So much was lost at intersection

of a passing vehicle — the speed limit here has been reduced to 60 km-h — or an irascible crow.

The memorial aside, the only sign of the tragedy could be some faded tire marks that lead toward a void in the landscape.

It is difficult to imagine the voids in the lives of people who lost loved ones in the accident.

One minute, the Broncos were approaching Nipawin and focusing on an SJHL playoff game against the Hawks, and then ...

Ten seconds, even five. Would that blip of time have made a crucial difference? by the conditions, or in any hurry to leave.

With considerable care, visitors to the memorial have left written or symbolic tributes to the victims of the crash.

There are T-shirts, Canadian flags, caps, pucks, teddy bears, skates, magazines, flowers, and so many hockey sticks of all sizes. One person left a coffee cup.

Especially poignant is the sight of a small replica of a Charlie’s Charters bus — the full-scale version of which was being driven by Glen Doerksen when tragedy intervened.

Kim has written “2 honks Salisbury of Nipawin. On each cross, he has carefully written a first name.

Logan B. Logan H. Logan S. Jacob. Evan. Glen. Jaxon. Conner. Stephen. Mark. Brody. Dayna. Adam. Parker. Tyler. Darcy. How could this be? It is all there before me, but I am still in disbelief.

I have covered junior hockey for 30-plus years and dealt with thousands of players between the ages of 16 and 21.

In all that time, I have not had a bad experience with any of them. Not one.

Had I known any of these young men, they would have impressed and inspired me. I am certain of it. I feel it. Logan Schatz, for example, was the Broncos’ captain for 21/2 years. How many junior hockey players wear the “C” for that long? I wish we had met.

None of this seems real, even when it is directly in frontofme.Iwishthejunction of Hwys. 35 and 335 was just another intersection, like countless others that will be part of my drive through Saskatchewan.

Eventually, the time seems right to return to my vehicle. I pass a young man who is wearing an Atlanta Braves cap. He is arriving as I am poised to depart. We exchange nods, whereupon I drive slowly through the mud and toward Hwy. 35.

The car radio is turned off. So, for a change, is the CD player that usually enables the entire neighbourhood to hear some jazz. Twenty-some kilometres shy of Tisdale, there is silence.