March 2, 2023
DAY TWO: Border Scofflaw
Montana to the Yukon Territory
Aside from no shower, no bed, no television, no breakfast, no toilet and no plush bathrobe, I had no issues with the semi-trailer motel room. In fact, it had a couple of special features that almost made up for its shortcomings. One of them was that I was provided with four roommates, all of whom had scraggly beards, ragged clothing and peculiar odors. The other feature was a nice, warming fireplace.
My roommates and I took full advantage of the crackling fire. We enjoyed standing around that blazing 55-gallon drum while telling stories and passing around a bottle of rotgut whiskey.
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It might have been a smarter idea to head south this time of year. I am not all that smart. I took the northbound highway out of Depressionville, Montana. Before long, I was pedaling my bike up to a remote Canadian border station.
"Welcome sir," greeted the uniformed agent in the booth, "may I see your passport, eh?"
"Um, what's a passport?" I asked.
"It's a government-issued document that verifies your citizenship and other stuff like that there."
"Ah, I guess I didn't really look into that detail," I admitted with much embarrassment. "But here's my driver's license. You can look at that and then I'll be on my way."
"It's not quite as easy as that, sir," the agent replied sternly. "Wait right here while I run a quick background check on you."
The dude punched a bunch of keys into his computer, looked at the screen in kind of a funny way, and whispered into a microphone, "Um, Clyde, could you come down here for a minute? We have a Code 666."
Within seconds, Clyde appeared. He was stretching a rubber glove onto his right hand. I wasn't going to wait around for a strip search, so I sped away into Saskatchewan.
The Mounties (Royal Canadian Mounted Police) gave chase for a minute or two, but the speed of their horses was no match for the speed of my imagination. I made a mental note to avoid all official immigration stations while making border crossings in the future. Apparently, they get really upset if you don't have a passport. I guess I'll have to bushwack my way around them.
The next thing I knew, I had pedaled through almost all of the Canadian prairie. It looked a lot like Minnesota.
It was a cold, windy ride. It was also a beautiful ride. I've always been able to find the beauty in any landscape, and I had never seen anything as spectacular as this.
Correction: I had never seen anything so spectacular as the Canadian prairieland UNTIL I got my first glimpse of the storied Canadian Rocky Mountains. Oh my god, they were every bit as awe-inspiring as I've always heard they were, if not more so.
And the closer I got to them, the more in awe was I. The awe in me was much. I awed myself to awesomeness. Awe was big inside of me. Clearly, the awe put me at a loss for words.
Picture, if you will, huge snow-capped granite mountains rising abruptly above deep blue lakes and pristine pine forests. I took a couple pictures, but no measly photograph can truly do justice to the majesty of the Canadian Rockies.
I struggled up and over the first range of mountains. I still had a long way to go though. Running through my head was the mantra, "Yukon or bust." To me, the Yukon Territory seems incredibly exotic. You can have your sunny Hawaiian beaches or your ancient Mediterranean islands or your Easter Island statues. I'll take the Yukon over those places any day of the week.
I was worn out for sure, but I pedaled like a screaming banshee. I pedaled until I could pedal no more. Finally, I was overwhelmed to have made it to the Yukon Territory. Tears flowed from my eyes. The tears froze instantly. It was sooo damn cold. I erected my tent on the frigid snows of the Yukon and suffered all night.
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