hazard lights, blinking on the shoulder

The sun is beginning to set, though this far north... that doesn't mean much. I have at least 4 hours of light remaining, and as such, I am going to push onwards to the Arctic, so long as I can make out the next few inches of road ahead. Nevertheless, the schedule I once set for myself has already driven further than I.

On the road, every moment is a tradeoff. To stop and pee, or to drive? To see what you've come to see and take a short walk, or to drive? To rest a moment and eat a meal, or to drive? The latter is the most conflicting, frankly.

I am hungry this evening, having already driven through lunch, but a meal is nothing more than another delay. Nevertheless, biology overrides my schedule: On Canada's Yellowhead Highway, I pull into a river overlook. I drop the tailgate, I pull out my stove: for dinner, ground beef and butter noodles. I have always considered food to be more essential rather than pleasure... and so it remains.

The sky is golden, as it has been and will be, and the river beneath is an icy blue. I am an addict, unable to say no: fast flowing freeze always entices me, but in this moment, fear delays. I stand on a rock, minute after minute, unable to decide between an extremely brisk shower or more of my comfortable squalor.

Then I am reminded of the time. And so I take a deep breath, and jump.

An hour later, I am flying. I want to feel something, and I would like to feel it soon. I want to find the edge of the Earth; I want to reach a place so distant, and I am compelled to do so, in part to simply show anyone watching that I can, for no reason good. And so I move ever and ever faster: 60, 65, 70, 75, 80, 85mph. The darker the sky gets, stupidly the faster I seem to go. Until I find myself jetting out of the treeline south of McBride, BC. And around a blind corner I cruise, with only a few seconds to lay sight on what's ahead: an old truck, an old camper, and an old couple, on the shoulder, with their hazards blinking.

Unfortunately for them, I have places to be. And even worse, they look a little bit sketchy. That's a hard claim to validate with a split second drive by, but a destination – not an adventure – is my wish today, so I continue on.

What I did not anticipate is a straight road ahead: one which is straight enough to allow me to stare back at them in the mirror for one or two moments. And in those moments, my chest begins to weigh. My palms begin to sweat. My mind attempts to justify. I race past one small pullout – "Well, too late to turn around there," I think to myself. But it has now been 30 seconds, and I am consumed. This far out there, who is to help them, but me?

Overwhelmed, I slam the brakes – foot after foot, 7,000lbs of truck and gear bound for the Arctic Circle eventually slows. Inevitably, I begin to turn around.

The scene I've come across is actually worse than I thought: the passenger side front tire has completely blown out. But the people I meet are actually far less sketchy than I thought: Humphrey and Deanna are relatively local (it's a subjective thing up here), and headed out on a little vacation of their own. The previous owner of the truck was meticulous with everything – which led Humphrey to believe the truck, for all the years he owned it, had everything. But it didn't, and this red Ram was missing both her lug wrench and her jack.

Both of which would be incredibly difficult to source on the side of the highway in the middle of nowhere, but both of which I had in preparation for this trip – for my own use. But what I would come to find in the coming hour, and the coming days and weeks, was that nothing I had built or planned or designed for myself, would be used for myself. Including my jumper cables: after swapping Humphrey's tire and loading the blown one into his rear seat, I was soon to depart – until I heard the terrifying sound of an engine turning over on a dead battery.

So, on a blind corner in rural British Columbia, I pulled nose-to-nose, handed one side of the cables to Humphrey, hooked my side up, and gave them a jump. And seeing as every good story must involve the law in some form or fashion, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police happened to stumble upon us – after the work had been done. Being a foreigner – even worse, an American in a truck that Canada considers highly modified and illegal – I did the most responsible thing possible:

I shook Humphrey's hand, immediately got in my truck, and left before having my first of three encounters with the RCMP.

For what it's worth, the following tire changes – one for a local outside Whitehorse, two for separate German tourists trying to drive to the Arctic Circle in rental trucks – didn't require highly-debated U-turns.

But last week, driving home from Asheville to Charleston, traffic was backed up for miles. We were late to walk the dogs we were supposed to be watching. We climbed one of Interstate 26's world class hills, but upon descent, appeared an old Dodge.

Broken down, two young ladies sitting inside.

I knew the choice in that moment: delay my day, and help them. Or remain on schedule, and let them fend for themselves?

I made excuse after excuse in my mind as Grace sat next to me, oblivious to the battle in my head. We came alongside them, and I kept on rolling past muttering something about how there was no good place to hook up a tow rope.

Somehow, I could only come up with the the worst lie possible.

Because in the bed of my truck sits a world class tow kit, gifted to me by Factor55 at an Overland Expo event last year, with every shackle and rope one could wish for. It is still in its packaging. In my head, I said "Somebody else is probably better equipped to tow those girls." But in reality, there was no one – not a single person in that five miles of traffic all jammed behind a single Dodge, better equipped to help than me.

Yet I didn't.

In church last Sunday, I saw my pastor's arm (Hey Jared). And on his arm sits a tattoo which reads, "The Art of Letting Go." I thought back to that moment on the highway, and I thought back to that moment in rural Canada.

Bryce en route to the Arctic was taught to let go – of direction, goals, and time. But Bryce 6 months later...

The schedule and the clock dictate so much of our lives, yet they bring nothing but anxieties and stress. In contrast, the goodness I have experienced has most often come about when I subject Time to its Creator.