like that, the gatekeeper of the Northwest Territories is me. ** I expect a deluge of Tilley-hatted RVers and adventurous young road-trippers, so I straighten up the Hay River tourism brochures, smooth out my grey Parks uniform, and wait. Time ticks slowly by and big-rigs hurtle past, leaving dust streaming from their tails. I inhale the smell of fresh lumber -- the building still smells new, even though its $1.2-million overhaul was completed two years ago. I spin around in my office chair, daydreaming. The taxidermied animals on the walls seem to take on personalities -- the muskox stretches out its hind leg like a ballerina; a black bear climbing up the centre post peers down at me, keeping a watchful eye; the two caribou near the ceiling gaze indignantly, as though asking how on earth they got up there in the first place as their antlers graze the ceiling. Before long, Elsie Bouvier, a short, 66-year-old Mtis woman with long grey hair clipped atop her head, wanders in through the back door and begins sweeping. It's her first day working at the centre, too. She's a part-time staffer, hired by Garth, with a penchant for bird-watching ("Is that a bunting? I think it's a bunting," she'll say, pulling out her well-worn field guide). Elsie remembers a time when there wasn't a highway like the one travellers arrive on today -- just a dirt track, at best. "I don't know if they appreciate it, you know?" she says. "It's not