Saturday, August 13, 2005

“Your answer to this question will determine the future of your trip.”

Although we fully anticipated that we’d be stopped at customs on at least one of our forays across the Canada/US border (there have been seven now), neither of us really expected to be so thoroughly harassed. At an early venture—crossing in small-town Maine—the border guard took one look at us, declared that our truck was a customs officer’s nightmare, and waived us through with a smile and a nod. Not so two days ago. We were crossing through the northeast tip of Glacier National Park into Alberta, and the young guy in the customs booth was not amused with our very out of state plates, unkempt hair (four days since last shower), and impenetrable conveyance. He passed us along to two ladies, who took over searching the car and were determined to find—as they put it—“it.” “It” was “dope,” as they eventually let us know, and they indicated (again and again) that they’d tear apart the car until “it” had been found. (Funny, because none of them could have been much older than we are, and whom of our generation calls it dope?) After over an hour, they pretty well had torn the car apart—looking in every pocket of every bag, through every pill container in our first aid kit, and even climbing up on top of the car to rip apart the cargo bag. We remained—per their mandate—at the front of the car, shivering. They finally conceded that, as we had persisted in telling them, we did not have any “dope”—and passed us along to the immigration guy. He didn’t seem to be taken with the idea that we were jobless and traveling for six months, and he didn’t hesitate to make this clear. John and I both reached a low point, I think, and began to feel causeless guilt about being young and free and jobless and all of the other things these customs officers were not. This severe, dark haired man asked us about everything we’d been labouring not to think about—our most recent jobs and incomes, our bank accounts, and how much cash we had on us (and then made us go get it to prove we weren’t lying). He verified everything (including our nonexistent criminal records), then brought us in for the culmination of the interview. Here he delivered the titular question, in as weighty a tone as the best of western lawman: “Your answer to this question will determine the future of your trip.”[Pause for effect; look piercingly into our lying, thieving, whore-mongering faces.] “Do you have any dope in that truck?” Well, no sir. Like we’ve been saying. Shucks and goddamn, no. Then he paused, just to be a real jerk, and drummed his fingers on the desk, and tapped his pen, and generally tried to heighten the effect, and finally, after a very long 30 seconds, he put pen to paper and wrote: Accepted.

Thus, we’re in Alberta. And thank god for that, because this must be the most beautiful place in the world.

But first, our second adventure of the day. After a beautiful drive through southwestern Alberta, winding through the Kennakasis Valley with giants of mountains kneeling on either side, we arrived in Canmore, Alberta. This is a sleepy-ish mountain town, still relatively untouched by the tourism bug that plagues neighboring Banff. We decided to shack up in Canmore for the night because the entrance fees to Banff are outrageous and all we wanted was to cook dinner and sleep. The very informed girl at the information center guided us to a municipal campground just around the corner. A municipal campground—what a lovely idea. We jumped in the rig and hit the gas and turned the corner and what the hell? We could tell it was a bit strange from the get go. First, it was right off the highway, with traffic roaring by and no privacy. You’d think (or I would) that a municipal campground would be set up to show off the better part of a city or it’s scenery, so we were skeptical from the first. Second, it was split into two parts—overnight camping on an almost treeless grassy area with no specified sites (“just camp anywhere you like”), and “long-term” camping located across the parking lot in completely secluded sites in a mess of a little forest. We thought we would check these sheltered sites out (just in case we could score one), and we found a whole subculture just out of view. One site had a clock and dartboard hung up on a tree outside the tent. Others had motherloads of laundry hanging from criss-crossed lines. There were probably 50 sites and we only saw one empty, and they all looked lived in. There were kids our age everywhere—ranging from the mountain men types to the granola set—but we decided it looked like fun and might be a good opportunity to meet people. Meet people we did—at a group campfire, in the kitchen shelter, in the bathrooms. As we talked to more people the outline of the place began to take shape. About 90% of the long-term campers are from Quebec and were there for most of the summer months. Some of them go west for part of the summer to pick apples or other fruit, earn a ton of bank, and then retire to this little haven just outside the Rockies for the rest of the summer. A few of the guys we met were tradesmen, working construction jobs that paid better out here in the summer (multi-million dollar homes are going up everywhere), and then headed home to Winnipeg or Edmonton or Saskatoon in the fall. No one looked older than 30, and I’m sure some were under 20. Not surprisingly, it was run like a commune. They made money off the overnighters ($15/night vs. $240/month—although I have to say, even the reduced monthly rate seems like a lot for no roof or heat, etc.), and had rules set up to govern the conduct of the residents (e.g., no alcohol at the fire pit, non-registered guests leave by 11, etc.) so it all doesn’t go completely haywire. I think the strangest thing was that the city bankrolled the place, but it was pretty amazing to see that it existed—I can’t imagine a city in the U.S. that would do the same for a bunch of vagabonding kids.

1 Comments:

Blogger Hanna Neuschwander said...

We saw a huge grizzly in Denali, thankfully from about 200 yards away, next to what we thought was a big rock. It was bigger than the big rock, although the big rock turned out to be a tent belonging to some crunchy kids hiking with a plastic bag for a backpack. They seemed unconcerned. We were happy for them. We also had a gale-force wind experience -- more on the blog soon. But trust me, we were cracking jokes about "comin to collect" all night long (or the parts of it that we weren't huddled in the bottom of our bags to hide from it). Congratulations -- spring wedding, love ... can't wait for all the girly details.

9:05 PM  

Post a Comment

<< Home