Where the Buffalo Roam

After the stressful rush through Canada, I knew we’d need a break.  Alaska also taught me to take experiences as they came available, so when our route to Texas took us within a couple hours of Yellowstone National Park, it wasn’t even a question whether we'd stop.

We drove the couple hours from Great Falls to West Yellowstone, passing some truly beautiful country.  If you ever get the chance, northern Montana is just stunning, even though it couldn't seem to decide if it was winter or spring (all of the above pictures were taken within 4 hours of each other).  We also got to see a bonus roadside cattle drive along the obscure highway.  We settled the kids into the Yellowstone Lodge, walked the idiot dog, and then Rick and I escaped in the truck to recon the park.  (Yes, you read that right.  After five days of driving, we decompressed by driving some more.  Shut up.)

That first night we just did a quick trip down the southern leg of the park to see Old Faithful.  Mostly we wanted to check the roads since we’d be taking Bertha the next day; part of the park was still snowed shut and other parts were icy and steep.  The accessible roads proved to be just fine.  Rick and I got to reconnect after nearly a week in separate cars and hotel rooms.  We also saw some bison and a grizzly—coincidentally, the first wild grizzly Rick had seen, even after four years in Alaska.  Go fig.

When we got back we rounded up the kids for dinner at the Slippery Otter Pub.  I recommend it if you ever find yourself hungry in West Yellowstone.  It was good enough we ordered pizza from there the next night for dinner.

The next day we got up bright and early, loaded up kids and the idiot dog, and headed into the park.  Even with part of the park closed, it was a great day.  For those of you unfamiliar with the park, Yellowstone sits mostly in a massive caldera—a collapsed volcano—on the Montana/Wyoming border, and its terrain and ecosystem are shaped by geothermal activity. (If you need an extra thrill for your visit, remember that parts of the park are rising about 3 inches a year--a massive number geologically--probably due to the supervolcano that sits directly below the park.  Happy thoughts.)

The mudpots, vents, and geysers were fan favorites. The kids loved walking through the clouds of sulfury steam; surprisingly few fart jokes were made. Despite the steam and boiling caustic water, the air was still cold enough that some of the pools were iced over and the surrounding trees were rimed with frost. Because I firmly believe in making fun experiences miserable, I quizzed the kids on volcanoes and other geothermal structures.  At the next stop they were very happy to leave me in the van to watch the dog while they went with Rick to see the Grand Prismatic Spring. Rick was willing to make a second trip with me so I could see everything—and, more importantly, take pictures.  I mean, if you don’t walk away with a thousand flipping pictures, did you even actually go?

Of course we had to watch Old Faithful.  A lot of people say it's overrated, but I don’t know when or if I’ll ever get my whole crew back up to Wyoming so we watched the danged geyser.  They advertise that it erupts like clockwork, but that’s, again, from a geological perspective; in human time there’s a good half-hour window of variation.  Rick volunteered to wait with the dog.  I tried to convince him to go, since I’d seen it before as a kid, but he demurred.  I shrugged, got the kids some overpriced sandwiches, and claimed a bench as we waited for the geyser to go off.

It was pretty cool. (If you're curious, it's not erupting in the above pictures--just prepping.)  The kids loved it. It turned out that Rick got bored of waiting and wandered out our way with the dog, so he also got to appreciate the geyser.  On the way back to the car Thura managed to slip her leash and spent a happy half hour playing tag with us.  She was as absurdly happy as only a dog who knows she's both naughty and almost uncatchable can be.  Rick and I were less enthused about chasing our idiot dog around the crowded campground.  All’s well that ends well, though; in the end everyone was back in the van where they belonged and I didn’t feed the dog to the bears.

We turned around and headed north to see the canyons, mountains, and calcite formations on the north rim.  We encountered elk, a marmot, a rather judgmental coyote, and a couple of bison jams. After driving through Canada, the kids were a little over the wildlife just outside our car, but Thura lost her mind over some rusty baby bison through the window. Like the girls, the bison moms were unimpressed.  After a very full day, we returned to the hotel and plied the kids with cold pizza and old sitcoms.  While they were distracted, Rick and I slipped out to the hot tub. We had a good conversation with our neighbors from across the hallway, who were very friendly despite the fact that our dog acted like they were murderers every time she saw them.  I left a can of Alaskan salmon by their door when we left in the morning.

The next day it was back on the road.  After so many days of being van people, the kids fought it less than I expected. I suppose they finally broke. It had been nice to have a reprieve, though, and even better to see one of our most celebrated national parks. It didn't disappoint.

Oh, Canada...

Moving sucks.  

Moving with the army sucks worse.

Moving internationally with the army during a global and highly politicized pandemic is...well, let's just say it's highly unpleasant.

The long drive up four years ago, in normal times, was challenging enough.  There were a lot of logistics and moving pieces to juggle, but Canada was welcoming and all the stress came from adventuring into the frigid unknown during the last gasps of fall. Four years later, thanks to Covid, Canada had closed its borders to all but essential travel and jacked up the requirements for those lucky enough to be allowed in. In addition to the normal pile of passports, orders, birth certificates, photo ID, and pet health certificates necessary to cross the border, we also had to provide proof of a negative test within three days of entering Canada, register as international travelers, provide a detailed itinerary of our route and stops, avoid all Canadians whenever possible, stay outside of all public buildings except when absolutely necessary, test ourselves again within 24 hours of entry under the supervision of a Canadian telehealth nurse, and get the hell out of Canada within 5 days or they'd put out immigration warrants for us.

No biggie, right?

Riiiiiiiiiiight. 

Day 1.

