Various Borders

Canada’s the easy and (relatively) cheap way to satisfy that urge to visit another country, at least for those of us in the North. I hadn’t been out of the country since before Ann was born, so it was about time too.

The efforts by both federal governments to tighten up the border between the two is counterproductive nonsense. What are they going to do, build guard towers every 500 meters, as there used to be between the Germanys? (All in the east, and it sure did keep the terrorists out.) You’d think the entirety of Canada and United States would be the unit to defend against overseas terrorists.

But crossing the border, both ways, wasn’t really much of an issue for us this time. We crossed into Canada July 3 at the terminus of I-29 in extreme northeastern North Dakota/southern Manitoba. You’re advised to slow down as you approach the customs hut on the Canadian side, and the actual border is marked by a stone next to the road that says that this is the 49th parallel and border.

A small marker, and I almost missed it. I wanted to ask the Canadian customs officers if I could go back and stand next to it, straddling the two nations, but it’s better not to make odd requests of such officials. They called us into the building, where they examined our passports, politely asked us a few questions about our intentions in Canada, and we politely answered. It was a clean, well-lit place with picture posters of CANADA here and there on the wall like at a travel agency. The only other person there besides the Canadian civil servants was a young, bearded fellow who was explaining something about living with relatives somewhere in the country; I think he was in for a much longer visit with customs than we had, which was about 15 minutes.

We returned to the United States on the evening of July 12, at the Port of Fortuna, in extreme northwestern North Dakota/southern Saskatchewan. I was a little more apprehensive that time, since this is a rural border crossing, and who knows what a bored border guard might require of us. There was one person at the border station, a man about my age in uniform (now part of Homeland Security) who did, indeed, look a little bored. It was about an hour before quitting time, it seems, since the station wasn’t open 24 hours.

We were his only “customers.” He asked a few questions, and took a cursory look in the back of the van, packed with camping equipment and other debris. I repressed the sarcasm urge when he asked if these were my children. I did not say: “No sir, we find it very entertaining to drive long distances with little kids, so we rented some.” Pretty soon, he’d decided (correctly) that we were no threat to the well being of the USA, so we were back in.

The interprovincial border between Manitoba and Saskatchewan was a disappointment, since it wasn’t marked in any way on the Trans-Canadian Highway. I want a sign or something. Alberta had one entering from Saskatchewan, but even better was the marker between Alberta and British Columbia, which also marked the border between Banff and Kootenay national parks, and the Continental Divide as well.

That border sported three flagpoles—flying the provincial flags on their respective sides, with the Maple Leaf between them -- a large sign that mentioned the Continental Divide, and a large stone marker that mentioned the provinces. This is my kind of border, one with a little ceremony but no international border formalities. Sure, it’s only an imaginary line. But a lot of other things people fuss about are imaginary. I can be a border aficionado if I want.