Goodbye USA - Hello Canada!

*** continued from previous post ***

Yes I was guilty. Guilty of being an American.

The Canadian official, our guide to the splendor that is Canada, our ambassador to all things northy, motioned for me to turn off the bike. I gave him a quick glance to see what we were dealing with. He might have been 20, but I doubt it. His beard, if you could call it that, would inspire comments such as, "Aw, look! He's trying to grow a beard. Isn't that cute?". Or, "You know, shaving is 'in' right now." Or, "Dear god! Get a stick quick! That poor boy is being attacked by some varmint with mange! It might be a wolverine! Or a cat! Either way, that thing needs a good smackin'."

I guess I could have just described his beard as 'patchy', but that word does not do Capt. face-fur justice.

He was dressed in a crisp, khaki and forest green uniform and wore, what we in the USA call a 'Smokey The Bear' hat. He looked like the cutest boy scout ever. I thought it prudent not to mention this to him. It might spoil the moment.

After our initial greetings, and the typical, 'whereyoufrom-whereyougoing-howlongyoustaying?', the following conversation took place which, although you might not believe me, is reproduced verbatim:

Him: "Do you have any guns?"

Me: "No."

Him: "Do you have any knives?"

Me: "No."

Him: "Any weapons of any kind?"

Me: "Nope."

Him: "How about Mace or other aerosol devices like Pepper Spray?"

Me: "Umm . . . no. We don't have anything."

Him: "You don't have any weapons of any kind on your person or on your motorcycle?"

Me: "No." (Although, at this point, I'm beginning to get a little nervous)

Him: "Not even anything to protect yourself against animals?"

Me: (Animals? WTF????) "No. Should I?"

Him: "Go on ahead and enjoy your stay in Canada," he said with a smirk and waved us through.

Mom immediately wants to pull over and buy guns. And knives. And brass-knuckles. Oh, and Mace. Possibly a Howitzer if we can find one. Poor dear, it's been a long day. It takes some talking, but I convince her that all she really needs is a rock that I picked up in the parking lot of a convenience store where we stopped to grab our umpteenth bottle of water. The fullness, the heft, the sharp edges all seemed to soothe her. Her eyes lost that wild saucer-shape that gives me the willies.

She loved that rock. In the days to come, I believe she loved that rock more than me. I can't blame her. The rock never convinced her to go on a motorcycle trip to Banff.



*** the journey continues tomorrow ***