The entire downtown of Norman Wells was within a block of the police station. Not much here, Webb thought. A couple of restaurants. Couple of hotels. He checked into one of them and left his guitar in the room when he went out to explore the town.
Webb knew that in a town of seven hundred, there was no point in expecting steel and glass skyscrapers and traffic lights and crowds thick enough to hide pickpockets. There was no shame in being small.
In comparison to what was around it though, Norman Wells was just as impressive as Toronto. Given the thousands and thousands and thousands of square kilometers of uninhabited wilderness, a collection of seven hundred people was a welcome metropolis.
Webb had watched the bush and trees and water pass beneath the Canadian North jet all the way from Yellowknife, and what struck him most was the complete lack of roads outside of Norman Wells.
When he pictured wilderness, there were usually roads in and out and around the bush and trees and water.
Not here.
You want out?
You fly.
Or travel up or down the Mackenzie River on a barge.
Or walk.
Winter, you want out?
You fly.
Or travel down winter roads cut through the bush or on the Mackenzie River on the ice highway north of Yellowknife.
Or walk.
Webb knew all of this from the websites he’d googled on his iPod, but it had a lot more impact up close. All that bush and water, filled with bears and moose and wolves.
Which made what was ahead of him seem even scarier.
One hundred and ten kilometers of walking.
The store—appropriately called The Northern—smelled weird.
Webb stepped inside and saw shelves packed with groceries and a bewildering variety of items, from DVDs to canned peaches to red long johns.
One section had all the stuff he needed to walk a hundred and ten kilometers through a bear-filled, wolf-infested, roadless wilderness.
Webb took a nylon backpack from the wall. Not the kind kids use for hauling stuff to and from school, but one with an aluminum frame that could carry a hundred pounds if needed.
A hundred pounds of rocks.
He took it to the front counter and pulled one of the bank cards out of his wallet.
The guy behind the counter had a leathery, wrinkled face; it looked as if he’d walked to the Yukon and back dozens of times.
Webb put the card on the counter. He had the bank cards to cover any and all expenses that he might face on the journey. Mr. Devine had said that he was allowed to keep whatever was left over after his trip, so the less he spent now, the better. Maybe he’d be able to pay off his guitar. Buy some decent clothes.
“Happy to hold the pack here while you get the rest of what you need,” the old man said, his voice sounding like the rumble of a train coming from the far side of a long tunnel. “You don’t need to leave your card on the counter to reserve it or anything.”
Webb knew the guy could tell he wasn’t a regular here. Of course, in a town of seven hundred, you’d know who lived here and who didn’t.
“How much time you spend in the bush?” Webb asked.
“You mean over the last forty years?”
It was all Webb needed for an answer.
“All I want right now is the backpack,” Webb said. “I’ll come back for the rest later.”
The man grunted and swiped the bank card. His machine spat out a slip of paper. Webb took it from him before the man could check the balance on the card. Webb didn’t want anyone else knowing how much money he was carrying around, even if it wasn’t cash.
“You have any idea what the rest is going to be?” the man behind the counter asked.
“Just what I’ve read about online,” Webb said. “My guess is you know much better than any website what it would take to last a week or two out there. Could you help me?”
The man looked hard at Webb, before extending his hand across the counter.
“Name’s Joey Nicol. Glad to help.”
Webb shook his hand but didn’t offer his own name. “I need supplies for two weeks of hiking,” he said. “Nothing more. I hate carrying more than I have to.”
When he’d lived on the street, the older men and women stole shopping carts to keep their stuff in. Not Webb. If you couldn’t run carrying it, no sense owning it.
“Smart,” Joey said. “Not many people figure that out until they are on the trail. My advice? Don’t get it unless you are going to use it every day. I had a couple of German tourists in here buying a bunch of stuff they might only use once or twice on the whole trip. Like a solar camp shower. Sounds good when you’re in the store, but not after you’ve carried it for ten miles. I couldn’t even talk them out of a heavy-duty flashlight, even though we’ve got twenty-four hours of daylight this time of year.”
Webb nodded, picked up the backpack and headed toward the door.
“Hey,” Joey said. “Watch out for Brent Melrose. I heard you broke his nose.”
Webb stopped, half turned and shrugged like he didn’t know what Joey meant.
“Bulldozer mechanic. We all know what he’s like. Spent five years in jail after busting up a guy in a bar fight.”
So this was life in a small town. Everyone knowing your business.
“Sure,” Webb said. “I’ll watch out for him.”
“You don’t sound worried. You should be. Someone said his girlfriend got back on the southbound jet and left town.”
Webb smiled. It felt good to hear that.
“Nothing funny about it,” Joey said, obviously not understanding Webb’s smile. “You cost him his girlfriend and you busted his nose. He’ll run you down like a dog if he can.”
“Okay, I’m worried now,” Webb said. But not too worried. He’d been beaten up before and had learned he could handle it.
Webb put his hand on the door, but Joey wasn’t finished.
“Not one person in town’s sorry to hear about what happened at the airport,” he said. “So thanks.”