We rolled up to the border crossing of Coutts at about two in the morning. Out of five lanes, only one was open. A big rig and a truck were ahead of us. It only took about ten minutes for it to be our turn. We rolled up to the passage, facing the bank of cameras and sensors. Ahead, the guard peered out of his booth, more of a door in the hulking building we crept around. There were warning signs everywhere, alerting you to the very serious business of crossing. As we inched forward, the cameras flashed, the sensors no doubt sensed, probing our vehicle and trailer for everything, anything. People stowing away, large stashes of cash or drugs, weapons…. goat milk. I blinked in the afterglow of the camera flash.
This would be a bad time to remember you needed a passport to cross the border.
Fortunately, this idea had occurred to me in Edmonton. After I had found and stashed mine, I had asked Justin about his, prompting a sudden look of thankfulness. On one of the subsequent trips to load the truck, he had asked if I thought we should bring the tickets off the fridge, where they had been hanging since March. Long enough to become part of the scenery. I shot him a look of pure gratitude. I might very well have forgotten, and with no tickets for sale at the gate, that would have been disasterous. And embarrassing.
As it was, we had both had our tickets safely stashed, and our documents in order. Though we were making a most respectable crossing, I had some supporting papers as well. A couple crossing over with a trailer pulled by a nice new truck is a great deal more reputable than a bus pulling up filled with long haired hippies. Still, I had grabbed a tax document proving I had a place to come back to in Canada. You never know when a border god is going to be rather… enthusiastic about his job, and decide to make life a little challenging for a while.
We pulled up to the booth and came to a stop. A younger and dare I say rather cute border guard stared back at us. I had the passports ready, both open to the picture and bar code pages like Europe had taught me. At this, the guard actually smiled.
“Hey there folks, how’s it going to today?” he said, surprisingly chipper. Maybe he had just gotten on shift. Or just gotten engaged. Something.
We exchanged pleasantries with the man, confirming our cities of origin and occupations. Then the big question.
“So where are you headed?” he smiled, eyes craving our answer.
Now, there are many schools of thought on this one. I have heard of some guards with a real chip on their shoulder responding with a major search to the news you are going to Burning Man. I have heard the thread of a rumor that one person had their tickets found and taken, no explanation, no recourse. This is just the shadow of a rumor however, and I don’t put too much faith in it until I have actually spoken to a person it happened to. Still, I had our tickets out of sight. Many people think this is best, to simply say you are going camping, or going to Nevada, or anything but the actual event. Not lying, but not coming to the point either. You may not want to try this one if you have a bike rack of blinking fun fur with handlebars and pedals however. Or a big duct tape Man symbol on the side of your rv. Guards usually catch on. They are good at that, and there is a damn lot of us who flock across the border the same weekend, every year.
So, we took the direct approach.
“We are off to Burning Man.” Justin replied, giving good eye contact, a hint of a smile on his face.
The guard mimed shock, rocking back in his chair.
“Well, someone who tells the truth! Despite the websites advising you to lie!” He grinned at us, no malice in his words. We laughed with him, and told him about some of our costumes, in response to his next question. He expressed amazement at what we had cooked up, and wished us a good festival. With that, we drove into Montana.
It only took another hundred kilometers before we both began to feel the late nights and early-ish mornings we had been keeping. At the next rest stop, we pulled in. Nestling next to a dormant big rig under the dim yellow lights, we came to a stop. I hopped out, intent on the washrooms. Padding down the walkway, I noticed a sign, half obscured by shadow.
There have been rattlesnakes observed here…
Rattlesnakes? My goodness! Not in Canada anymore, are we? I tiptoed down the cement walkway, eyeing every shadow suspiciously. I had no idea how rattlesnakes behaved, other than the rattling and biting part. Did they hang out on cement, absorbing the last heat of the sun? Did they lurk in restrooms, to be near the water?
After a wary bathroom break, I made it safely back to the trailer. Needless to say, my sleep was sound indeed. The bed was comfortable as usual, and the rest stop was not too busy. We slept late into the next day, only rousing at about ten. I shuffled about the small trailer for a bit, then decided to brave the outdoors. I had remembered to bring my sunglasses the night before (for a change) and put them on to make my way to the restrooms. Time to watch out for ankle biters…
I crossed the parking lot, eyes open for sinuous shapes on the ground. I glanced up at the sign which had started the fuss, and saw it fully in the light for the first time.
Rattlesnakes have been observed here in the grass. Please stay on path.
Well then, I guess cement dwelling fang snakes are just the figment of an over tired mind.
Wherever you are, Be There 