Jacob Resneck’s

CLEARED BY MINNEAPOLITAN CENSORS

MINNEAPOLIS, Minnesota — Ah, to be back in the United States of America. After more than two weeks in the Godless Dominion of Canada I am again choking on America’s sweet, noxious, fumes of freedom.
If my past dispatches gave a rosy account of our “Red Neighbor to the North,” gentle reader, I apologize. I operated under duress; as a foreign national I was under the panopticon gaze of “Little Brother.”My every movement and conversation closely monitored by Her Majesty’s Royal Canadian Mounted Secret Police. I could not write the things I saw and heard there. But having safely crossed the border, I can.
This is my story.
****
I had been warned about Calgary’s “hot” train yards. Canadian Pacific railcops were said to patrol the large Alyth Yard quite heavily. In fact, a friendly rail worker I met on the city bus to the yard gave me a stern warning. So I elected to walk to the east end of the yard and wait for a slow rolling freight to emerge where I could nail it unseen. There was a manned tower in the yard, but it was far away and the weeds were high, so I felt fairly confident that I could catch out in broad daylight.
A slow-moving junk train peeked out of the yard. Unfortunately, a long westbound manifest had arrived and was blocking my path. The eastbound junk train stopped, about a quarter mile out of the yard. Cursing, I ran out in the open for all and sundry to see, climbing up into a lone grainer that was nestled between petroleum tankers cars. I was glad not to be a regular smoker.
My little junk train made good progress. I think only one hotshot passed us, though we stopped a lot to let westbounds pass. Soon we were in the flat prairie lands and the temperature dropped and the wind kicked up. I put on every shirt I had, but the wind cut through me and I had to sleep with my knees under my chin in the small crawlspace of the back of the grainer.
I prayed that my train would not break-up in Medicine Hat. It didn’t. We made it through Swift Current, Saskatchewan, and other small prairie towns. I cooed soft words to my ‘little junk train on the prairie’ hoping to take me to Moose Jaw. It did and I hopped off, hoping to catch something southeast rolling towards St. Paul, Minnesota.
****
For those of you that might thumb your nose at bustling Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, take note: it is the hometown of the celebrated television personality Art Linkletter as well as a number of ‘famous’ hockey players. I couldn’t gather much else of note about the town. At the Safeway supermarket, my out-of-town phone number to get the “Clubcard” discount caused quite a stir in the check-out line. I felt like somebody.
I returned to the freight yard, sitting on the edge of railroad property with my pack hidden under a large oak tree. A railworker operating heavy equipment gave me a particularly dirty look which I found puzzling; I’d been told that this yard was known to be friendly.
In less than 10 minutes, I heard engines and looked up to see not less than three of Moose Jaw’s finest roll up, backed by a CP railcop. I took a breath and tried to look non-chalant.
“You looking to ride a freight?” a young cop asked me.
“No siiir,” I said, looking him the eye.
He looked very sceptical and I couldn’t blame him.
“How’d ya get here?”
Inspired, I spun a fantastic yarn how I’d hitched into town with a retired CP railworker who’d told me fantastic and romantic tales of freight train travel. I told him how I’d never gone near a train, but after hearing the man’s stories, I had come down to see the trains for myself. But now, I could now see the error of my ways, I told him, laying it on thicker and thicker.
I showed him my driver’s license which caused a small ripple of excitement among the constables.
“California?! What the Hell are you doing in Saskatchewan?” They grinned.
Just passing through, officers.
I knew the game was up — I would not be catching a freight out of Moose Jaw that day, and the weather did not look favorable with dark clouds billowing up.
“Say, you guys couldn’t give me a lift to the highway so I could hitch outa’ here, could you?” I asked.
“We don’t condone hitching,” he said. “But… I could give you a ride to the service station. After that, it’s up to you.”
He asked for all of my weapons. I told him about my my small Swiss Army Knife, putting my hand slowly into my pocket. He kept his hand on his holstered sidearm as I handed it over.
“I’ll hafta keep this until we get there you understand,” he said.
The young policeman wasn’t unfriendly and we chatted about where I’d visited in Canada. I let it slip that I’d visited Nelson, British Columbia, which is known for its over-the-counter marijuana business.
“So I’m sure you’ve got some good stuff in that backpack,” he said over his shoulder as we headed for the main road.
“I don’t smoke,” I said icily.
A little embarrased, he said he was kidding.
As soon as we arrived at the service station the rain began to fall. Heavily. The cop shook my hand and wished me the best of luck. I bought a coffee and a map of the province in the gas station. The young attendants, amused that I was trying to hitch out of town, brought me cardboard and a marker to make a sign.
