“Binny told me Tyne is an environmental activist.”

“What else?”

“Nothing else. Your tantrum freaked him out.”

Ryan raised his shades to his forehead and dialed his cell. Disconnected. Dialed again. Disconnected. “OK. Let’s try the easy way.” Ryan worked some keys. A lot of keys. “Bingo.” Eyes on the tiny screen.

“You found him on Google.”

Ryan ignored me.

“Am I warm?”

“Sizzling. Horace Tyne runs an organization called Friends of the Tundra. According to the website, which is piss-poor, the organization seeks to preserve the native plants and animals of the tundra ecosystem of the Northwest Territories.”

Ryan did some more reading and scrolling.

“Looks like Tyne is trying to establish some sort of wildlife preserve.”

“Does the site provide contact information?”

“There’s an address to which contributions can be sent.”

“Here in Yellowknife?”

“Some place called Behchoko.”

As Ryan was googling directions, an RCMP cruiser pulled up behind us. Rainwater was at the wheel. He flicked a wave.

Ryan returned it, then dropped the aviators to his nose.

And we were rolling.

*  *  *

Behchoko was a Dene community of about two thousand souls called Rae-Enzo until 2005. Not sure why the name changed. No idea about Rae. But according to a rental company map I dug from the glove compartment, Enzo was a chief at one time.

We didn’t need GPS to find our way. The Yellowknife Highway was the only option.

Ryan won the argument on who would drive. His rental, he would captain the ship. Once again I would just sit. At least Ollie wouldn’t be firing zingers from the backseat. He was still squeezing Unka and Castain.

Our destination lay about fifty miles northwest of Yellowknife. I also learned from the map that after Behchoko, the paved road crossed Dehk’è, the Frank Channel, continued roughly forty miles, then fed into the seasonal ice roads used by commercial trucking for mine supply. I assumed that meant gold.

I shared this knowledge with Ryan. Normally, he’d have busted into a few bars of “Livin’ on the Edge.” Today no Aerosmith.

The drive took roughly an hour. We saw no other cars, just many, many trees.

Behchoko consisted of a cluster of buildings hugging a scraggy shoreline dotted with boulders that, according to the map, was the northern tip of Great Slave Lake.

As Ryan navigated the town’s main road, I noted a school with a timber-frame swing set in the yard. A windowless outhouse with an ATM sign. Frame homes featuring weathered variations of redwood, brown, gray, and blue. Dozens of power-line poles leaning at odd angles.

The vegetation consisted of patchy grass and the occasional stand of trees. There wasn’t a single paved street.

Ryan parked in front of a small log cabin displaying an RCMP sign in French and English. We both got out.