3,154 Kilometers

I decided to spend the day resting at a truck stop near Mountain Home.

Blowing straight through Montana had put too many miles between Dave and me, and that sat wrong. In a world coming unglued, letting the distance stretch that far felt like I owed him something — and I needed the rest myself.

I could use a beer, too.

The moment I stepped into the truck-stop diner, I walked into another unexpected welcome. Word had already gotten around. A few truckers recognized me, stood up from their tables, and came over.

"You're the Korean Chan, aren't you. Heard the story."

An old trucker offered his hand. Men at the other tables said nothing — just tipped their heads toward me, a quiet greeting, the way you acknowledge a colleague you've known for years.

It was disorienting, being treated like somebody. Then I understood. This was the stubborn solidarity of men who spent their lives alone on the road.

I was nearly finished eating when three or four truckers drifted over to my table. One of them cleared his throat and spoke carefully.

"If it's not an imposition — mind if we buy you a beer? That Polar Bear story made quite an impression."

"I'm staying the night anyway. Wouldn't say no."

They grinned, fetched a few bottles from the bar, and settled in around me.

The talk wandered for a while. Then one of them looked at me with open curiosity.

"Heard you learned that trick with Bill in the service... If you don't mind my asking, would you tell us a little about your time in the military?"

"I served in Korea and France."

He nodded, interested. The man beside him cut in.

"France? That ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠wouldn't have been a deployment. Then... Foreign Legion?"

"That's right."

A low murmur of appreciation moved around the table.

"Well, I'll be damned. The genuine article just walked in."

Someone was laying it on thick. Someone else tossed out a joke.

"Hell, here we were thinking we'd look out for you — turns out you don't need anybody's help! Haha!"

I was no longer just a handy Asian trucker. In that moment I became something else to them: a man who had walked through hard country and come out the other side. A comrade they could actually trust.

Then a massive figure who had been standing behind the group stepped forward. He held out a huge, callused hand and spoke in a low voice.

"Polar Bear. Running into you again. Guess we were headed the same way."

"Hey!"

Bill's friend. The one from the Twin Falls truck stop.

"Proper introductions this time. Name's Gunner. I did my time with the Marines — Afghanistan and Iraq."

There was a particular look in his eyes: the look of a man who has recognized one of his own. I took his hand.

"Good to meet you. I was in the Middle East and North Africa."

The faces around us changed again. Curiosity and respect were still there — and now, underneath them, a flicker of something closer to awe.

Gunner's brow twitched, just slightly, and he went on.

"You never keep your back to the door for long, do you."

I was impressed, and I didn't show it. He was reading how I saw the room — how I used it.

"Old habit..."

He didn't press. He already had the answer. A great deal of information passed between us in those few words.

The talk with Gunner and the others ran late. It had been a long time since conversation with strangers had felt this easy.

Somewhere in the middle of it I entertained the thought of forming up with them — and then I let it go. Everyone had their own circumstances. And being a trucker was no guarantee you could trust a man.

Not yet.

Acknowledging one another's goodwill at a careful distance was enough. For now, anyway. I left their hospitality behind and walked back to my truck.

This time I called Dave first.

He picked up before the phone had even finished a few rings, voice bright with pleasure.

"Dave."

"Chan! Perfect timing. We just pulled out!"

He sounded more alive than I had heard him in a long time.

"We?"

"Yeah — me, Frank, and Mike too!"

Mike. We had worked the loading dock together at ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Nisku. A little older, easy to be around, always good-humored and solid as a rock.

"Mike too? I figured that old man would keep working right where he was."

"His son's down south, apparently. Right now I've got Frank's camper and Mike's van strung out behind my pickup and trailer. Quite the procession."

That got a laugh out of me. Then I settled my voice and laid out a few things he needed to hear.

"Dave, listen carefully. Once you cross the border, do not stop at small rest areas or isolated pull-offs. Period. Flying J, Pilot — the big truck stops only."

"Why? Something going on?"

"The States have gotten ugly too. Word is small-scale looting and robbery are popping up more than you'd like. Being careful won't hurt you."

"Got it. News up here hasn't had a single decent story in days... I'll keep it in mind. We'll watch ourselves."

We confirmed Boise as the next rendezvous and hung up.

