After a long wait and a fraught border crossing, I am en route to Alaska by way of the Alaska-Canada Highway. The Alcan, once a legendary challenge of roughness, is still a feat of beauty—with vistas and wildlife sightings and only intermittent cell service. Starting at Dawson Creek, BC, it winds 2,232 kilometers up into the Yukon and the Canadian Rockies. And I’ve prepped myself and Ruby to traverse it.
My reception at the border of our “friendly” northerly neighbor was, by no means, friendly. If you’re thinking of traveling in a van (or at least a not-so-pricey-looking one) to Canada now the border’s open, take note.
Peace Arch Border, 8/9/21, 2:53 am. Canada’s border reopened to US passport holders at midnight. A dispute between the border guards and a short strike on 8/6 had ended the previous day. (The snake “in the sky” is my dashboard companion.)
Openly (almost cartoonishly) hostile from the get-go, two young guards ordered me out of the van and briskly demanded I lose “the hoodie,” turn around with my tank top held up over my waist, bend over and pull up the legs of my yoga pants; grilled me on whether I’d had past run-ins with the law, promising to verify. During the entire encounter, they wore dubiousness like a badge.
I sat in a cold, empty waiting room, ignored when I attempted to ask for my sweater back. I was the only one there; I’d been watching each car in front of me waved through after about ten minutes since I’d lined up at midnight, and it was now 3 a.m. Meanwhile, they tossed my belongings around in the van. Back inside, dripping all the condescension and doubt twentysomethings with guns and badges can muster (a lot), they pressed for travel, personal relationship, living arrangement, and financial details—at one point demanding how much money I could access “right now,” causing me, in an utterly absurd moment of mental gymnastics, to wonder if they were calculating bribe amounts.
This before the inside interrogation and after the check for weapons.
“You’re in Canada now, and we have questions. Why are you here?”
“Taking the Alcan to Alaska.” Exciting, no?!
“What proof do we have of that?”
Well, none. You just met me. “Um, the Alaska milepost with the route planned out in between the seats for starters.”
“What incentive do you have to return to the US?”
“I mean, Alaska is the US. But family and the cold will have me in the Lower 48 again by end of fall.”
“How do we know you’re not just going to try to stay in Canada?”
Who’s on first? Also, I’m a delight. Why don’t you want me in Canada for a spell?
The less angry one—I’d have been scared to be alone with his counterpart, who dripped distain like a boxer’s sweat and glared at me with that kind of disgust that’s hungry—at last deigned to let me in. Only I’ve been flagged. I must leave Canada in seven days … or else. There’s a paper stamped to my passport noting this. Most US citizens can stay six months without a visa.
This shortens my trip across those long kilometers of ultimate wilderness road trip, leaving me little leeway for discoveries, meandering explorations, unforeseen hold-ups, exuberant daylong hikes, or deciding to just take a break for a day to rest or write or work or soak in a hot spring.
I was taken aback by the experience. I felt ashamed to be answering whatever detailed personal questions they threw at me, to not be believed, to not understand what they wanted from me or thought they saw in me. Didn’t Canada want my tourist dollars? Wasn’t this one of the prime motivators for reopening the border? I tip well, carefully consider balance when it comes to receiving and giving of resources and respect for communities I visit. As a guest, I always hope to leave a place better than when I arrived. It wasn’t until reflecting back on the encounter a couple hours later when I stopped to sleep before carrying on to my hotel in Whistler that I understood their profile of me—a poor houseless person trying to mooch off Canada.
And that, in terms of humanity, makes the hostility and intimidation even worse in my eyes.
As a bonus pain in the ass, they lost my vaccination card. I didn’t realize that until I stopped to rest either. It just didn’t come back with the other paperwork they thrust at me. I’ve since tried calling a few times, but no answer at the border office. And I have miles to cover. I’m hoping it won’t cause me problems crossing into Alaska. I do have a photo of the card.
This experience felt shitty. And my bewilderment and naivety was, of course, a privilege.
I have to ask myself, Who would I be if I lived in a world that often responded to me in this way? If the consequences—teetering in the palms and whims and biases of authority figures with weapons—were far more important, or life-threatening, than a shortened or even halted epic road trip? How would it alter my perspective and how I show up in the world if I was accustomed to being disbelieved and suspected and looked down on? If, when I was doubted and risked being turned away, it was from seeing family, accessing safety, protecting my child?
And who would I be without the fortune and honor of knowing and loving and listening to the stories and heartaches and triumphs and setbacks and navigations of people whose world regularly consists of such a response?
Would love to hear others’ experience at borders / with authority figures and gatekeepers.
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My anecdotally derived tips for traveling to/through Canada in a van:
Be aware this bias—that you might attempt to stay in Canada / be a drain on resources—might greet you.
Be precise and specific about your plans. Have proof of reservations handy.
Have a ready and clear answer for why you will and must return to the United States.