A couple of lifts later, I found myself in Milestone, Saskatchewan. At least that’s what the grain elevator said. It was the junction of two highways so I’d find plenty of traffic heading into North Dakota, I was told. There were maybe two or three cars a minute, and most looked like local traffic. The rain and wind would not relent.
I heard a rumbling and saw a junk train roll slowly down the track, heading south towards the border. I grabbed my pack and ran towards it. I looked up and saw one of the brakeman outside, they were picking up some cars from a siding.
“You guys heading to Portal [North Dakota]?” I yelled.
“Yep.”
“Can I ride one of your grainers?”
The brakeman looked embarrassed and just mumbled something like, “Aw geez…” and looked away.
He didn’t say no, I reasoned running down the train. There weren’t many rideable cars and I wasn’t sure how much time I had. I climbed into the first grainer I found. It was pointed the wrong way so that all of the brake equipment was on the back where I usually ride. I hesitated but then saw some tramp graffiti that said “get in the hole” and had an arrow pointing into the cubby hole. I did as I was told.
Inside the cubby hole I saw that the brakes took up much of the room. There were small slits over the wheels and I immediately thought of the asbestos I’d be breathing from the brakepads. Plus, there were arms of the brake machinery and I wasn’t sure how much play they would have when the brakes were applied. Claustrophobia washed over me and I was shaking as I struggled to get my pack out of the cubby hole and hop out.
Running further down the train I saw more grainers. The train began to roll. I cursed myself for being so impulsive and jumping on the first car. The grainers rolled passed me at a speed I couldn’t match running with my backpack. The junk train had gotten away. It would’ve been foolish, I told myself, to cram into the brake wells. And what if I got caught at the border?
I looked up and noticed that the sun was shining and I could hear increased traffic on the highway. I felt a strange wave of inspiration — I had to get back to that highway, it was already 6 o’clock and not getting any lighter. I jogged to the highway and heard the low rumbling of a semi-truck around the corner. I felt a strange impulse that this was my ride as I sprinted across the street, raising my thumb to flag her down.
It rumbled slowly to a stop its loaded trailer grumbling in protest.
I thanked the driver for stopping and told him I was heading for the border. “No problem,” he said.
I told him I was headed for the Twin Cities in Minnesota.
“I’m taking this hay to the racing stables in Lousiville, Kentucky, ya know for that race?”
“The Kentucky Derby?” I asked.
“Yeah, that’s the one. Sure I can drop you in Minneapolis.”
Bless his heart he took my the whole 706 miles. But first there was that small business of crossing the border.
****
It’s been my experience that border guards seem especially suspicious of hitchhikers. This puzzles me. If I was gonna smuggly something, I wouldn’t hitch in dirty Carhartts. I’d rent a flash car and dress nicely. But their conditioning as cops to have disdain for vagrants overrides their sense of reason. Plus we’re easy pickins’ — that is, easy to intimidate which is probably the only fun part of their job (aside from setting the German Shepherds on people trying to run away).
Most of the border patrol guards at Portal, North Dakota, seemed friendly enough. All except Bull. (Anyone remember the bailiff character in the TV sitcom Night Court?) Bull wasn’t his full given name, his real name was Bulli-ger. But as he was tall, lanky, had narrow eyes and a completely clean-shaven head, the other officers called him Bull. Like the others, his speech sounded Canadian and there were a lot of sentences punctuated with “eh?” Apparently, such close proximity with the enemy had led these Federal Agents to go native. Washington must hear about this.
For my part, I had offered to walk through the border separately, so as not to bring any heat to the trucker and his load, both of which were Canadian. He shrugged it off. I cross every week it’s easy, he told me.
Ah, but not with a hitchhiker in tow, he later learned.
They put us in separate rooms for interrogation. An second agent stared at me as Bull began the interrogation.
“Have you ever done any drugs in your life?” he asked me. Not really a fair question, and I should’ve said so.
“No.”
Really? He pressed. I just stared at him.
“What’re the earplugs for?” He demanded after I emptied my pockets.
Rather than describe how noisy freight train travel is, I told him I was a light sleeper.
“Did the driver tell you he had any drugs?” He demanded.
“Of course not,” I said. “I mean, if he did d’ya really think I’d want to be crossing with him?” I retorted. The second officer grinned.
If we find anything in that truck, he told me, you’re going down too.
I told him that that made me uneasy as I’d only just met the driver, but that if those were the rules, I wasn’t in much position to argue.
The driver later told me that in his interview, they’d told him: Look, if you know he’s got drugs in there, tell us now. We can work with you.
Neither of us broke. I didn’t have any contraband, and I doubt the driver did either.
While waiting for my passport and driver’s license to be returned, I looked up at the pictures on the wall. President George W. Bush smirked at me. Vice President Dick Cheney met my glance with a cold grimace.

