Chapter 1

Amy

July 3, 1990

Northern BC / Alaska Highway

Morning

People say it’s about the journey, not the destination. I suppose that’s true. . . if there is a destination. What if there is only a journey?

A miserable one.

I do my best to ease the cramps in my legs by wiggling my toes and tensing my thighs. As the oldest of three sisters, I’ve earned the privilege of sitting near the window, with only one body pressed against me instead of two. Unfortunately, on long drives, my stomach doesn’t care that it has a preferred seat and is upset regardless. Each bump is agony. The best way to soothe it is to keep a steady eye on the road, anticipating each dip and swerve before it arrives. Thus, I peer out the windshield of our 1988 Ford truck, watching the winding curves of the road as we travel the Alaska Highway, hoping my stomach won’t rebel at an inopportune time. I wonder why the road must be so impossibly curvy.

“This highway was originally designed and built during World War Two” my mother calls out from the front seat, as if she has heard my thoughts. She sounds as if she’s reciting from a guidebook. She likely read one recently. “It follows the natural contours of the land to minimize environmental impact.”

My nine-year old sister Beth looks up from her portable Game Boy console. “Natural contours of the land?”

“She means the highway’s twists around mountains and rivers and lakes,” Dad says as he turns the steering wheel to pull us around a curve.

“Uh-huh.” Beth resumes her game, thumbs flicking quickly.

From the far side of the vehicle, Marion kicks out her legs, trying to touch the back of Dad’s seat with her toes. Even for a six-year-old, she’s remarkably tiny. I predict she’ll be in the front row of all her class pictures until she graduates. “Are we in Alaska?” she asks.

“No,” I tell her.

Leaning past Beth, Marion turns her cherub-blue eyes towards me and blinks. “Are we heading to Alaska? My kindergarten teacher read me a book about polar bears once.”

This time my father manages to answer. “The farthest we’ll get is Watson Lake. That’s in the

Yukon.”

“The frontier town of the Yukon,” Mom chirps, waving a pamphlet she picked up at the last gas station.

Marion scratches her head. “Are we in Canada still?”

I sigh. “Yes.”

“Tomorrow too?”

“And the day after,” I say. “And the day after that. The entire time we’re stuck in this—”

Mom peeks over her shoulder and gives me a be nice warning look. I bite my tongue, literally, then grind my teeth. Anything to suppress my emotions. Annoyance and bitterness claw at me, as close to the surface as the nausea that assails my stomach.

I shouldn’t be here, trapped in the world’s smallest car, cramped and sticky with heat. At eleven, my summer holidays are precious and should be dedicated to swimming excursions, spray parks, and bicycle rides. My friend Claire is en route to Disneyland! Rhonda is visiting her cousins in Winnipeg. I’d love either of those vacations, but honestly, I’d be fine just staying home in Grande Prairie, taking in the same sights I’ve witnessed since I was born.

Where are we heading? Nowhere, really. We are a meagre troupe of intrepid explorers, setting off to find treasure.

Boring treasure.

My father’s profession is geology. Don’t get excited and think he scours the earth for gold and jewels. Nope. He specializes in industrial minerals—barite, gypsum and zeolite. I know quite a few facts about these, thanks to riveting supper conversations over the years. Barite is really heavy. It’s used as “drilling mud,” which means it’s pushed down mining holes, to push up other rocks.

Dull, huh?

As an expert in exploration, Dad travels a lot during the warmer months. Mom manages the household alone, weeping between long-distance phone calls, while my sisters and I play Barbies and decorate the sidewalk with chalk.

Well, we used to. I’m too old to play with dolls. Junior high school is calling soon.

And this year, Mom decided that all three of her children are old enough now to join in on the summer travels.

“We love our father and want to be with him,” she told us as she packed our bags.

Yes. I love my dad. Yes. I want to be with him . . . someplace normal. Rock quarries and drill sites? Not my idea of fun. Unfortunately, even if there was a vote, I’d be outvoted.

Marion is excited to be old enough to be involved in anything. Beth doesn’t care what we do or where we go, as long as she can take her Game Boy. Mom is excited to learn new things—“Who wants to find out why pyrite is called fool’s gold?”—and Dad is grateful for the company.

I’m the odd one out. The one who’ll be made to do the most work while being expected to “set a good example.”

Yay.

The good news is, we are on Day Two of our trip and I haven’t thrown up all over our freshly

cleaned car.

Not yet, anyway.

• • •

Chapter 2

Beth

July 4, 1990

Muncho Lake / Mineral Lick Trail

Afternoon

I don’t know what Amy is complaining about. This trip is fantastic. I can play my Game Boy as much as I want without nagging from either of my parents. If I’m matching pill bottle colours in Dr. Mario, then I’m not bugging either of them while we drive, nor am I arguing with my sisters.

I flip my device over and remove the cartridge. I wiggle my hips and adjust my seatbelt to get another cartridge from my fanny pack.

“Watch it,” Amy grumbles. I must have elbowed her.

I ignore her sour expression and insert the new cartridge. The game loads. A moment later, I’m sorting cubes and L-shaped blocks. Tetris! I adore games like these. I like placing things where they belong.

The car hits a bump, and my Game Boy nearly flies out of my hand. Amy’s complexion turns a shade lighter. I suggest she roll down the window. Maybe fresh air will help her. I’m aware that if she throws up, it’ll be on me. How did I get stuck with the middle seat?

Marion casts her hands in the air and shouts, “Whee!” as the car rattles over another rough spot.

“Hang on!” Dad calls back. “We’re heading off the beaten path.”

