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Dave? Is That You? "There is only one difference between
a madman and me. The madman thinks he is sane. I know I am mad."
Back in Canada, after our 80 kilometre US detour, we traipsed into a Rainy River grocery store and discovered it stocked with bits of second-rate fruit (not to mention the extortionist prices the little store was asking). "What did you expect?" I scoffed when Sharon complained. "Ralph and Randy's?" "You just like the US better," Sharon shot back, "because you're an extrovert and Canadians are introverted." "Huh?" I said. "I just like to eat real fruit." I held aloft a banana as green as spring grass. "What's this?" I questioned. "An edible wood product?" In downtown Rainy River, we stopped at a park. Even though garbage receptacles reared their silver heads every few feet, the place was strewn with garbage from one end to the other. The mess of cans, papers, and bottles didn't make a favourable first impression for folks entering from the States. A cracked and bumpy highway led us along chocolate brown Rainy River, past ripe hay fields, and autumn leaves of multi-hued reds and oranges. All the signs were there for a perfect fall day. But it didn't feel that way - the temperature reached a sticky 30 degrees Celsius. Overheated, we plodded through towns with names like Sleeman, Pinewood, Stratton, Barwick, and Emo. By midafternoon - shirts adhered to our sweaty backs like they'd been crazy-glued there, hair plastered against our foreheads - we arrived in Fort Francis and headed straight for the public pool, dreaming of wallowing in the refreshing showers. There, a detestable sign confronted us: Out of Order. "Just our luck," I groaned. "Dirty luck," Sharon frowned. "Maybe we can break in? I'm beginning to feel like we're partners in grime, anyway." We stood there, forlorn, staring at the perturbing sign, sweat trickling down our temples, wondering if it was possible to feel more grubby than we already did. A woman approached and interrupted our clouds of dark thoughts. "You won't make it to Thunder Bay tonight," she said. Sharon nodded. "You're right about that. Thunder Bay is about 400 kilometres away." "Not exactly what I'd call an after supper romp," I affirmed, and brought the subject around to more pressing matters. "Do you know where we might find a place to shower around here?" "Pither's Point has a public beach," the woman said. "Maybe the showers are open." We thanked her and headed for the Point. Following the woman's directions, we found it without any problems. "Maybe our luck is changing," I said. "Maybe even for the better," Sharon added. She dropped her bike and tried a shower door. It was unlocked! "Woo-hoo!" I whooped. "The god of cleanliness is on our side, after all!" I decided to experiment with an all-in-one shower and clothes wash, and entered the shower fully clothed (except for my shoes and socks - I hate wet socks!). Perhaps the humidity had addled my brain circuitry? After a good sudsing, I emerged dripping wet, looking like a scraggly alley cat who had inadvertently slipped into a washtub. Even my billfold was drenched. I held it up. "I don't understand all the fuss over laundering money." "You're a nutter," Sharon said with the barest winkle of humour. She eyed my sopping state and shook her head. "So this is what happens to people when they're on the road too long." "Hey, you've heard of 'wash-and-wear'?" I retorted. "Well, this is 'wear-and-wash!'" "Brings a whole new meaning to drip-dry," Sharon said. "And I'm emphasizing 'drip,'" she said. "You know, someday we're both going to look back on this, laugh nervously and change the subject." "Let's ride," I declared. "I need to blow dry." The only route heading east was the infamous bicycle-eating Trans Canada Highway. And since we wouldn't make Thunder Bay by nightfall anyway, we decided not to take the bicycle-munching route and headed south to the US border instead. By the time we crossed into Minnesota at International Falls, population 8,300, I was mostly dry. We rolled up to a tourist information centre. The only sign greeting us upon our arrival read a terse one word: Closed. "Why don't tourist information places leave a couple of maps outside for late-arriving travellers?" I whined. "Oh, that'd be too easy," Sharon replied. A grounds custodian noticed us and strode over with a brimming smile. "Need anything?" he asked. He unlocked the door. Reaching inside he fished forth a map. He even threw in some tourist trivia. "The Boise Cascade Kraft paper plant in International Falls is the largest in the country," he stated proudly. I had noticed giant pipes spanning the river between Canada and the States and had wondered what they were for. Trees were cut on the Canadian side, pulped, then pumped across the river to be made into paper products. (And, no doubt, sold back to us for double.) "Have a great time in the States," the groundskeeper said. He was one of the friendliest people we met working at a welcome centre. I heartily shook his hand. "I think you missed your calling," I told him. We rode into town and watched families promenade down sidewalks, enjoying their first breath of cool air since sunrise. Darkness suddenly fell. "Where are we going to spend the night?" Sharon asked. We cycled the streets slowly, on the lookout for an unobtrusive spot to