I was home.

Jaco out (of Canada)

CLEARED BY CANADIAN CENSORS

CALGARY, Alberta — When it rains it pours. And it’s pouring down relentlessly here in Calgary where I am tucked in warm after some kindly Canadians I’d met last spring took me in. After washing the soot and grease from the train off, the dog stopped growling at me. I looked and felt human again.
After tearful farewells in the cherry orchard in Creston, I set off, determined to catch myself a Canadian Pacific train all the way to Cranbrook. (100 km). The sun set and the mosquitoes paid a call, still no train. But then I heard that faint, ghostly whistle in the distance. The rails began to hum and the ground around me began to tremble. This never fails to get me excited which is why I do it, I guess.
Blinded by the locomotives headlamp, a long black manifest thundered past. I watched the lug nuts on the wheels spin by in a blur. The bastard was really cooking. It let off another couple of blasts from the horn and kept on keepin’ on, barely slowing down as it thundered through Creston.
Knowing it was the only eastbound for the next 24 hours, I hefted my pack and walked to the pub where I’d started a week prior, the last time I’d been rendered rideless.
I walked in and everything was as it should’ve been. Everyone was in their exact same seats, though the conversation wasn’t about sheep’s entrails this time. I think it was Canadian Football.
I ordered my beer.
“Australian?” the Greek asked me.
“Nah, American,” I muttered adding, “we’ve been over this.”
Immediately I was recognized. They asked if I’d found work and all of that, and I told them about the wonders of being a lowly fruit picker in their town.
It was getting late, and I missed my picker chums so I skulled my Clamato beer and trudged back to the orchard.
It was 10:30 p.m. and all was dark and quiet in camp. The firepit sat idle and people were in their tents.
“What’s goin’ on here?” I boomed to some French Canadians who’d been my neighbors in the camp.
“Jacob! He’s back!” they cried.
I asked about the fire. Or lack of.
“Oh, we were just saying, now that Jacob and Jessica”–the two Californians of unrivaled initiative and pluck–”were gone, no one bothered to gather any wood or make a fire.”
Damn Gauls!
The next morning I set off to hitch. Arriving at the edge of town, I eased my 70 lbs. pack off my shoulder and began to thumb it.
An 18-wheel Freightliner Wonderbread truck appeared. Fat chance, I thought as I stood with thumb erect.
It stopped.
I climbed in. The driver was going to Calgary, but taking the Crowschild Highway. I would get off in Cranbrook to look for trains I told him.
At first I couldn’t place his ethnic extraction. I guessed Korean. Maybe Filipino. He had a strong accent and was very dark and Asiatic looking.
We were talking about cops, he was curious what the difference between sheriff’s deputies, city police, and US Marshalls, all of which had complicated his work as a trucker when hauling goods in the United States. Then he made a reference to Tribal Police.
“Are you from one of the nations?” I asked.
“Full-blooded Dakota-Sioux,” he replied proudly.
I felt like and idiot, not to know what a Native American looked like. He was a cool guy, cooking his logbooks and hadn’t had much sleep in days, he said. I guess my job was to keep him awake, as far as Cranbrook anyway.
He told me an anecdote about picking up a guy outside of Edmonton, Alberta at 4 a.m. who’d asked if he could smoke. He’s said yes, and the guy crawled in the back and began to futz around when a strange odor emerged.
“You smokin’ weed back there?” He’d asked.
“Nah, crack.”
That was the end of the line for that junkie, he said, snickering how he had stopped and sent the guy packing.
Cranbrook, or “Crack-brook” as I’d been warned wasn’t nearly as forbidding or run-down as I’d been promised. I posted up on the lawn next to the rail museum, scanning for friendly-looking CP workers.
I spotted a woman building a train. It’s the 21st century, but as gawd as my witness, I had never seen a female railworker. I approached her and asked her about northeasterners towards Field, BC.
She said everything was taking the “Crow roue” toward Lethbridge, but that if I went up to Fort Steele, 20 clicks up the road, the northeasterners would crew change there. I even asked a second worker in the parking lot if there was a crew change in Fort Steele, and he said there was.
It was a long, hot walk through Cranbrook, my 80 lbs. backpack straining at its straps. Every imaginable form of fast food was there to tempt me. Dairy Queen, Burger King, Burrito Baron, everything. But my will was (still) strong.