Mom folds up the map and places it in the glove compartment.

Tetris beckons. It’s an easy puzzle to solve, with only time as my limit. As I progress, the pieces move quicker, requiring more dexterity. I’m struggling and getting frustrated, so I drop the Game Boy in my lap and call to the front of the car, “What do you mean, off the beaten path?”

Dad chuckles. “Do you think rocks hang out at the supermarket, waiting to be catalogued?”

I don’t like being made fun of. “Rocks are everywhere,” I tell him. “The supermarket parking lot? The building? The minerals in the toothpastes on the shelves?”

Dad takes a hand off the wheel and raises a finger to make a point. “But we want to find the ones that haven’t been located yet. We want new sources.”

Amy burps. She presses a hand against her stomach. “We do?”

I eye my Game Boy, wanting to play. Wanting not to be curious. But the words slip out. “What does that mean?”

“Off the path that has not been beaten,” Dad replies, then chuckles.

I grunt. He’s the worst at speaking plainly.

He pulls the car into a parking lot on the side of the road. “Let’s stop here for a bit. There’s a beautiful spot here to eat lunch. We have some time to explore.”

I know what explore is code for: hiking. Walking without purpose. Ugh.

“A quick stop?” I ask.

“There’s no rush,” my parents recite in unison. Dad continues, “We are going to do geology along the way, but this is still a vacation. Time for fun!”

“Hiking isn’t fun,” I grumble.

“It can be if you have the correct mind-set,” he replies.

I don’t. There’s no stopping the inevitable, though, especially when you’re nine.

Once the truck stops, we all pile out. I glare at the sign that reads Mineral Lick Trail. While I’m grateful to stretch my legs and happy to ingest the ham and cheese sandwiches Mom pulls out of the cooler, I’m not anticipating what follows.

Once we are finished eating, Dad shoulders a worn backpack with a tear in each strap. “Ready?”

I stall. “Marion’s only six. Should she be hiking?”

Marion bristles. “I can do it.”

“It’s a short hike,” Mom explains, placing water bottles in her own bag, which is pink and brand new. She tightens the straps so it fits snuggly. “A half hour, max.”

That’s not too bad.

Dad straightens his shoulders and takes Marion’s hand. “It’s the beginning of the summer. We’ll start off easy. Think of this as a warm-up hike for more ambitious ventures in a few weeks.”

I wrinkle my nose.

We head off. Dad sets the pace, ensuring our little sister can keep up. She manages fine, unfortunately, even with her tiny legs. I want to hang at the back, alone and disgruntled, but Mom won’t let me. When I slow, she does too. Most of the time, she strolls beside me, oohing at the trees and rocky bluffs. When the trail narrows and we must walk single file, she insists I go ahead.

We pass through a section of aspens. Wildflowers dot the dirt path—yellow, pink, and orange. My thighs complain as we begin to climb. When I begin to pant, Mom hands me the water bottle. I pause to take a sip, wondering how much longer our journey will last.

Amy calls ahead, “Why is it called Mineral Lick Trail?”

“I’ll answer that in a few minutes,” Dad replies. He hoists Marion on his shoulders so she can gain a better view of a robin in a tree. They stroll for a bit that way, Marion perched high, Dad undeterred by her added weight.

Eventually the path evens out, giving my legs respite. After a bit, the space opens up, trees shrinking back to expose a magnificent view.

“That’s Salmon River,” Mom notes.

“Trout River,” Dad corrects.

“Oh.” Mom laughs. “I knew it was a fish.”

“Mineral Lick Trail?” Amy prompts.

Dad sets Marion down and takes her hand again. “See those cliffs?” We all nod. “Sandstone slopes. Full of minerals. A natural salt lick.” Dad bends down to explain to Marion. “Animals travel to the slopes to get the nutrients they need.”

“What kind of animals?” Marion asks.

“Sheep. Deer. Moose, maybe. They all come and lick the cliffs.”

She jumps, grinning. “Where?”

He chuckles. “Well, they aren’t here now.”

I stare, absorbing the scene of the valley below and the winding river. Along the water’s edge, and across the bordering cliffs, I search for signs of wildlife. A hawk circles lazily. In a nearby tree, a chipmunk chitters. No remarkable animals are in view, though. Nothing I can astound a friend with in a letter. Nothing to really make the climb worthwhile.

We continue the walk, looping back to where we’d abandoned the truck. Though no one had asked, Dad drones on about the properties of sandstone and the various elements of sedimentary material. Mom asks questions. No one else does. I tune out most of it.

Ahead of me, Amy loses her footing and slips, landing on her butt. Since I’m directly behind her, I sweep a hand under her arm and help her to her feet. While she brushes herself off, I inspect her for injuries.

“I’m all right,” she assures me.

Aside from some smears of dirt, she has no scrapes or cuts. In fact, she’s smiling.

I glance back at Mom, who has paused to finger some moss. Marion is asking Dad more questions about animals that lick salt, which he is happily answering.

I sigh. “This is going to be a long summer, huh?”

“Parts of it,” Amy agrees.

“The hiking.”

Amy shakes her head and starts walking again.

“Actually, it’s okay.”

“You just fell.”

She inhales deeply and says, “It happens.”

I grunt. I’d been hoping to share misery, but my sister isn’t cooperating. I stop and glare at the back of Amy’s head. Mom catches up and wraps an arm around my shoulders. “Come on. Just a bit further. We’ll be back in the car soon.”

“Thank goodness.”

“Maybe put the Game Boy down at least once in the next hour. Look out the window. Check out the view.”

I’ll pass.