Oh Canada

Day 8 -- Truckin' North to the Border

I can't get the song out of my head.  "Oh, Canada.  Our home and native land.  True patriots pride, in all our hearts command."  It's one of my favorite national anthems, and the only one other than "The Star Spangled Banner" that I know all the words to at least one verse.  The mountains are much more prominent here in northern Montana, with snow capped peaks.  A reader is narrating Dan Brown's book "The Lost Symbol" thru my Ipod, and I decide it's time for a routine stop for gas in Helena, MT.

The Exon station was a bit on the old fashioned side and, as I suspected might happen, I soon found myself boxed in by other patrons.  My one out was a tight squeeze ahead and to the right.  Looks like I have enough room to squeeze through that Buick Lasabre and the pumps.  And I had it all but cleared... all but the left outside mirror which was now dangling along side the driver's door, held by the electric adjustment wire.  I had heard the sickening sound of plastic crumbling and stopped immediately to investigate.   For a few seconds, I felt relieved that it was just the mirror that was damaged.  It had caught Lucille's rear awning bracket that extends about three inches from the side of the coach.  The owner of the Buick appeared within a minute and discovered what had happened.  This fellow exactly fit the profile of a couple of thousand of bikers I had seen the previous two days in Sturgis.  He flew into a rage.  Arms flailing about.  Cursing non-stop.  Having been called a "stupid a-- h---", which, at that point,  I was more or less in agreement with, I waited for a pause in his tyrade, and told him that I was sorry and that I would take care of it.  "How much do you think it will take to repair the damage?", I asked.  "How much do you have on you?"  I didn't think he was kidding.  I said, "Here's a hundred dollars" and I pulled a $100 bill from my wallet.  "Let me give you my phone number and address and you can contact me if it's not enough."  "Yeah, you better not be giving me a phony phone number."  "No, this is my real phone number.   Just call me if it dosen't cover the damage.  Man, I'm really sorry."  And with that, I pulled on past him and back out onto the freeway.  Any bets on whether I get a phone call from him?  Felt like giving him an extra $100 and suggesting that he use it for anger management therapy, but it didn't happen.

The border crossing was as smooth as I had hoped it would be.  You first stop and talk to the American agents.  They asked to look in the back of my "rig".  I obliged by opening the rear door.  After pearing in for no more than one second, he said "Looks good." and I walked back up to the driver's seat. "You being exported?", he asked, with no hint of sarcasim showing on his face.  "No, I'm just traveling to Alaska."  Struck me as an odd question.  "Okay, go see the Canadians".   I showed a passport, answered a few questions about the length and purpose of my stay, the amount of booze and money I had on board, and showed my firearm registration form, which caused me to be directed to the parking lot and instructed to see the agents inside.  Three minutes later, the paperwork completed, I waited in line for 30 minutes to pay the $25.00 firearm fee.

Almost immediately upon crossing the border to Canada, the mountains dissapear and the landscape looks similar to Pennsylvania--rolling hills and wheat fields, with few trees.  The first town of any size is Lethbridge, and it looks like West Des Moines, or any other upscale American shopping area.  Familiar stores:  Old Navy, Best Buy, Lowes, KFC, etc.  In fact, if it wasn't for the road signs saying "Maximum 110", which I surmised to mean 110 kilometers per hour, and gas stations showing the Regular brand at  $.93 per liter, you would not think for a minute you were in another country.

Calgary is too big, too congested and too full of overly aggressive and rude motorists for my taste, so I think I'll keep on truckin' north and stop at Red Deer, another 150 km down the road.  (That's about 90 miles).   Tomorrow's destination:  Dawson Creek, BC and the start of the infamous Alaska Canada Highway.

P.S.  Deb sent a few pictures while I was in Humboldt and I've added them to the first post "Trip's On" if you care to go back and see them.