At one point someone felt sorry for me and actually offered me a lift, but he was going a different way. Finally I began to hitch and soon found myself at Fort Steele. I blinked and looked around, it wasn’t a town at all, but a western theme park. There was a steam train that took tourists in a quarter-mile loop, gift shops, plaques of every shape and size, and old facades of buildings. Since 1898, the sign said proudly. My hometown of Occidental was founded in 1876 and still has a working saloon, I sniffed.
The entire town was employed by bubbly blond 19-year-old girls in white bonnets who, I guess to seem in character, referred to each other as Miss Anne, Miss Sue, and such. Even the bloody gas station were stocked with nothing but recent high school grads, though they didn’t have to wear the bonnet. Oh, they were sweet enough, but their knowledge of freight train activity was wanting.
I found the tracks, but it was down as steep gully and the speed was posted 40 mph. No evidence of a crew change anywhere. Had I been duped? I imagined a scheme hatched in Crack-brook to send all unsuspecting riders to Fort Steele, a little tourist trap where a bottle of ginger ale cost $3. The railworkers were probably cackling madly at their ruse. Scoundrels.
****
Back on the highway, I got a lift with a friendly retired forest service ranger who said he’d take me 70 clicks up the road, but we had to make a couple of stops first. One was to swim at a pond he’d been meaning to check out for years, and the other was for ice cream. I didn’t argue. All was good again.
****
I ended up in Radium Hot Springs, another tourist trap from hell. I tried to ask a young couple for directions, “Please?” the man said in a German accent. “Wo ist die Bad?” I asked (where’s the bath, I think) They explained they were searching, too. I asked a passing local, and he said it was 2 clicks up the hill. The Germans began whining, I guess they had come that way or something.
“Ach, est is nicht so weit,” (it’s not so far) I told them as they kept whining to each other in rapid German. I was wrong. It was far — especially with a 90 lbs. rucksack. Stupid mountain.
****
The next day I arrived in Field, BC. Perched on a plateau on the west side of the Continental Divide, Field is a former mining town that has now been completed converted into “quaint” bed and breakfasts. I couldn’t escape fast enough.
I sat on a train pointed eastbound and waited for six hours as I watched every other train pull out of the yard. As it began to get dark, I decided to wait till morning. It would be dumb to cross the beautiful Canadian Rockies in the dark, I reasoned.
The train pulled out as the sun set. I sat on the riverbank watching it as I ate another tin of kippers (my staple diet).
****
Now a word about the rail line between BC and Alberta. There’s a mountain range in the way and back in Creston, I’d been warned about The Spiral Tunnels. It seems the railway was completed in the 1800s to help develop the Canadian Northwest, but the tracks were lain at ten times the gradient considered safe at the time. Runaway train disasters were unsurprisingly commonplace. In 1908, the decision was made to cut two spiral tunnels through the solid rock to ease the ascent and descent. Trains enter from one side, turn more than 200 degrees, and emerge from the other side. In places you can see a train enter from one side of the mountain and then double back on itself. Each tunnel is more than 3,000 feet long. That’s not the longest, not by a long-shot. The Cascade Tunnel in Washington State is reputedly 7 miles long, but I was still worried about smoke and diesel and dust. Especially in a loaded freight draggin’ ass up the goddamn mountain.
In Creston I’d been told that an old rioters’ trick was to soak a towel in vinegar or lemon juice and breathe through that. It worked on tear gas, so it might just work for diesel fumes, I reasoned.
The general store sold Heinz White Vinegar for $1.10 and I took my dirty towel out. I was ready, I told myself.
****
The next morning, I slipped into the back of a grain car. It sat. I sat. I must have a curse, I thought, as other trains passed by. I was getting sick of playing musical trains, swapping around, only to find that the train I choose would inevitably stay the night in Field.
I walked up the hill towards town. There was a engineer with an empty coffee cup heading the same way.
“Which place has better coffee?” I asked, trying to make conversation.
“Both ’bout the same,” he said.
