Tossing the tent flap aside, I stare out. The lake sits a few feet away, but is completely invisible now. Entirely lost in a grey cloud of morning fog.
Crawling from the tent, I dig in the sidecar. Pull out Baylor’s food and fill his bowl. Watch as he happily munches and crunches until every last morsel is gone. Looking around, it’s obvious we might as well wait a bit for this fog to lift. I’ve driven in similar conditions before and would rather not repeat the terrifiying experience.
Rolling out the worn yoga mat, I look to my left. Laugh as Baylor returns to the tent, stomps around making a sleeping bag nest and immediately falls right back to sleep. Shaking my head, I turn towards the water. Step onto the mat and pass the time stretching and bending. Working out the kinks brought on by a motorcycle camping way of life.
Sun peeking out, we roll onto the highway. Cruise towards the northern cousin land.
Pulling under the covered driveway, I feel a wave of nerves. It’s completely nonsensical. I’m not hiding anything. There’s no crime being committed here, but it’s the same every time. I’ve never approached a border crossing without a racing heart. Perhaps it’s some deep seated fear of authority or discomfort with the unknown. The only sure thing is that I would make a terrible criminal.
Smiling at the uniformed man, I reach in the tank bag for my passport. He looks us over. Where are you headed? What for? How long will you be here?
Questions answered, he looks at Baylor. Do you have any paperwork for him?
Sure, I have his rabies and vaccination info if you want it.
He looks again. Smiles slightly. No, that’s okay. He looks good. Give me just a minute as I run this, he says heading into the building as another uniformed man exits.
Can I get a picture ? It’s just too cool.
I smile, relax, nod. Of course, go ahead. We end up spending more than 20 minutes at the border crossing. Two of them doing the necessary country crossing exchange, the rest talking about travel routes, adventure dreams, motorcycle tales. Waving goodbye, we cruise north. Head from agricultural USA into agricultural Canada. Besides the change from miles to kilometers they’re completely indistinguishable.
Dark clouds swirling ominously, the day becomes a riding marathon. Every time we stop the wind picks up, the skies threaten rain. Hoping to avoid getting drenched, we drive on. And on and on.
Checking the map, I note a free camp spot. Mark it in the map and head off. Bumping down the dirt road, my shoulders ache. Rain splattering unceremoniously against my face shield, I remember a tip from a year ago in Alaska. Talking of a buggy, rainy ride north, Dean explained it’s best to wipe the water in direction. A quick horizontal swipe keeps the smearing and glare to a minimum. It seems like a small thing, but in the muddy, rainy annoyance every little bit helps.
Coming to a sudden stop, I check the screen. Look to the left, straight into the field of corn google maps is certain I should turn into. Growling, I pull my glove off. Scroll around on the map for an alternative way. Checking the time, I sigh. Only an hour of sunlight left and here we are wet, muddy and lost in the ag middle of nowhere. Bumping and weaving to avoid the biggest potholes, we finally reach asphalt. Turn left full of hope. Seeing a sign for camping, we veer onto the dirt road. Bump down a hill and look around. I’ve slept in some weird places over the past year, but this is just too much. Even without the fear of getting washed away in a flood, it looks like a scene straight out of Winter’s Bone. Not exactly relaxing.
Ten miles later, we pull into a campground. Roll down the lane and pull into a spot. Between frugality and the principal of it, I hate paying for a camp spot, but sometimes you have no choice.
Re-humanized after the thawing spray of a hot shower, I declare tonight’s $10 camping fee money well spent. Crossing the lawn, I note the sun peeking out, wander the grounds thinking about camp caretaker Cory’s words. After asking about how he came to be here at Homme Dam, he looked around gratefully. You know, growing up I always wanted to live at a lake. When this job came available I jumped at the opportunity. And now my dream has come true. I not only get to live at a lake, but get paid to do it.
Crouching to enjoy the droplet covered flowers, I smile. That’s one of the of the best things about traveling across the continent. Every day I get to see and hear about people’s dreams. And even when we have completely different dreams from one another. When they think what I’m doing is wacky and I don’t totally get what they’re doing, we still share a connection. A common appreciation for wild ideas becoming concrete reality.
An understanding that the details of the dream chasing don’t particularly matter, it’s the fulfillment of the journey that’s important.
396 days down. Many to come.
