The vast prairies of southern Alberta stretch endlessly, a quiet threshold between worlds. Near the Montana border, where the wind speaks in hushed tones and the earth holds secrets older than time, I once lived in Waterton Lakes National Park. At first, it was just a place of work. But soon, it became something more—a silent companion on my spiritual journey. The mountains were not mere rock and snow; they pulsed with an ancient presence, whispering truths in a language only the heart could understand.

It was winter when it happened. A cold, brittle day, the kind that makes the sky seem endless and the ground vanish under layers of snow. I was driving home from a day trip, the road outside the park dissolving into a soft white haze. Snow blurred the edges of the world. Then, up ahead, a dark shape broke the solitude—a pickup truck, oddly still in the middle of the road.

I slowed, uncertain. The truck remained motionless. Just as unease crept in, it lurched forward, stirring the silence. A relief—at least it wasn’t abandoned. But the comfort was fleeting. The truck stopped again, this time at the worst possible place—where the road curved sharply, an incline adding to the treachery.

A collision seemed inevitable. The only escape was the roadside ditch, but the snow had turned the asphalt to ice, my tires refusing to obey. My grip on the wheel tightened. Then—

A horn.

Loud. Urgent. I glanced in the rearview mirror—nothing but swirling snow. The road ahead remained shrouded in white. The horn blared again, relentless.