Underwear, an orange, and border patrol

On being sketchy girls in a sketchy van

Chelsea and I are not very serious people.  As such, we don't tend to do particularly well in serious situations.  Like border crossings.  Our lucky streak of being stopped and searched began on our 2013 trip when we were trying to cross into New Brunswick.  We had several things going against our favor: we were bleary eyed from driving and multiple days of rain, we had been sleeping in a Honda CRV (as we did in those days) with the two dogs in the aforementioned rain without showering for an extended period of time.  I was tattooed, tank topped, braless, and sporting California plates on my car.  And we had terrible answers to the border agent's questions.  We had left on this road trip after completing our seasonal winter jobs in Jackson, WY, and when the agent asked where we lived, we were a bit stumped.  We didn't technically live in Jackson any more.  Neither of us had lived in California in over a year. We were legitimately homeless.  We stuttered about and I think eventually settled on California.  Then they asked what we did for work.  Another guaranteed stumper.  Unemployed?  Then we also answered incorrectly when he asked us when we were last in Canada (legit mistake, the years all run together sometimes!) We did have appropriate answers to the other question that usually hangs us up- where we were headed.  We were visiting a friend on Prince Edward Island who was attending vet school.  "Mmhmm.  Pull ahead, park and head inside for a backgroud check."  Damn!  The agent had seemed so friendly and jokey with us.  We shuffled into the office and handed over our passports.  Once we were deemed ok to enter, the dogs were looked over and we were on our way into the Canadian night.  We thanked our lucky stars that they didn't pull apart the jam packed car and search it because repacking it would have been a nightmare.  

A few weeks later, we were on our way back to the US.  I was genuinely nervous about the border crossing.  We practiced our answers.  We pulled up and the kind gentleman in the booth asked "where are you headed?"  I looked him in the eye and said "yup!"  Somehow in my nervousness I had completely misunderstood what he asked me.  Chelsea shook her head and sighed.  Thankfully, the agent let us through without a hassle and I promised Chelsea I would do better next time.

A couple weeks later, we were at it again.  This time we were headed north from Vermont.  We were going to visit a friend in Ottawa and then head west and cross back into the US in Michigan.  We pulled up and the first thing the agent asked was, "where are you headed?"  "California," I answered confidently.  "You're going the wrong way," he said, totally deadpan.  Shit, I thought.  "Well, we're going to turn left here shortly, and cross the Sue St. Marie into Michigan," I explained.  This guy was nice too, and we were on our way without further questioning.

Fast forward to 2015.  We started off quite well.  We easily crossed the border into Canada from a small crossing in Montana.  Little did the agent know, but all he had to do to stump us was ask us what province we thought we were crossing in to. We were shocked to cross the border and see a "Welcome to BC" sign.  We thought we were in Alberta.  Oops.  Anyway, we made it to our destination without any trouble.  We spent about a week in Lake Louise, Banff, Yoho, and Jasper National Parks.  From there we planned to head to Whistler, but our friend Clancy invited us down to Olympia, WA for the weekend for a seafood cookout, paddling, and a promised good time.  We couldn't resist so we gunned it for the states.  We again had an easy crossing and then a truly fantastic weekend in Washington.  

We headed north to complete our ski season in Whistler and check off the last destination on our ski pass.  We stocked up on food at Trader Joe's and headed for the border.  We pulled up and answered the first few questions like border-crossing champs.  We are headed to Whistler.  We are going skiing. We will be there for one week.  Even though they always ask where you're staying I wasn't prepared for it this time.  I thought saying we were going to Whistler would bypass this.  "In the van."  Damn.  Bad answer.  He started jotting down notes on a yellow piece of paper.  He asked when we were last in Canada.  "Thursday" I answered assuredly.  It was Sunday.  This did not seem to please him.  I'm sure he thought we must be running loads of weed up from Washington or something.  He asked us why we were in Canada on Thursday, drove back to California and then were returning to Canada so soon.  I tried to explain that we had just gone down to Washington for the weekend to visit a friend.  "Pull over, lane 7, the man there will tell you what to do."  Sigh.  We pulled up and were instructed to put the dogs in little metal crates that were sitting outside in the rain and to head inside.  We lined up and handed the agents our passports and our mysterious yellow paper with the codes written on it from outside.  Three agents went outside to search our van.    We sat and stared at our feet and then tried to stifle our chuckles as we saw curling come on the TVs above our head. All the random things in the van that might appear weird to an outsider starting finding their way into my head. I wondered what they would think when they found the Gatorade bottle that I spit my toothpaste into when there isn't a better option. Ew.  Eventually our van was deemed drug free and we were allowed to reclaim the dogs and leave.  