Alone in the trailer, I switched on the TV. The news was grim, same as always.

Dave's going to have a hell of a time.

I shut the TV off. The talk of border controls sat on my chest like a weight. A great iron gate could slam shut before Dave and the others ever made it across.

I couldn't just sit here and pray they got through.

I had said it myself: there was no guarantee these convenient little phone calls would keep working. This might be the last chance.

I called Dave again without hesitating.

"Chan, what now? What's going on?"

"Can you talk? Anyone around?"

"Yeah, you're on speaker. We just pulled into a rest stop — we're in Mike's van. Frank's listening too. What's up?"

"Hey, Chan."

"Hey — it's Mike."

"Frank. Mike. All of you, listen carefully. This is a contingency plan. If the border checkpoint shuts down or you can't get through."

I could feel the three of them go still on the other end.

"I scouted a bypass before I crossed."

"Huh? When did you — and why?"

"Long story. Just listen."

"Yeah. Okay."

"It's a bypass peeling off east of the Coutts checkpoint. On the map it'll probably show as rural road 345. There's an entrance about twenty kilometers east of the port of entry."

I unfolded the map in my head and walked them through it as precisely as I could.

"The road is unpaved. Further on, an old railroad crosses it. The second you clear those tracks, take an immediate left — there's a side road running south along a little creek."

"Yeah. Yeah."

"That road ties ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠into I-15 on the American side. Here's the important part: somebody dug a ditch right across the middle of that track. About three meters wide, a meter and a half deep. My truck couldn't make it. A pickup and a trailer can, no problem — just slow down and ease through."

"..."

"I'll put all of that in a text with the coordinates so you don't forget. Last resort only."

I added one more thing.

"And if... if you make it across and we lose contact, don't panic. Just pull into any truck stop."

"And then?"

"Grab any trucker you see and ask them to put a message out on CB channel 19. Tell them it's for Polar Bear Chan."

"Polar Bear Chan? Haha! Made friends in the States already? Even got yourself a nickname."

Dave needled me, then his tone shifted.

"But, Chan."

"Yeah."

"Does a CB even reach that far?"

"Aigoo, that's not how it works. Southbound truckers will keep passing it along. It'll find me."

"..."

"Haha. Okay, okay. I'll remember, Polar Bear Chan."

He had it. We confirmed Boise one more time and hung up.

The second the call ended I opened the memo app and typed the route as clean and exact as I could make it. Coordinates. The major turns. The location of that sly little ditch and how to cross it. Then I sent the whole thing to Dave.

My finger felt heavy on the send button. I had done everything I could. The rest was on them.

I sank deep into the trailer's sofa and, out of habit, picked up the phone and opened the ELD app — the electronic logbook that recorded every mile the truck rolled. I pulled the record from the moment I left Yellowknife to now.

More than three thousand kilometers. Actual road miles, counting every curve and every detour.

I opened the map and checked the straight-line distance. From Yellowknife to Mountain Home, Idaho: about twenty-two hundred kilometers as the crow flies.

No wonder the cold's been easier to take. We've come a long way south.

The thermometer outside still sat well past minus twenty-two Celsius. For an Idaho December, that was no kind of normal.

It only felt warm compared to the bone-cutting cold of northern Canada. This country was not free of The Great Winter's shadow either.

The phase of running blindly south was over. From here on, I had to survive on American soil. I could feel it: a new reality of shifting rules and threats I couldn't predict, and I was going to have to adapt.

As a new resident of this mad world.

I leaned back into the sofa and picked up the remote. The truck stop's paid cable kicked in, and the snowy picture snapped clean.

Even in all this chaos, money could still buy you a taste of civilization. There was a strange comfort in that.

I turned to the news, same as always. The world on the screen was still painting a vision of hell. Chicago had rioted over food distribution. Denver had seen a firefight between the National Guard and an armed militia. Looting, arson, shootings — it was starting to sound like background noise.

Then my hand stopped on the remote.

A local channel was showing a place I knew.

The old gas station. The shabby diner. The quiet little Montana rest stop I had painted with blood a few days ago.

Police tape ringed the property. A handful of sheriffs were working the scene.

I held my breath and watched. A moment later a middle-aged sheriff with a heavy beard stepped in front of the camera and started his briefing.

He went on in a flat, almost bored voice.