“That train gonna roll soon?” I asked, gesturing to the idling freight.
“Well, my train is going to leave in about 30 minutes,” he answered somewhat cryptically.
After caffeinating myself I went back to the waiting game. The ground shook and a long manifest slid into the yard, saddling up next to my grainer. For Christsake, I thought. If you keep gambling you can’t always lose, I thought as I changed trains for the sixth time in 24 hours.
The train creaked, groaned, and made all of the requisite painful metal noises before it can roll out. After some hemming and hawing, the immense beast grudgingly rumbled east and started climbing the Rockies.
Immediately we passed through some lesser tunnels. Our momentum wasn’t bad and our speed healthy.
I wet my towel with the foul-smelling vinegar and wrapped my face for the first tunnel. It was dark, but I was by no means sensory deprived; the growling noise of the train reverberated off the tunnel as hot smoke, soot, brake asbestos, and other toxics that have brought many a hobo and railworker to an early demise washed over me. The soot burned my lungs, but as I got the towel fastened over it, my throat was singed by the acidic vinegar instead. It was a different kind of pain, but all-in-all much preferable to the petroleum stickiness of diesel smoke.
We emerged less than two minutes later. Not so bad, I thought. As we neared the second tunnel, we pulled into a siding. Crap, I thought, there goes our momentum. When we got back on track, we were going considerably slower for the second tunnel.
Again the same blackness, but this time I was more generous with the vinegar. I choked down the fumes as we rounded through Kicking Horse Pass. Daylight emerged. We had crossed the Continental Divide. I was in Alberta, I realized, looking at the dark rain clouds.
We made good time through Lake Louise, Banff, Cochrane, as the downpour soddened our train. I was tucked into the cubby-hole of the grainer, staying snug and dry.
We pulled into a suburban trainyard. Was this Calgary? Even if it isn’t, I gotta be close I reasoned. I’d heard that there was a lot of heat in the Calgary yards. Rail police. Private security. Cameras. Weird sensors. Do-gooders-with-cellphones, waiting to catch sight of a trespasser so they could call the bull.
I threw my pack over the side and jumped off the train. I looked back and heard *wwwhooooooossshhh* the tell-tale sound of the engine decoupling. End of the line, I said aloud.
I looked down where the engine was. The crew was out walking around. Next to them was a white vehicle. I froze. The bull!
I walked down towards the bushes, trying to walk the perimeter of the yard and get off of railroad property as fast as possible. As I got closer, the vehicle looked less like the bull and more like a private vehicle. No antennas. It was a sedan, not an SUV.
I hazarded a closer guess. I made out the shape of a nude young man through fogged windows. Ah, just some kids humping by the tracks. Doubt they’ll hassle me. And ya know what? They didn’t.
****
After a complete north-west-south-east tour of Calgary courtesy of Calgary Transit and a bus driver’s bad directions, I finally found my friends’ house. The address was hard to find, but the empty Kokanee beer bottle on the stoop gave it away.
The neighbor dog growled at me, and I couldn’t blame him. I was a pathetic sight. Sooty, smelly, soaking wet.
I was treated to lavish Canadian hospitality and welcomed to stay a few days.
My timing couldn’t have been better, I was told.
“We’re having a ’sex party’ tomorrow night,” my friend said.
I beg your pardon?
“Well, it’s actually a ‘pleasure party’. Kind of like a Tupperware party but instead of kitchen ware, vibrators and dildos,” she said.
I see.
****
The following evening I helped greet the guests to the ‘pleasure party’. I was to be the only (straight) male present, I was told. Hmm. Great. There were two birthdays also being celebrated. Alcopops, white zinfandel, Kokanee, and Carling Black Label abounded. Mixed with Clamato, it’s not half-bad, that Black Label stuff. Most of the people there were from British Columbia, so we had plenty of Clamato on hand. I was always an outcast in my native land for drinking the tomato-clambroth-MSG cocktail, but among BC’ers I’m like a kindred spirit when I pour the red syrupy liquid into my beer.
“The lady’s going to be late,” our host announced. “She had a panic attack on the drive over and had to stop to pop an Ativan.”
Now I don’t know much about drugs, but after 30 seconds’ research, Drugs.com lists these side effects for Ativan, an anti-anxiety medication:

· allergic reaction (difficulty breathing; closing of the throat; swelling of the lips, face, or tongue; or hives);
· sores in the mouth or throat;
· yellowing of the skin or eyes;
· a rash;
· hallucinations or severe confusion; or
· changes in vision.
· drowsiness, dizziness, or clumsiness;
· depression;
· nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, or constipation;
· difficulty urinating;
· vivid dreams;
· headache;
· dry mouth;
· decreased sex drive; or
· changes in behavior.

Other than that, I’m sure it does wonders for some people. Though it can be very habit-forming, the website warns.
The ‘pleasure party’ went seamlessly. The girls proceeded to get roaring drunk while the different lotions, creams, scrubs, vibrators, books, and other knickknack’s were presented to them. Everything was “fan-tastic” or “amazing” according to the bubbly saleswoman.
“And it’s all 100 percent natural, these products,” she said.
I raised my hand.
“Uh, what about FD&C Yellow #5 and Red #4?” I asked.
“Let me see that!” she snatched the bottle away.
I felt bad, I had no right to rain on the pleasure party parade.
****
Selling these liquored-up 20-somethings was like shootin’ fish in a barrel. Who could blame them? If you got a room full of guys super liquored-up and then started hawking porn videos and subscriptions, you’d probably never have to work again.
I’m not sure, but I can only imagine some of the lassies waking up the next morning and thinking, “Oh, my head … wait a sec, did I really just write a $300 check for six types of pleasure potion and two vibrators? I gotta cut back…”
I was a wallflower through all of this, my small amount of male-energy completely overpowered in the sea of estrogen. Not that I didn’t enjoy myself. At one point, the saleswoman was making a point about how sex toys are not meant to replace partners; rather they are to enhance the experience.
“Thas’ right!” I drunkenly shouted in agreement, returning to nurse my can of Black Label.
****
The phone just rang. A couple of Quebecois I’d met in Creston are in Calgary. My hosts, being of ample Canadian generosity, told me I could let them crash here for the night before they catch their flight back to their own land.

For my part, I need to investigate the Alyth railyard and find a train going to places with names like Regina and Moose Jaw.

The railroad goes on forever, the party never ends.