The thing about these searches is that they don't actually tell you anything.  You know they are searching your van, but they don't implicitly say it, and when you're allowed to leave, they just say 'ok you can go.'  There's no explanation of why you were stopped, what they were looking for, nothing.  It is terribly intrusive and frankly, violating to have a bunch of men go into your home and paw through your stuff.  I had a few pairs of underwear that were wet from paddling in the rain that weekend that I had laid on the bed to dry, and sure enough they were shuffled through.  The pillows were moved around and one of the organizers on the back door had somehow been ripped off in the process of the search.  The good feelings for Canada were gone and we just wanted to get our ski days in and GTFO.  

We ended up having a great time hiking around Squamish and skiing our last two days of the season in Whistler.  We were amped to get back to the US and get climbing.  We were also getting kind of fat from going to Tim Horton's every time we needed to use our phone.  You can't go in for wifi without getting donuts of course.  We cruised down the road, and made it back to the US border in no time.  

We got there around 8 and there was no line.  As we pulled up, I'm pretty sure the agent in the booth was already prepared to send us in for a search.  He barely paid attention to the questions he was asking, let alone our answers.  He handed us a search warrant before he even saw Titan sitting in the front of the van.  "Oh, wait, you have dogs?" he asked.  "Yes, two."  He explained where the dogs kennels were and sent us on our way.  Now we were just feeling annoyed.  We obviously aren't on any sort of time schedule, so it's not like we are being held up from anything, but we really didn't think we would be hassled trying to get back into the US.  We locked the dogs into a concrete kennel, apologized and told them we would be back soon.  Apparently we arrived during a shift change, so we and the other few groups in line, sat there unmoving for a good ten minutes while people shuffled around in the back of the office.  Finally, one agent came on duty and started processing things.  I could tell that he took great pleasure in the THWACK that his stamp made when he finished someone's paperwork.  We were called up and given customs forms to fill out.  Then we were asked all sorts of questions, including what food we had in the van.  I started listing things.  Mushrooms, rice, quinoa, broccoli, onions, kale, bananas, apples, an orange... "An orange?"  "Half an orange..." "That might not be coming back with you."  "Not my orange!"  This guy at least seemed to have a sense of humor.  We couldn't tell if we should be really serious, or if it was ok to be lighthearted.  He went to tell another agent to search our van and we heard him say, "there's an orange in there."  I had no idea my orange would cause so many problems!  Chelsea hates oranges but I insisted on getting one and had eaten half of it before we started driving.  A few minutes later, the agent came back.  "Wow! Your van is very.... organized!"  Haha!  I'm pretty sure this guy wasn't even the one who was supposed to search our van but he was just curious to see it.  Then he told us it sort of smelled!  "It smells!?" We both asked, incredulously.  We hadn't noticed.  "I mean, just like a travel vehicle," he said, "you know.  I've smelled much worse!"  I just laughed and told him I guessed I would take that as a compliment.  He let us on our way.  Sans orange.

After that, we decided we were glad we would't have to cross the border again until July.  Unfortunately, we have four more crossings in our foreseeable future.  One into Canada, then into Alaska, then back into Canada, then back into the lower 48.  At this point, we are resigning ourselves to the fact that we will probably get searched more often than not.  It kind of just goes with the territory.  In the grand scheme of things, it's just a minor inconvenience and not really a big deal or something to get upset about. The agents are trying to do their jobs well and apparently we fit the sketchy bill. Being profiled for a lifestyle that I've chosen to live is nothing compared to the profiling other people are subjected to on a daily basis for things they can't change. I just wish I could see the border patrols faces when they step into the van and see that it looks like an 8 year old girl lives in it.  I think opening the door and seeing colored foam floors, chalkboards, big bubbles on the wall and penguin curtains is probably a lot more shocking than finding an eighth would be.