The Third Day of an Unusual Journey: Hitchhiking to Alberta
Posted: Tuesday, January 10, 2012
by Jack H. Schick
Day three of my hitchhiking trip to Alberta dawned a cold morning in the Custer National Forest of Southeastern Montana. I’d suffered greatly the night before and was nearly hypothermic. The icy water in the campground restroom woke me, but only aggravated my chills. I barely recognized myself in the mirror. I splashed water on my face and rubbed my puffy eyes. The guy I was riding with was precise and neat. He went through an obviously rote, almost irritating morning toilet ritual. We had a long day ahead of us. He seemed refreshed and cheery. I felt irritable and tired.
A large station wagon, like one my dad used to have, pulled over. The car was packed full, mostly with children. It was a family of a dozen Indians, Native Americans. They were all siblings and ranged from the 19 year old brother who was driving, to the seventeen year old sister in the front seat holding tiny, baby brother. There were nine others of progressive ages, sexes and heights. They opened the tail gate. I threw in my pack and crawled in the back to sprawl out and play with the 4, 5 and 6 year olds during an active, noisy ride. We were headed to Wolf Creek—a nice long run.
Their grandparents owned a corner-store type market at Wolf Creek. When we arrived the kids, whooping and hollering, happy to be at grandma’s place, took off in a flash, as though some one had reported a buffalo herd nearby. The older brother introduced me to the old folks who greeted me like a friend. They gave me a couple of apples, an orange and the butt end of a loaf of bologna to supplement the few snacks I still had. They recommended I solicit a ride from patrons at the saloon across the street. I didn’t like the idea, and just got back onto the Interstate and started walking north.
In a few short hops I was at Great Falls, only a hundred miles from the Canadian line. I’d only been on the road about 54 hours. Dropped off at the south exit, I ended up walking the couple of miles to, and past the north exit without getting a ride. Finally, and for the first time, a trucker stopped for me. He said he’d seen me at the first exit when he pulled off for fuel. When he saw that I’d kept walking, he decided to pick me up. He was going to Calgary. He knew exactly where the cut off to Picture Butte was and could drop me at a truck stop right there. It looked like my journey would soon be over.
The trucker was hauling a load of onions. He had me throw my pack in the back right on top of the cargo (my stuff smelled like onions for a week). He was a supervisor and didn’t normally make international hauls, but he had another job to do. One of his drivers had gotten into an argument with a Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman about a speeding ticket. He adamantly warned me that I should always show proper respect to a Mountie. After the driver had been patched up at the emergency room, they threw him into jail. He was on his way up to bail the guy out and figured he might as well haul a load.
The truck driver was more than willing to take me as far as he could, but he was not permitted to bring a rider across the border. He pulled over a couple of miles out side of Sweet Grass and let me out. I was to hook up with him on the other side—if we both got through. It was early evening. The sun had just settled behind the Rocky Mountains on the horizon off to the west. A crisp, chilly wind blew down the slope and across the sagebrush prairie as I approached the border on foot.
{These events took place in 1971, and do not represent a contemporary border crossing experience}
I could see the crossing station for a long way as I trudged up the highway. It had not occurred to me, up to that point, that there was a possibility they wouldn’t let me into Canada. There was a war going on and many of my compatriots had escaped to Canada to avoid it. My hair was a little long, but I didn’t look like a real hippie. I had my driver’s license and my draft cards with me, but a potential problem did come to mind. One of my draft cards had been altered. I’d crudely changed my birth date so it showed I was 21 and could buy drinks back at Chief’s Bar in Pittsburgh. I figured they might scrutinize it more closely than Chief did, so I tossed it. I tore it up and threw it to the wind. Tiny pieces fluttered off toward the east through the brush.
There were a bunch of trucks lined up at the crossing station. I found my way to the office, walked up to the counter and announced myself to a uniformed, mustached guard. I told him I was hitchhiking and was headed for Picture Butte to see a girl. He asked me if I had any weapons. I took out the Boy Scout pocket knife I had on me, dug the spare out of a pouch on the side of my pack and put them on the counter.
“That all?” he asked. I opened my pack and pulled out my Boy Scout ‘silverware’ kit. It had a knife in it, too. “Why do you have all these knives?” he asked.
“I’ve come all the way from Pennsylvania. I figured I’d have to do some camping and cooking.” I explained.
“Pennsylvania?” he muttered as he examined my stuff, “To see a girl?”
He had me put my backpack up on a table and empty it. When I pulled out my Wolf Creek fruit and bologna, he confiscated it. “You can’t bring this stuff in.” My crackers and cans of baked beans were okay since they were ‘packaged.’ He looked over all my cloths and gear, just saying “Humm...” a couple of times. He told me to go ahead and repack everything then to wait right there.
The only time I’d gone into Canada before was at Niagara Falls. My dad just pulled up to the window, showed ID, told them where we were staying and for how long and they waved us through. I knew I was innocent of all malice and deceit and figured they could see that too. I thought that was all there was to it. I was badly mistaken. After making me cool my heels sitting there on a hard bench for half an hour, he sent me upstairs to talk to his boss.