Jaco ooot and abooot

CLEARED BY CANADIAN CENSORS

CRESTON, British Columbia –– I’ll start where I last left off.
Rising at 5 a.m., I realized I’d spent the night on someone’s front lawn. Luckily they weren’t early risers, and I packed up and began beating my way down to find work at an orchard picking fruit.
Several orchards later, I was taken on a crew to pick cherries for the Creston Valley cherry harvest. I was shown into the camp, a motley assortment of tents and beaten up campers with Quebec license plates.
I was amazed to learn that each year, Quebec’ers travel 5,000 kilometers to pick fruit in British Columbia.
“In the US, most picking is done my migrants,” I commented to a picker from Montreal.
“We are migrants,” he deadpanned.
“I mean from, ya know, another country,” I pressed, lamely, realizing the trap I had walked into.
“And Quebec is not a country?”
“I’m not getting into that one,” I retreated.
****
Last year had been a bumper crop for cherries, with pickers making more than $200 a day. This year was a disappointing crop — I’ve been lucky to make $70 in a day, I was told.
But it’s not bad work. You start at 5 a.m. and are ordered to quit by noon, when the sun makes the cherries plump and ripe, and easy to damage when picking.
The first day was spent “cleaning”; picking the rotten ones out of some trees. There would be no work the next day, we were told.
I was invited on a road trip to a hot springs, several hours to the north. Traveling in convoy, our car was loaded down with three young Quebec girls and a guy from Alberta. It was a long trip and was beginning to get dark by the time we made the turnoff onto the gravel road.
It was at this point that I learned that our directions were less than precise.
“My buddy said it was 6 clicks down,” our Albertan guide said. “But I keep thinking 8 clicks … let’s try this one,” as we’d weave around on another narrowing forest service road.
Soon we amongst fallen trees and our Nissan Sentra couldn’t go any further. The others in the convoy began to grumble. We’d driven four hours to get here and knew we were within spitting distance of the hot springs.
Given the situation, what was our plucky French Canadians’ answer? Just give up.
Never do I feel so Anglo-Saxon as when in the company of Gauls. The Albertan and I tried to reason with them, that we could trudge a little further, but we were met with non-committal shrugs. It was their car, so we just kept quiet.
“I just want to make some fire and drink some beer,” one Quebecer said. We complied. And the next morning limped back to Creston in disgrace.
****
Back on the farm we were put to work in the orchards. Aside from our hands getting caked with grey pesticides powder on the fruit and the occasional mosquito onslaught, picking cherries is actually quite pleasant.
We were told that Monday was a provincial holiday. What luck! I would be in British Columbia on B.C. Day. What revelry would ensue, I imagined, as I went into town the day before to prepare.
In the liquour store I asked the clerk what to expect.
“So there’ll be a town parade?” I asked.
“Uh … no.”
“Y’all get drunk and shoot fireworks at each other?”
“No.”
“Big town barbecue and loud music?”
“No.”
So what exactly happens on BC Day?
“Well, the government liquour store is closed. And the banks, I think. But the supermarkets should be open,” she said.
BC Day for us pickers meant no internet (public library) and no hot showers (town recreation centre).
****
The pickers’ camp was a cluster of about 25 people from Quebec, Alberta, BC, and California. We had fires and guitars and singing. Lotsa’ dope smoking and drinking, all within spitting distance of the owner, and affable guy who I learned was a former leader of a well-known international church known for its conservative social values.
Yet his tolerance for the moral turpitude of the pickers’ camp was amazing. I noticed that during a staff meeting he spoke with a resonated whiskey bottle sitting next to him. Our blasphemies never seemed to faze him, if anything he always looked faintly amused.
In fact, I saw him say to his foreman last night, “What’s wrong, stoned again?”
“No boss, now I be drinking,” the foreman responded good-naturedly.
A lot of tolerance for a guy whose religion doesn’t permit coffee.
****
Last night, as we sat by the fire listening to the Quebecers shout old French Canadian songs, hands clapping, feet stomping, and whistling, I remarked to the Albertan how lively the young people were.
“Yeah, they’re probably the most singy-dancey people on the planet,” he smirked. “They’re all want-to-be circus performers, it’s great.”
So tomorrow, after an honest day’s work, the plan is to board a freight bound for city of Cranbrook. The locals here tell me it’s a great town to score crack in, and not much else. So I hope there’ll be another train waiting for me to take me up north. Because, you see, I’m Alberta-bound.

Jaco oot