn’t need to. I inhaled her natural scent and rubbed her round butt. She bit my nipple and I was instantly erect.

“Let me go brush my teeth and get out of these clothes. I have plans for you.”

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll warm up your spot.” I assumed she meant the bed, but then I wasn’t sure if that was the spot she meant. I let go of her and walked into the bathroom. I noticed that she had washed her panties again, along with her tee shirt. She hadn’t brought any clothes with her at all. In Ft. Nelson she had picked up a sweat shirt and some long johns along with the spare panties. I hoped neither of us would need the long underwear. If we did, it would mean we would probably be walking.