The boss was older, was not in uniform and didn’t look nearly as friendly. I noticed he seldom made eye contact with me. I explained my intentions when he asked what I was doing there. He said that he didn’t expect I’d get very far hitchhiking., and was visible surprised when I told him I’d made it from Pittsburgh in two and a half days. He asked if my parents knew where I was. I was glad I’d called them from Iowa at the insistence of a fatherly guy who’d given me a ride, and could truthfully say, “Yes.” He asked if ‘the girl’ knew I was coming, which she did; and what her name, address and phone number was. I gave him the information. He insisted I expound on how I’d met and knew her. He asked what her father’s name was. I didn’t know and wondered why he asked, until he dug out a phone book to look them up to be sure I was being honest.
He scrutinized my ID and asked me about my Military Selective Service status—I had a 2S, student deferment. I was happy I’d disposed of the forged card. He then gave me some information that startled and worried me. I said I was planning to stay seven to ten days in Canada. He told me that they required tourists to have at least $20 a day and asked me how much money I had. I only had $67.35. He made me take it out and show it to him. I explained that I’d be staying with her family and shouldn’t need much money.
He simply shook his head and sighed. I assumed that was the end. I’d made it that far, 2,300 miles and seven states, but was now going to be turned back at the border. It was something that had never entered my mind until I’d gotten there. Then, for one of the few times, he looked me straight in the eyes. He was silent, just stared for a moment. Finally, he asked, “Can your parents wire you money to the bank in Picture Butte if you have to get out of the country in a hurry?” I said, honestly, “Yes.”
For the first time since we’d met, he smiled. He signed and stamped several forms, handed them to me to sign, then shook my hand. He had a feigned, stern look on his face when he said, “Don’t get into any trouble, and I expect you to be out of the country in two weeks.” I thanked him and gleefully went back downstairs. The uniformed guy was sitting there with his feet on his desk eating an apple that looked suspiciously like one I’d brought from Wolf Creek. He just nodded at me and grinned as I picked up my pack and pocket knives then headed out into the now dark chilly, and…Canadian night.
I found a payphone and called Christine in Picture Butte. I told her where I was and that I expected to be there in a few hours. She and her parents were shocked that I had made it all the way from Pennsylvania so quickly. I looked around for my truck driver but didn’t see him. There were dozens of trucks parked around the area and I had no clue which might be his. I couldn’t smell the onions from there. Since I’d spent nearly an hour and a half getting through the check station, I assumed my ride had already departed. I walked a few dozen yards up the road and stuck my thumb out.
No one seemed interested in picking up a rider, especially within sight of the crossing station guards. I walked a little further and waited another half hour before a driver finally stopped. It was my old friend, the onion driver! “Why didn’t you wait, like I said?” he asked as I piled back into the cab. “I thought you were already gone,” I said. “I’m glad you got across. I thought they probably wouldn’t let you in,” he confessed.
There was new highway construction and the truck stop the driver remembered wasn’t there anymore. It was ten o’clock at night when he dropped me off in the middle of nowhere on the Alberta prairie about ten miles north of Lethbridge. I waved goodbye, knowing I’d never see that friend again, either. There were no lights except the stars and an occasional set of headlight zooming up the highway behind me. The sign declared it was 15 miles on the lonely, two-lane road to Picture Butte. I started walking.
There was no traffic on the back road at that hour of the night. A car finally did come along but didn’t stop. I knew I could probably walk it by midnight, but I was anxious for my journey to finally be over. Surprisingly, the very next car stopped for me. An old couple was curious what I might be doing out on the road in the middle of the night, so I told them my whole story as we cruised on into Picture Butte.
It was a small, flat town. I didn’t see a single building over two stories tall. I knew from what Christine had told me, that there were only about a thousand people in the whole area. The main street was empty. I found a payphone in front of the hardware store and called her house. It was only a few minutes before a car came out of a side street and slowly drove down the main street toward me. I hadn’t seen her in almost two years but carried her picture in my wallet, so I recognized her right away.
She stopped at the curb, rolled down the window and looked up at me as I walked over to the car. “I never thought I’d see you again,” she said and smiled.
“I told you, you would.” I smiled back.
“Yeah, well, I didn’t believe you.” She got out and opened the back door for me to throw my pack on the back seat.
“Now you do,” I said as I closed the door.
We just sat and looked at each other for a moment after getting back in the front seats. Finally she asked, “How was your trip?”
I smiled and said, “Uneventful.”
She laughed, put the car in gear and said, “Let’s go. I have to get up for school in the morning.”
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Top-level comments on this article: (2 total)Amazing journey....and I hope you continue the story, and return trip. Be sure to keep these stories for a chapter in your autobiography...the home trip was really exciting. thnaks for reading and commentingI look forward to these stories, and it's far more interesting than the book I started and put down...
You know I am extremely impressed with you, but the sheer volume of your output is astounding. Is this a 4000 word article? Well written. It swept me up, as your articles do.Thanks so much, Mr French. I just keep typing away. Been wanting to get this story on paper for 40 years. Very little embelishment, almost all facts, though memory is some what faded.
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