pitch our little tent. "There's an ideal spot," I said, pointing to a ball field. "Yeah," Sharon agreed. "Only one problem ... it's in use." Sure enough. A ball game was in progress - complete with stadium-bright banks of floodlights. We leaned our bikes against the bleachers and sat down to wait. "It can't last much longer," I said. "It's a weeknight and they have to work in the morning, right?" We watched inning after inning. The game finally wrapped up at 10:30 pm. They were getting good use out of the mega-wattage lights. "About time," I said, anticipating the teams departing our campground posthaste. But, to my surprise (and dismay), the teams switched places on the field and another game began! "A double-header," I groaned. "Don't these people work?" The aroma of fresh popcorn drifted through the air. I followed my nose and located the vendor to buy a bag of buttery goodness. Much later, popcorn long gone, we were still sitting in the stands (wondering why they're called 'stands'?). Mercifully, the second game ended. I glanced at my watch: midnight. The stadium lights winked off and players trundled for home - except for three fellows in the parking lot. Leaning against a Camaro, they rehashed the game over a couple of brewskis. "Why don't these people get jobs?" Sharon muttered. We slipped out of the stands, and under cover of darkness, pushed our bikes to an adjacent covered shelter. Our plan was to set up our tent inside the shelter once the stragglers departed. Fifteen minutes later, beers finished, last cat hung, they tossed their empties, hopped into their vehicles, and, horns tooting, bass thumping, drove off into the night. Sharon and I high-fived one another. Our patience had finally paid off. Or so we thought. I yanked the tent bag from my rack and froze. Someone had ridden up on a bike and stopped near the stands. Even in the blackness, I could tell he was staring straight at us. "What's going on over there?" he called. We didn't respond. He called out again. "I said: 'What's going on over there?'" We still didn't answer, hoping that Mr Nosy would tire of our lack of communication and be on his way. But after a couple of long minutes, it became clear: Mr Nosy wasn't leaving. At least not anytime soon. "Jeez," Sharon whispered. "Do you suppose he sleeps here?" "Oh, man," I moaned. "Just our luck." "Let's get out of here," Sharon hissed. We eased our bikes out of the rear of the shelter and melted into the shadows. Riding down the street, away from our late night interrogator, I glanced back. Mr Nosy was slinking into our shelter. A few blocks away, we came across an abandoned lot. I went off in exploration and discovered a flat spot hidden neatly behind a clump of trees. "Looks like home to me," I said. Sharon's shoes crunched on broken glass. "Oh, oh," she muttered. "Looks like a party spot." "Hah!" I scoffed at her detective reasoning. "That glass has probably been there for two years," I said. "Besides, it's after midnight on a Wednesday for crying out loud." More than tired we quickly pitched our tent and crawled in. Within a few breaths, we were both sawing logs like a pair of lumberjacks. Around 2 am my trusty chainsaw backfired, sputtered, and quit. I opened one eye. Had I heard voices? "Hey, Dave!" someone shouted lushly from afar. "Is that you, Dave? Who's over there? Dave?" Terrific. Sharon was right. It was a boozing spot. And no trifling matter of being a weekday night was about to keep our intrepid hero from his favourite beverage and spot of choice. "Dave?" he called again. "Is that you?" I felt as if I were in the middle of a Cheech and Chong comedy skit. Only not as funny. I propped myself on one elbow and squinted through the tent's mesh. Mortified, I observed a drunk's haphazard approach. He came to the tent door and knelt beside it. Pressing his big schnozz against the screen, he almost touched mine. Flicking a Bic, he shoved the flame roughly against the screen. The stark glare lit up his face - a kisser so harsh the guy had the unmistakable characteristics of someone who had been living on the street and drinking booze for an extended period of time. "Hey! Watch it!" I cried, worried he might accidentally torch our tent. "I don't think this thing's fireproof!" At my outburst he recoiled, then closed in again. Smooshing his nose flat against the mesh, he gaped in like some bad-breathed monkey searching for a dropped peanut. "You're not Dave," he puffed, exhaling a heady combination of stale tobacco and Jack Daniel's directly into my nostrils. "Who are you?" he asked. I told him, and, guessing which questions were coming next, I followed up with where we were from and where we were going. The information seemed to satisfy him. In fact, he was most impressed. "Cool, Dude!" he spouted. "Awesome! You guys are cool!" Voices hollered from afar. Some of his soused elbow-bender buddies across the field had tracked him down and were summoning him. "Gotta go!" he said. He stood. He wobbled. He reached out and grabbed ahold of the tent. Steady there, boy. Those poles are only aluminum. "Sorry to bother you!" he apologized, and lurched away into the night. Fearing a possible repeat performance, we didn't sleep all that well after that. Even the rhythmic thump and grind of the paper plant couldn't lull us back into dreamland. |
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