In the Driver’s Seat

“You drive up here on your own?” she asked, brows raised. She stood behind me in the long grocery line, staring at my cart overflowing with six weeks’ worth of supplies. Her tone was part curiosity and part disbelief, but I knew what she meant. Not up here as in the north. Up here as in the stretch of road where moose wander into your headlights, frost heaves can pull your tires off the line, and winter temperatures can drop to -50C. She was surprised when my answer was yes. As if the road isn’t fit for a woman, or something like that.

“Yes, I drive it alone. Often, in fact,” I told her. And it’s true. I do. This year, regular medical appointments meant I travelled to Whitehorse alone a lot. Those trips mean my Tacoma is packed to the brim. We chose this truck because of the space and reliability it gives us. It handles the months’ worth of supplies. The truck bed is loaded with coolers and bins full of groceries, dog food, household items, or whatever else we can’t get in our small community. Having that space means I can stock up, prepare, and feel secure knowing I won’t have to make the trip again for weeks. And I trust the truck because we keep it ready. We make sure we don’t miss a regular service and that care has never let us down.

I understand the woman’s incredulity, though. This stretch of the Alaska Highway isn’t for the faint of heart. It’s no problem when the midnight sun hovers on the horizon at 1:00 a.m. during the summer months, but it’s a whole different story when it’s 10:00 a.m. and pitch black, not to mention -40C and blowing snow. I remember hearing a story – a true story – a few years ago. Folks who were traveling from a small Yukon community at night in the winter crashed and had to set their car on fire to stave off freezing to death. It’s like that here.

When the sun never really goes down in the summer, your body loses track of when to rest. And in the winter? Well, in the winter the dark swallows you whole and the cold feels like it could snap you in half. After the inquisitive woman, whom I didn’t know and who didn’t know me, stopped asking about my driving habits, I thought about her concerns. They made sense. Because when you live in the city, you don’t necessarily have to think all that much about hitting the road in your car. You can’t comprehend the trust needed in oneself (and in your vehicle!) when you head out to get groceries or visit the doctor.

I get it. I used to be just like that woman. I remember a winter day in Vancouver. I was at work when the snow started coming down. Heavy snow. The wet stuff Vancouver gets due to its proximity to the ocean. Through the window, I could see cars slipping and sliding on the road. My class was scheduled to start in twenty minutes. Students were already trickling in. I could hear my colleagues debating whether or not classes should be cancelled and then, an announcement indicated the campus was closing. Panic ensued as staff and students alike lamented that they didn’t have snow tires! The busses were stopped! They hadn’t brought boots or gloves or even a hat!

Here in the Yukon, though, a lack of preparation and a lack of trust in that preparation is tantamount to irresponsibility. It starts with trusting yourself to make the right decisions when it matters. You need to know the forecast before the weather changes, and you need to anticipate the bumps and holes and divots in the road. You need to know your vehicle and how to pack for a trip; you need to be prepared for contingencies that might arise. Delays, stops, an unavoidable change in plans, an emergency. I’ve learned to rely on the small but steady systems: my satellite communicator, a bin of extra winter gear tucked behind the seats, the shovel that never leaves the truck bed. That preparation, combined with the reliability of a well-serviced vehicle, is what makes solo driving possible. There’s a confidence that comes with being able to navigate this road alone. The sort that settles into your bones after enough winters, enough kilometres, and enough proof that you can handle what’s ahead.

A few years ago, while out with Chilli and my friend’s dog on a -35C day, we passed a car stuck in a snowdrift. Washington plates. I stopped and quickly realised they didn’t have any warm gear. Not even gloves. After giving them some spare warm gear we keep in the Tacoma, I heard how this was their first holiday in over a decade. They were driving their friend’s vehicle to Alaska. After trying, and failing, to get their vehicle out using the small collapsible shovel we keep in the truck, I had a moment of panic. Would I be able to help these people? It took a bit of trial and error, thinking and rethinking, but in the end, I used my satellite device to call for help and soon a Yukon Highways worker came to lend a hand. Together, we managed to get them back on the road.

It reminded me that self-confidence in the north is a whole lot more than blind optimism. Preparation, resourcefulness, and the willingness to ask for help when it's needed. And on that day, I trusted my instincts to stop. I trusted my judgement in recognizing the need to keep these people warm. And I had confidence in my ability to find a solution.

There isn’t always an easy or quick solution, though. A snow squall can appear out of nowhere, erasing the road in a matter of seconds. Or I hit the stretch of frost heaves that are so bad my stomach flips like I’m on a roller coaster. There was the snowy winter evening when I rounded a bend near Kluane Lake and came face-to-face with a bull moose. He was so close I could practically see his breath steaming in the cold. In these moments, there’s no time to doubt myself. Slow down, steer steady, trust myself, and trust the truck.

When I’m on the road, often it’s just me and the Tacoma. Sometimes a dog, sometimes two. Rarely another vehicle in sight. Reflection comes naturally in that environment. I drive and remember a former version of myself. A nervous, anxious, worried version, where even the simplest bump in the road threatened to upend me. I think about moving north. It’s a wonder I even did, I think. I was that scared of things unpredictable. But something small, something deep down told me I could do it. Told me to trust myself.

That older version of Hilary would be just as shocked as the lady that pressed me on my solo driving. That Hilary would have looked on bewildered as she learned that yes indeed, I drive alone. My trust in the truck isn’t surprising, but my trust in myself is.