The winter road looks completely different by day. Last night, all I could see was the ribbon of packed snow illuminated by the semi’s headlights. Other than that, the world was a suffocating black. But now trees rise up around us on every side, dwarfing the skinny man-made trail and making me more aware than ever that we are in the wilderness, and Mother Nature is in control.
“Do you ever get nervous driving the winter roads?” I ask my mother.
“I’m respectful of them,” she says, “but I’m also prepared. So no, I’m not usually nervous. If I had truck trouble I couldn’t fix, or if I was caught in a storm, I’d be fine until another vehicle came along. Remote as the area is, it still gets traffic.”
I point to the remains of a rusted camper in the trees off to the side. “Looks like not everyone makes it out.”
Mom shakes her head and clucks her tongue. “Some people use the winter roads to get rid of derelict cars, rotting boats and other trash.”
“The wilderness isn’t a garbage dump.”
“Unfortunately, not everyone thinks that way.”
“Why don’t they get arrested or fined?”
“The authorities have to catch them first, and there just isn’t the manpower. But all that’s going to change. The government is in the process of building permanent roads and bridges to link all the remote communities in the province. Increased traffic should help cut down on illegal dumping.”
“You mean they’re building honest-to-goodness real roads?”
She nods. “Yes. Within the next twenty-five years, the ice and snow roads in Manitoba will be a thing of the past. And that’s a good thing.”
“What’s that?” I sit up and point to a splotch of red in the middle of the road. As we get closer, I can see a smear of red leading away from the main stain and ending beside a brown mound on Mom’s side of the truck.
“Dead deer,” she says. “My guess is it had a run-in with a vehicle—and lost. Not that long ago either.”
We exchange looks, and although I’m pretty sure we’re both thinking the same thing, neither of us says a word. We haven’t passed any vehicles since leaving Pauingassi, and there was only one heading out on the road before us—a shiny red semi.
Deer get hit by cars and trucks every day. They dart out of the bush and onto the road before drivers can react. I know that. And yet I’m not willing to give Dwayne Bradley the benefit of the doubt. In my mind, his recklessness is what killed the deer. The guy only cares about himself. So I’m a bit concerned that Mom and I have to drive behind him. If he’s speeding, he could chew the winter road to bits, and that would not be good news for us. I’m especially worried about the damage he might do to Round Lake. If he breaks the ice before we get there, we’ll be stranded.
“I can’t believe how hot it is.” I fan myself and peel off my jacket.
Mom adjusts the heat in the cab. “The forecast is for a high of fifteen today. That’s really warm for mid-March. If this mini heat wave continues, the winter roads will shut down. I’m glad we’re heading home.”
As we pass Little Grand Rapids, we see Harvey and Finn fueling up their semi, getting ready to head out. Mom lays on the horn. They look up, smile and wave. I wave too and then sigh and lean back in my seat. So much for getting to know Finn. I’ll probably never see him again.
The return drive is pretty uneventful, which is fine with me. The sun is shining, and Mom and I are gabbing and laughing as we make our way back toward Bloodvein. At lunchtime, we park in a pull-off and eat. Things between us feel more like they used to, and I’m happier than I’ve been since before my dad died.
The sun is already low and has lost its heat by the time we reach Round Lake. Considering that Dwayne got here ahead of us, I half expect to see broken ice floating haphazardly over the surface of the lake. I imagine Mom and me abandoning the truck and hopping across the floes to reach the other side. I don’t share this thought with my mother though. Actually, the ice looks as solid as it did when we drove across it last night. Even so, I undo my seat belt and hang on to the door handle.
“We’re making good time,” Mom says as she eases the semi onto the lake. “At this rate we could be home at a reasonable hour.”
The ice groans and creaks beneath the truck’s weight.
“Are you sure it’s safe?” I ask, my nose pressed against the side window. “It was pretty hot today.”
Mom smiles. “It’s fine, Kat. Don’t worry. It takes more than a couple of warm days to melt the ice.”
“If you say so,” I concede, though I continue to study the lake for cracks.
We ride in silence for about five minutes, and then Mom mumbles, “What the…”
I look out the front window and gasp. Up ahead, sitting sideways on the ice road with its grill pushed into the far snowbank, is Dwayne’s semi.
“He must have lost control,” I say.
“The way he’s been driving, I wouldn’t be surprised,” Mom grumbles. “That guy is a menace on the road. First the ice wave, then the deer, and now this. I’ve had it with him. When we get back to Winnipeg, I’m calling the authorities.” She slows down so much, we’re barely moving. “Can you see him?” she asks me.
I squint into the dying light, trying to see around and under the semi. I shake my head. “No. What if he’s hurt?”
“There’s only one way to find out. As much as I’d like to kick the little jerk in his sorry butt, we can’t leave him here if he’s in trouble.” She heaves a heavy sigh. Then she slips the truck into neutral and sets the brake.
“I thought you weren’t supposed to stop on an ice road,” I remind her.
She hops out and looks across the cab at me. “Well, I don’t really have a choice, do I? But it should be fine. I’m parked a safe distance from his rig, and I’m not hauling anything. Neither is he, so weight shouldn’t be a problem. Stay here. I’ll be right back.”
Should be fine? Shouldn’t be a problem? Yeah right, Mom. Until the truck plunges through the ice and I end up at the bottom of the lake. I jump down from my side of the cab and run after her.
She frowns at me when I catch up. “I told you to stay in the truck.”
I’m not about to admit I’m too paranoid to do that, so I say, “Considering your frame of mind, I thought you might need a referee. Since I don’t know how to drive the semi out of here, I can’t risk you and Dwayne killing each other.”
She rolls her eyes and keeps walking. “Dwayne,” she calls as we near his vehicle. It’s still running. “Where are you? Are you okay?” She gestures for me to head around to the passenger side of the truck while she jogs toward the driver’s side.
There’s no sign of him, so I walk to the front of the cab, where the grill is mashed into the snowbank. He’s not there either. I scan the road and the snow-covered lake beyond. If he went out there and fell, we’ll never find him.
Mom calls his name again and bangs on the cab, so I hurry around to the other side of the truck, arriving just as she yanks the door open and steps up onto the running board.
“Oh god,” she says in a voice that sends dread shooting through me.
“What? What’s wrong?”
She climbs into the cab without answering. I jump onto the running board and peer inside. Lying on the floor between the seats—half in the front and half in the back—is Dwayne. He isn’t moving. Mom is wedged between the dashboard and the passenger seat. Her fingers are searching his neck for a pulse.
I hold my breath and wait.