The next morning came with a pale sky and thin frost on the windshield. Jack Turner rubbed his hands together and started the truck. The engine shuddered, then settled into a low hum. He drove out of the motel parking lot with coffee in a paper cup and a map folded on the seat beside him. The sign ahead read Canadian Border – 12 Miles. It felt unreal. For most of his life, his world had been no larger than a few counties. Now he was about to leave the country.

He slowed as the road narrowed, leading to a small checkpoint surrounded by tall pines. The guard was a young woman with tired eyes. She leaned down to his window.
“Purpose of your visit?”
Jack smiled. “Travel. Retired firefighter heading north to see the lights.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Driving all the way?”
“That’s the plan.”
She studied his passport, stamped it, and handed it back. “Good luck. Roads get lonely up there.”
“Been lonely before,” he said with a small grin.

The gate lifted, and he crossed into Canada. The air somehow felt different, sharper, cleaner. He rolled down the window and let it sting his face. The highway stretched ahead through forests and frozen lakes. For a long while, he saw no other cars, only the endless snow and trees heavy with frost.

He turned on the radio, catching a weak signal that faded in and out. A man’s voice spoke in French, then static filled the cab. Jack laughed quietly. “Guess it’s just you and me, truck.”

By midday, he stopped at a rest area near a frozen river. The water looked like glass, still and pale blue. He made a sandwich from the supplies he’d packed and sat on the tailgate, chewing slowly. Across the river, a few cabins stood among the trees, smoke curling from their chimneys. He imagined who lived there—maybe people who didn’t need cities or noise, people who woke to silence and snow. A part of him envied them.

An old man pulled into the lot driving a snow-covered van. He waved and walked over, his beard white as frost.
“Cold day for a picnic,” the man said.
Jack smiled. “Colder than I planned.”
“Where you headed?”
“Fairbanks. Gonna chase the Northern Lights.”
The old man nodded. “You’ll find them if you stay patient. They show up when you least expect it.”
Jack liked that answer. They talked for a bit about the weather, the road conditions, and the places ahead. Before leaving, the man said, “Don’t drive too fast. The north likes to test people.”

The road after that grew narrow and rough. Snowflakes began to fall, slow at first, then thick and steady. The windshield blurred, and the wipers beat in rhythm. Jack leaned forward, gripping the wheel. His breath fogged the glass, and the world outside faded into white. He kept driving, careful but calm. He’d driven through smoke before, through storms, through nights darker than this. The snow felt almost familiar.

After an hour, he saw a small sign for a roadside lodge. He pulled in, parking beside a line of trucks dusted with ice. Inside, the warmth hit him like a wave. The lobby smelled of pine and soup. A man behind the counter looked up.
“Long way from home?”
Jack nodded. “California.”
The man whistled. “That’s brave. Rooms are open. Dinner’s stew tonight if you’re hungry.”

Jack took a room and sat near the fire with a bowl of stew. Around him were travelers—truckers, a couple from Toronto, a group of photographers heading north. They talked about the roads, the snow, the places worth stopping. Jack listened more than he spoke. He liked hearing people talk about places they loved.

One photographer, a young woman with red hair, asked why he was traveling alone.
“I retired,” Jack said. “Spent my life fighting fire. Thought I’d go find some light for a change.”
She smiled. “You might find more than you expect.”

That night in his small room, he wrote again in his notebook: Crossed the border. Met kind people. Snow everywhere. It’s quiet, but not empty. The world feels bigger than I thought. He closed the book and turned off the lamp.

Through the window, the snow had stopped. A faint green glow brushed the edge of the sky, weak but real. Jack blinked, unsure if it was his eyes playing tricks. He stood there for a while, breath fogging the glass, watching the light shift like a ghost.

It faded as quickly as it came, but the sight stayed in his chest, warm and steady. He whispered, “I saw it.”

Maybe it wasn’t the grand show from the pictures, but it was enough to tell him he was on the right road. The long road north still waited, and he was ready for it.