Of the five lanes available, only one was actually open. I mused to myself, "that's one way to make a border crossing look busy." This may seem painfully obvious, but there is a trick to crossing a border. In today's case, I removed my helmet, fished out my passport, and patiently waited to be waved forward.
The trick to crossing a border is knowing that the official could not care less about you, individually. He or she is not there to give directions, listen to stories, or care about your personal history. All they care about is whether your information aligns with the information presented on the computer screen. Thus, my border crossing went as follows:
Official: "How long will you be in Canada?"
Me: "No more than two weeks total."
Official: "Any weapons, alcohol, drugs or illegal substance?"
Me: "No drugs or alcohol, only pepper spray for bear protection."
The official flips through my passport, thick with previous visas and stamps. He asks, "What are all these visas for?"
Me: "Two work visas from Australia, one work visa from Switzerland, and one student visa from Australia."
The whole time I am looking him in the eye and smiling pleasantly. For good measure, I throw in a few "sirs." Like I said, this may seem painfully obvious, but of the four motorcycles in my entourage that morning, mine was the only that did not get searched. And by the way, there was a camping hatchet clearly strapped to the top of my luggage.
So, as the men with the rubber gloves gently went through Stewbert's, Dave's and Dad's motorcycles, I sat quietly on a bench and wrote in my journal. Welcome to Canada.
The most blatant observation about traversing a continent on a motorcycle is the sheer immensity of the countryside. Our route took us from Winnipeg to Dawson Creek, a distance of over 1,100 miles. Don't be impressed just yet; it took us over two days to make that leg. But, that is the point of riding a motorcycle - sit back, relax, and take it all in.
What struck me about the Canadian countryside was how foreign it appeared. From Manitoba through Alberta, the hills softened. Traffic thinned. Cities were no longer large enough to require bypasses. Towns thinned out to farms, which thinned out to spindly, abandoned-looking gravel driveways that disappeared over the horizon. Most notably, corn and soybeans gave way to brilliant fields of canola and budding alfalfa. A field of canola is so golden that it seems florescent. A field of budding alfalfa shimmers lavender. Place the two next to each other, and the effect is eerily alien. As we raced across the Canadian prairie, a perfect patchwork of gold, purple, and green provided a brilliant display. No longer fighting sleep, I could close my eyes, inhale deeply, and take it all in. The colors, the aroma of blooming crops, the noticeable absence of civilization; this is precisely the allure of motorcycling.
As we approached Edmonton, contrast to the above dealt a severe blow. First, the sun became obscured by an indecisive overcast that could not decide whether or not it wanted to rain. Thus, we were just cold and wet enough to be uncomfortable, but not so much that we needed to stop.
Second, the luminous colors of agriculture gave way to industrial sites dedicated to the extraction, purification and transport of natural gas. Semi trucks turned into and out of blacktopped driveways of fenced-in sites devoid of natural vegetation. The thought suddenly occurred, industrialization, for all its benefits, is ugly.
Finally, we began to run into people again. Grabbing an exit and stopping for fuel in Edmonton, strangers randomly approached. Phrases like, "yYou ride all the way from Wisconsin?" "Taking a bike trip across Canada, eh?" And, "You have a safe journey, eh." made for a sociable atmosphere. One thing I must iterate about Canadians is that they are exceptional hosts.
Out of Edmonton we grabbed Highway 43. Scattered rain had turned to a constant drizzle, but my waterproof gear was holding up as we pressed on. Then, right at Dawson Creek, at the commencement of the Alaska Highway and crossing into British Columbia, a biblical event occurred. The rain stopped, the clouds parted, and the sun came out. The pavement dried and my visor cleared - heaven. As warm, dry air circulated through my clothing I reminisced how nice it is to not be wet.
British Columbia represented yet another change in scenery. Agriculture gave way to rugged, precipitous mountains. The road twisted, climbed and dove, and contorted itself through the passes. Crystal mountain streams meandered along the route and, wildlife appeared. I looked up to see a bald eagle keeping pace with our group. Black bears emerged from the woods to pick at berry bushes, and mountain goats braved traffic to lick salt from the roadway. Here and there, moose could be seen, and what's this - a herd of buffalo. We came to a rolling stop as a group of three-dozen buffalo meandered across the road. Welcome to Canada, indeed.
What's more, daylight stayed with us much later than before. At 9 p.m., just past Summit Lake we decided to camp for the evening. I recalled an earlier conversation with a service station attendant, when I asked if there were any good campsites nearby. He looked at me as though I were the biggest fool on earth and remarked: "Yeah, just pull off the road anywhere."
