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Chapter 2
The ninety-mile trek across the ice road to Yellowknife is slow and uneventful. The city is the capital of the Northwest Territories and the only place where I can outfit myself to survive the winter alone. It’s the only real city for hundreds of miles, complete with tourism and a Wal-Mart. I try to stay away from tourist areas even this late in the season, but sometimes it can’t be helped. Still, it makes my skin crawl to be around a lot of people.
Too many years locked away in close quarters with the other murderers, thieves, dealers, and all-around criminals took its toll on my ability to socialize with “normal” society, not that my childhood was normal. Fuck, I sure hope my upbringing wasn’t the norm though it would explain why people are so shitty to each other.
I complete most of my shopping at Co-op and then head to the Yellowknife Book Cellar. It’s quiet inside—far too cold now for the tourists to be looking for a summer read—and I’m grateful for it. I browse for an hour before I pick out six books ranging from popular fiction to a non-fiction title about the Underground Railroad. I don’t read a lot during the winter months, but it’s less frustrating than trying to get the radio to pick up a signal.
I check my list against the items in the back of the Jeep, trying to figure out why I have a niggling feeling in the back of my head that I’ve forgotten something. I’ve already checked three times, but I’ve been paranoid about forgetting something important ever since I neglected to buy black pepper two years ago.
Though it only impacted the seasoning of my food, it had me worried that I would forget something needed for survival.
Sometimes, paranoia is a good thing.
I climb back into the Jeep and let it run for a minute to warm up, then head back to the Yellowknife Highway. Hopefully, whatever I have forgotten can be found in Whatì, my last stop.
I get off the highway near Edzo and head off-road, following the edge of the lake for a few miles until I get to the top. I turn the Jeep east over rocky terrain for about three miles until I hit a dried-up riverbed. In a few weeks, it will be an ice-road and traveled only by the very brave. I follow the bed until I get to a dirt road. I use the road for a few more miles until I get to its northernmost point. If I were to turn right and drive east, I would come to a small lake, veer left and off the road again to my cabin near the rocks. Instead, I turn west and head toward Whatì in the Tlicho Lands—the nearest settlement to my cabin.
Whatì is a hunting and fishing village set on the edge of Lac La Martre, one of the largest lakes in the territory. With just under five hundred residents, mostly Dene people, Whatì is a self-governed community with a chief and a council. I can’t speak their language—I can’t even properly pronounce the name of the settlement or the region—but the people seem to have accepted me in the area anyway.
Thanks to Margot.
The Tlicho Lands are a great place for all kinds of fishing and hunting. Caribou are plentiful as are black bears and wolves. The lake near Whatì has the best trout and pike fishing around, and the settlement has been pushing the summer tourist trade. Despite the drought in recent years, trees are still in abundance, and I can find plenty of fuel for heating and cooking. If I’m desperate for some commodity during the winter months, and the Jeep won’t run or runs out of fuel, I can make it to Whatì in less than a day on foot. When I first traveled to the area, I stayed there and learned how to hunt, fish, and track game. I still occasionally make contact with the people who taught me.
Glancing down the road, I briefly consider heading into the small fishing village. I could go down to the docks and buy some fish to supplement the rest of my winter stores. Margot would almost certainly be there, and she’d give me that look she gives when she thinks she knows what I want. She’d assume I’d come to see her, and she wouldn’t be completely wrong. Ultimately, it isn’t fair to lead her on. She knows I’m not going to change my mind and come back to live in Whatì.
Regardless, I wasn’t planning any social visits on this trip, and I’m anxious to return to my own space. The cabin is a great place to be alone, which is how I have lived for the past three years. Three years since I moved out of Margot’s abode and into my silent, isolated cabin. It is best for everyone that I remain on my own.
Safer, too.
I park my Jeep in one of three spaces at Broken Toy’s Gas and Goods off the Yellowknife Highway just before the actual settlement of Whatì. Broken Toy’s is always my last stop because of the fuel and because I like the shop owner. I gas up the Jeep and fill the spare gas can before going inside.
Warmth greets me as I open the door to the shop.
“How’s it goin’, Bishop?” Kirk waves from behind the counter.
“Same,” I reply bluntly.
Kirk has long, black hair and is usually wearing a cowboy hat when not outside. He came from somewhere in Ohio but lived in New Orleans before the hurricane wiped him out. Though I know he’s done time from the prison-style tattoos on his arms and neck, I have no idea where or for what. The first time we encountered each other, we just seemed to know we had similar roots. We’d never talk about it, but it has given us an unspoken bond. It’s obvious that he’s hiding from his past the same as I am.
“Supply trip?” Kirk asks.
“Why else would I be here?” I shake my head. I don’t care for small talk, and Kirk knows it.
He laughs and motions me over to the counter.
“I’ve been working on a new piece.” He pulls a small canvas out from under the counter. On the canvas is a sketch of a bunch of caribou and animated snowmen, but it’s nothing like the traditional art of the First Nations. Kirk’s style is a little edgier. The caribou are stylized cartoons with zombie eyes and wearing ragged parkas.
“I’m thinking of using a lot of greens and reds,” Kirk says. “You know—for Christmas!”
“You aren’t right.” I laugh and shake my head. The dude is undoubtedly talented, but I’m not so sure he sells many of his works around here.
“Maybe I’ll do your portrait,” Kirk says. “With your build, manly scruff, and those dreamy blue eyes, all the girls in the territory will fight over it!”
Kirk uses his hand to fan his face and acts like he’s hyperventilating.
“Fuck you.” I flip him off and look back to the shelves.
“I’m just a broken toy! Says so on the sign outside!” Kirk grins and stashes the canvas below the counter as I head to the supplies.
