Wednesday, July 20, Day 4     I take the wrong road. I head south unknowingly and by the time I realize it, I’m in a town called Chewelah thinking wait a second. I plot a course to the closest road heading back north. Why take the same road twice? It defeats the purpose. I take a mountain pass east to Highway 20 unknowing that a sign that says ‘pavement ends’ awaits me. I have the thought to turn around but don’t. I skit and scamper over the gravel mountain road at 10 to 20 miles per hour. I really hate gravel on a bike this big. There are several 180 degree hairpin curves and the pass goes down to one lane at times. I am getting no where fast. Gravel sucks  I finally reach the main road and head straight north to Canada. I cross over a river, pull into a gas station to fill up and stop by the magazine rack. I am held captive by a cover story of Madonna in Esquire magazine. I read the entire story from start to finish. I haven’t looked at a newspaper or listened to the news since I left.     A baby boomer hippie generation leather vest clad graying pony tail gentleman pulls up on a Harley Softtail. He peels himself off the bike and fills up his tank. I see him looking at my license plate through the large window. He finishes refueling his ride, walks in, pays, and then walks over to me at the magazine rack.     "What’s the plate mean?" he asks with a little too much curiosity.

My license plate on the Yamaha Venture

"On a Quest," I say to him referring to the ONAQWST spelling. I absolutely love this license plate. I had to come up with 26 spellings of the phrase just to get it.     "For what?"     "For the perfect road, the perfect curve..." I add. He stares at me blankly with a deep look in his sunken brown eyes.     "Yeah, I used to be in those years too. Had to settle down after awhile. Where you headed anyway to find this perfect road?"     "Alaska, but for now across the border and into Canada."     "So what’s with the military gear?"     "Military gear? Oh the ALICE pack. They issue it to me, so I mine as well use it." I forget sometimes that below my license plate is a sticker that reads, ‘US Marine’. The sleeping bag is encased in a olive drab bag called a willy-peter bag. (AKA waterproof bag.) The camouflage pack is bungeed to the top of the hard bag. The MRE food is inside a camouflage duffel bag.     "Oh... I thought you were on a mission..." He trailed off slightly. "Pretty soon you won’t be able to travel like that."     "How so?"     "Haven’t you heard, they want to make the United States into 10 separate countries and close the Canadian border. I’m surprised you haven’t heard, you being in the Marines and all. Lots of it is directed at you guys. I’m surprised you didn’t know."     "Know what?" I ask again.     "They want to make you Marines a part of the United Nations, put the Marines under the control of the UN forces.     "They do? Where did you learn this?" I am so curious as to what motivates this man who obviously believes every word he’s telling me.     "Oh, 29 Palms, other places. I once filled out a questionnaire that asked questions like, ‘would you kill your own men if UN commanders ordered you to’ and other questions like that. Pretty soon, all armies are going to become part of the UN and the world police force."     I decide at this point to stop asking this guy questions. We walk out together to our bikes and he says to be careful. The words ‘Iron Ride’ are painted in red letters on the blue tank of his bike. On the back of his half helmet are the words, ‘?Remember Freedom?’ with an American flag under the words. It’s a question rather than a statement. He flips out a lever with his black boot and kick starts his Harley. It roars to life and he pulls out onto the highway disappearing into the forest. I turn and head north, on my quest.     The word ‘border’ evokes images of the border patrol along the East German wall during the late 80’s. I have no idea what to expect. The road rises above 3000 feet and Hwy 31 ties the two countries together.     I reach the border to British Columbia and a young lady indicates for me to pull over to the side of the road. She asks questions like... "Have you ever been arrested for anything of any kind?" and "How long will you be in Canada?" I think I was expecting some sort of burly slightly heavy tall Amazonian woman carrying enough bullets to overtake a small country, baton, mace, 9mm, one of those zapper things, the works. Instead she was very young, petite, freckles, pleasant, and rather cute.     She continues to ask me a series of seemingly standardized questions to which I reply ‘No’ or ‘No ma’am’. I start to get a little more comfortable; she was nice, not burly. I even become a little daring and shake my head no to some of her questions. She tries to go through my things, sticking her hands into bags bungeed tightly. I open the hard bags for her to see.     After the questions stop, I start talking. I ramble on mentioning where I am coming from, going, reasons, the works. She finishes her task and sweetly says "Well it was nice talking to you." Definitely not your typical border inspector. She can’t be more than 18. I wonder if she likes motorcycles.     "Think Kilometers 90 = 55." A huge sign proclaims right inside the invisible borderline. So I promptly look down at my speedometer and sure enough it does. "Welcome to Super Natural British Columbia" says another huge sign. Super Natural? Now that has style. I bet an entire board room of advertising execs sat around for days to come up with that one.

Welcome to Super Natural British Columbia

At Creston, I stop for lunch and am attended by a young looking waitress. She wears shorts, Nikes, and a Sawyer Brown T-shirt with short mousy hair. I ask her about the current exchange rate and where the closest bank is so I can change over some money. She asks about my destination nonchalantly as if I am probably headed over to the next town or something to buy milk.     "Alaska!" I say with gusto munching on my french fries drowning in ketchup.     "A-A-Alaska," she stammers stumbling to spit the word out in her surprise, "now that is a trip," she says smiling.     I lie here under a perfectly clear star filled moon lit night. I can see the man in the moon. I arrived in Banff National Park (after riding through Kootenay National Park on Highway 93 at dusk) and decided to call it a day. I was here 10 years ago and barely remember it. The park is this huge u-shaped valley a hundred miles long with glacial mountains on each side. The night is a cool 53 degrees, which is perfect sleeping weather. About 30 feet from me is a mountain stream and as I lie here, I can hear it babbling away. The smell of campfire smoke fills the air. The most gentle breeze is plying upon the uncut grass that surrounds me. I am being serenaded to sleep with the sound of the water flowing by.

Riding through Kootenay National Park on British Columbia's Highway 93

As of today, I have decided to make tracks. Distances are becoming more vast and so far the roads have been perfect high-speed byways. I notice that every one has their lights on around here even in the daytime. Another interesting thing about Canada is the road signs are a size smaller. I got my Canadian money at the exchange rate of my dollar buys $1.40 of their dollar. Gas is 52.8 cents a liter and I have no idea what that comes out to. I hope I dream of twisty mountain roads.

The Rocky Mountains along the Kootenay River
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