The trick to crossing a border is knowing that the official could not care less about you, individually. He or she is not there to give directions, listen to stories, or care about your personal history. All they care about is whether your information aligns with the information presented on the computer screen. Thus, my border crossing went as follows:
Official: "How long will you be in Canada?"
Me: "No more than two weeks total."
Official: "Any weapons, alcohol, drugs or illegal substance?"
Me: "No drugs or alcohol, only pepper spray for bear protection."
The official flips through my passport, thick with previous visas and stamps. He asks, "What are all these visas for?"
Me: "Two work visas from Australia, one work visa from Switzerland, and one student visa from Australia."
The whole time I am looking him in the eye and smiling pleasantly. For good measure, I throw in a few "sirs." Like I said, this may seem painfully obvious, but of the four motorcycles in my entourage that morning, mine was the only that did not get searched. And by the way, there was a camping hatchet clearly strapped to the top of my luggage.
So, as the men with the rubber gloves gently went through Stewbert's, Dave's and Dad's motorcycles, I sat quietly on a bench and wrote in my journal. Welcome to Canada.
The most blatant observation about traversing a continent on a motorcycle is the sheer immensity of the countryside. Our route took us from Winnipeg to Dawson Creek, a distance of over 1,100 miles. Don't be impressed just yet; it took us over two days to make that leg. But, that is the point of riding a motorcycle - sit back, relax, and take it all in.
What struck me about the Canadian countryside was how foreign it appeared. From Manitoba through Alberta, the hills softened. Traffic thinned. Cities were no longer large enough to require bypasses. Towns thinned out to farms, which thinned out to spindly, abandoned-looking gravel driveways that disappeared over the horizon. Most notably, corn and soybeans gave way to brilliant fields of canola and budding alfalfa. A field of canola is so golden that it seems florescent. A field of budding alfalfa shimmers lavender. Place the two next to each other, and the effect is eerily alien. As we raced across the Canadian prairie, a perfect patchwork of gold, purple, and green provided a brilliant display. No longer fighting sleep, I could close my eyes, inhale deeply, and take it all in. The colors, the aroma of blooming crops, the noticeable absence of civilization; this is precisely the allure of motorcycling.
As we approached Edmonton, contrast to the above dealt a severe blow. First, the sun became obscured by an indecisive overcast that could not decide whether or not it wanted to rain. Thus, we were just cold and wet enough to be uncomfortable, but not so much that we needed to stop.
Second, the luminous colors of agriculture gave way to industrial sites dedicated to the extraction, purification and transport of natural gas. Semi trucks turned into and out of blacktopped driveways of fenced-in sites devoid of natural vegetation. The thought suddenly occurred, industrialization, for all its benefits, is ugly.
Finally, we began to run into people again. Grabbing an exit and stopping for fuel in Edmonton, strangers randomly approached. Phrases like, "yYou ride all the way from Wisconsin?" "Taking a bike trip across Canada, eh?" And, "You have a safe journey, eh." made for a sociable atmosphere. One thing I must iterate about Canadians is that they are exceptional hosts.
Out of Edmonton we grabbed Highway 43. Scattered rain had turned to a constant drizzle, but my waterproof gear was holding up as we pressed on. Then, right at Dawson Creek, at the commencement of the Alaska Highway and crossing into British Columbia, a biblical event occurred. The rain stopped, the clouds parted, and the sun came out. The pavement dried and my visor cleared - heaven. As warm, dry air circulated through my clothing I reminisced how nice it is to not be wet.
British Columbia represented yet another change in scenery. Agriculture gave way to rugged, precipitous mountains. The road twisted, climbed and dove, and contorted itself through the passes. Crystal mountain streams meandered along the route and, wildlife appeared. I looked up to see a bald eagle keeping pace with our group. Black bears emerged from the woods to pick at berry bushes, and mountain goats braved traffic to lick salt from the roadway. Here and there, moose could be seen, and what's this - a herd of buffalo. We came to a rolling stop as a group of three-dozen buffalo meandered across the road. Welcome to Canada, indeed.
What's more, daylight stayed with us much later than before. At 9 p.m., just past Summit Lake we decided to camp for the evening. I recalled an earlier conversation with a service station attendant, when I asked if there were any good campsites nearby. He looked at me as though I were the biggest fool on earth and remarked: "Yeah, just pull off the road anywhere."
