No. 33: You are in Canada

An opportunity presents itself

The road sign read “Canada 4” next to an arrow pointing to the right. I’m not a seasoned distance cyclist, but a few miles effort to gawk at the U.S.-Canada border seemed within my ability. My youngest child and I were camping for the night in Derby, Vermont. While she attended a Tae Kwon Do summer camp, I had a few hours to myself to do whatever I liked. I could bike to Canada.

The weather forecast was ominous – a string of tiny cloud and lightning bolt icons punctuated the hours to come – so I pedaled hard. The sky was dense with clouds, but they were more light than dark and I was feeling foolish enough to believe that I could make the 10-mile round trip before any nasty weather caught up with me.

The other unknown was how much climbing lay ahead. My foolishness continued to assure me that since I couldn’t see any sizable mountains or hills, the road must lay fairly flat. The excitement of an unexpected challenge, the lure of the road, and the fineness of the pastoral landscape of farm, forest, and lake compelled me onward. That feeling of “what’s around the corner? what’s beyond that summit?” overcame any apprehension.

I rode quickly. Thanks to a borrowed gravel bike, well-geared for hills, I made satisfying progress and in a short while crossed into Derby Line, one of several border towns hugging the northern edge of Vermont. Small, New England charming, and well trimmed for summer, the town quietly absorbed me, drawing me further toward where I assumed the border line would be.

I first passed a stately, modest 2-story colonial building which housed both a post office and the U.S. Customs and Border Protection port of entry. Pretty sleepy. A border police officer sat lazily in a marked SUV. Straight ahead I saw a small bridge crossing over a ravine and leading to the Canada Border Services facility. Bienvenue au Canada. I coasted down to the bridge to get a closer look and maybe surreptitiously snap a photo of a border sign.

“Hey! Hallo! Hey!” Two Canadian border police shouting and waving at a car that just rolled by me to enter Canada. “Hey! Hey!” They were still waving and yelling, and looking in my direction. “Hallo! Bon jour,” one of them said perfunctorily. “Come here!” The two officers, very grim in black combat uniforms and large sidearms were now “welcoming” me into Canada. I walked my bike towards them. “What are you doing?” Me: “Oh, just looking around. I biked here!” This was not a good answer. “You are in Canada. You must check in at passport control.” Oh shit. In the midst of my cruising and rubber necking I rolled over the actual border line onto Canadian soil. Oops.

The passport control officer I checked in with lightened the mood with some small talk. “Nice bike. What kind is it?” Fortunately my Vermont drivers license, pale skin, and casual yet respectful replies were enough to smooth out this accidental small town border crossing. “Thanks, bon jour!” And get me the hell out of here. I should have a stayed a minute and wandered around Stanstead, the town on the Canadian side, but I was rattled and the sky was rapidly darkening.

International grill line

I sheepishly pushed my bike back toward the United States of America across the international line, subtly demarcated by a plaque on the side of nondescript brick apartment building. Then, back past the officer in the SUV, still not paying the least attention to me. At the U.S. CBP booth, I told my tale nervously, not sure what my reception would be. The border agent nodded and said something about the Canadian police being mean. Hmmm, bit of a reversal based on past experiences with border crossings, but never mind. “Well, they were very… serious,” I admitted. He chuckled lightly and handed my license to me. “Have a good one.”