‘The Ice Road’ by Trish Gauntlett

Two weeks out, I dream we are driving across the ice bridge, dream it cracks and roars, dream we race the widening gap to the other side of the Mackenzie River. 

It’s winter, it’s my seventieth birthday, and my husband and I are going to drive the legendary Dempster Highway, 737 kilometres of unpaved road from the Klondike Highway near Dawson City in the Yukon to Inuvik in the Northwest Territories. 

We are gearing up. At the outdoor equipment store in North Vancouver, I ask the young man to help me find a balaclava. He’s helpful and mildly interested, probably thinking I’m going to walk the West Vancouver seawall in winter. I tell him I need it for temperatures which could reach minus 40. I have his attention now. 

“Where are you going?” 

“We’re driving the Dempster Highway — in March.” 

“Wow, that’s awesome!” He’s with me now. The Dempster has a reputation for being one of Canada’s most dangerous roads, a year-round thrill ride from which no windshield emerges unscathed. 

He takes great time and care with me then, interested in the trip, glad that I’m preparing properly. He finds me a neoprene balaclava, a smooth black hood with just an eye opening. I try it on at his insistence, and it feels good. 

“Would you like to see it in the mirror?” he asks. 

“No,” I say, “no.” I’ve long passed the point where looking in the mirror delivers any rewards. 

“Come on, come and see it in the mirror,” he says as he walks across the store, waving at me to come with him. 

I follow him to the mirror, turn and look. 

“You see,” he says, “you look like a ninja warrior!”