Jack Turner woke before sunrise. The sky outside his window was still dark, a soft navy blue that slowly lightened at the edges. He made coffee and sat at the kitchen table again, but this time he didn’t just stare at the street. He opened his laptop and typed northern lights tours into the search bar. The screen filled with pictures of glowing skies and frozen landscapes. Alaska, Canada, Iceland. Some photos looked unreal, like paintings someone forgot to finish. Yet the idea of being there tugged at him like a small voice.

He clicked on a few travel blogs, reading stories from people half his age. Most wrote about the thrill of seeing the lights for the first time, about standing under the sky and feeling small but alive. Jack wasn’t sure if he wanted that feeling or just something different from the slow days that filled his house. He read one post about a retired teacher who drove from Seattle to Fairbanks to see the aurora by herself. The woman had written, You don’t chase the lights, they let you find them. Jack read that line three times.

He opened a map from his desk drawer, one he used years ago for business trips. The paper had yellowed, but he spread it out anyway. He traced his finger north from California to the thin blue line marking Alaska. It looked so far away that he laughed. Still, the laugh didn’t sound impossible. He thought about the road trips he used to take with his crew, long drives filled with radio chatter and bad coffee. Maybe the road still had a place for him.

By midmorning, he found himself in the garage, checking his old pickup. It was dusty but reliable, a gray truck with 200,000 miles that had followed him through every job. He turned the key. The engine coughed, hesitated, then came alive with a low rumble. The sound filled the garage and something inside him loosened. He could already see the miles stretching ahead like a ribbon of light.

He spent the next few days making small changes. He cleaned the truck, replaced the oil, and stacked maps on the passenger seat. He bought a new thermos, some gloves, and a heavy coat from the outlet store. When the cashier asked if he was going somewhere cold, he smiled and said, “Colder than you think.”

At home, he told Claire about his plan. She called again that night, her voice full of disbelief.
“You’re driving to Alaska? Alone?”
“That’s the plan,” he said.
“Dad, you haven’t driven that far in years.”
“I’ll take it slow. No rush.”
She sighed on the other end. “You’re serious about this.”
“I think I am.”
“Promise me you’ll send updates. And pictures. Lots of them.”
Jack smiled. “I will.”

After the call, he packed a small notebook and a camera. He didn’t know why he felt nervous. Maybe it was the thought of being far from home for the first time in decades. Maybe it was the thought of seeing something that could not be controlled or predicted. Fire could be tamed, managed, understood. But the sky—no one could manage that.

The night before he left, Jack sat on his porch, watching the neighborhood lights flicker on. Somewhere down the street, a dog barked. The air smelled like pine and old rain. He wondered if this was what freedom felt like—not wild excitement, but a quiet certainty.

He went inside, checked his bag again, then laid out his route. California to Oregon, Oregon to Washington, then north through Canada. He’d follow the highway until the map ran out. He circled Fairbanks in red ink. It looked small and lonely, surrounded by nothing but white. He liked that.

Sleep came slowly. He dreamed again of light moving across the dark sky, not fast but patient, as if waiting for him. When he woke at dawn, the air was cold and still. He brewed one last cup of coffee, locked the door, and placed the key under the mat.

The truck waited in the driveway, its headlights cutting through the pale fog. Jack slid into the seat, adjusted the mirror, and looked once more at the house that had held his quiet days. It felt both safe and distant now, like a photograph fading at the edges.

He turned the ignition. The engine started without complaint. He let it idle for a moment, then whispered to himself, “Let’s go see what’s left to burn.”

The tires rolled over the damp road, and the town slipped away behind him. The freeway opened like a promise, long and silver under the morning light. For the first time in years, Jack didn’t know what waited ahead—and that uncertainty felt like the beginning of something real.

He didn’t look back again. The horizon was enough.