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 My last Alaskan sundog

I was solidly mid-mope about leaving Alaska when we reached the Canadian border. The mountains were still thick with snow and the rivers frozen, but the roads were clear. We were driving two vehicles: I had the younger kids strapped into Bertha with the bulk of the luggage, while Rick had the older girls and the dog.  Our aforementioned paperwork was in order, our alphabetized negative tests were in hand--all the proof that I had gathered that not only was Canada required to let us pass, but also that we weren't going to single-handedly infect the country.  In fact, because I overthink everything, I insisted we all test twenty days beforehand so that if, by some odd chance, any of us had had asymptomatic Covid and were still popping hot we'd have time to get the paperwork saying we weren't contagious.  No need to worry--all negative. Then, the day before we left, we tested again on Fort Wainwright--still negative. When we got to the border, based on previous experience, I expected it would take 20 minutes.  30, tops.

Wrong.

 

Waiting in line at the border.

 

We were in line for over an hour just to get to the border hut and greet the grumpy, stressed-out border agents at Beaver Creek.  It took another forty-five minutes for them to record every detail of our trip and identities.  A pile of tests was shoved at us with a firm warning to make sure we took the first within 24 hours, and a second in 7 days--which was unnecessary considering we'd be out in 3, but they wouldn't take the extra tests back.  We could test over our phones and drop them off in any public mailbox--all very simple, I was assured.  Finally, our little papers that designated us as dangerous foreigners clearly visible on our dashboards, we were waved on with one last reminder to check in with the Canadian border agents on the southern border to verify that we'd actually left the country.

My anxiety was running only slightly higher than normal.  We had just about four hours until our first stop in Haines Junction.  We'd roll in about 7.  Plenty of time to call.  Sure enough, a little after 7 we checked into our hotel and got dinner without interacting with more Canadians than absolutely necessary.  The obedient little rule-follower that I am, I hopped on the hotel's wifi, registered my test online, and called the telehealth line to take my redundant nose-swab.

The line closed at 6.

I tried to be calm.  The line opened again rather arbitrarily at 3:30 a.m.  It was still well within our 24-hour window.  I'd just get up early and get it taken care of.  Rick was less helpful--"How are they even going to know if we take it or not?  There aren't trackers in the tests, and we'll be out of here in three days, remember?"--but I was determined not to be an international criminal.

 

 Promises of the midnight sun to come. About 10 pm.

 

Day 2.

4 am.  I dragged myself out of bed and called the telehealth line, tests in hand.  At that completely reasonable hour there were 40 people in the queue ahead of me, which translated to roughly forty-five minutes waiting to talk to a person.  A nurse finally opened a video call so she could watch and make sure I correctly scrubbed a q-tip around my nostril at an appropriate depth for the required amount of time.

Now, this probably comes as a surprise to no one, but even in the towns internet coverage and cellphone reception are spotty at best in the Yukon.  The video was glitchy from the beginning, but we bravely persevered.  I started to unwrap my test but was told to wait while she entered my information on her computer as well.  I mentioned we were traveling, and asked if she could supervise all of us and knock the tests out in one fell swoop so we could get on the road.  She said that that was not acceptable and I should call back for each test to be properly supervised and registered.  This meant that we'd be sitting for potentially hours to take tests that wouldn't even have results until we were out of the country. I wasn't happy, and knew Rick would be even less so.  Still...neurotic rule follower, remember?  So I resolved to at least take my test.

The picture froze again.  The nurse managed to get a few fractured words in, and then it froze for good.  Panicking--and imagining have to plead my innocence in a Canadian tribunal court--I screenshot the frozen call...and then the call failed completely.  Naturally, I took a picture of that, too.  I waited a few minutes to see if she'd call me back.  When she didn't, I called the hotline again.  61 people ahead of me.  8 tests would take hours, and we had at least 12 hours of driving to get to the next hotel.  My anxiety warred with a knee-jerk F-you reaction to this absurd requirement.  Canada would understand, right?  I'd do it tomorrow morning.  I woke everybody up, shoved some breakfast down their throats, and got back on the road.

 Fears of Canadian jail aside, the drive was beautiful.  The Yukon Territory and British Columbia are some of the most beautiful country I've ever driven through.  We saw a plethora of wildlife right off the road--mostly wood bison, wild horses (in the Yukon Territory, of all places), some caribou, a couple bears, elk, a moose, and swans.  The infrequent towns were friendly and welcoming.  There was one burger joint in particular where the owner was talkative and generous with suggestions about where to find the best-priced gas.  The food was good, too.  Paranoia and specific legal discouragements kept us from stopping at places like Liard Hot Springs (a favorite from our drive up and one place I had hoped to revisit) and the license plate forest, but it was still a decent day.

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

A Nicer Motel, just down the street from A Nice Motel.  Seriously.

Archie's in Watson Lake.

On Rick's insistence, we each had assigned handles for communicating over the walkie talkies (Scalpel, Quill, Littlefoot, Riptide, and Curly Sue, among others).  It still stunk to be driving separately, but being able to talk with another adult broke up the long hours.  I had hoped Bren would be able to help drive, but between Canada not recognizing her permit and her abandoning me to read Heroes of Olympus with Rick and Leah, there was no chance to share the driving load.

We pulled into Fort Nelson around 8.  We wouldn't be taking any tests that night, either.  Still, I'd try the next morning.  Who needs sleep when you have caffeine and crippling, adrenaline pumping anxiety?  Rick again mentioned that there wasn't much point in taking the tests, that we'd technically already missed the window anyway.  I was not placated.  After all, Canada had to be more competent than the U.S., right?  Their government agencies surely all worked together like a well-oiled machine.  Surely, after all the repeated warnings, at least their immigration and health departments were coordinating, checking names of registered travelers against a database of tests observed and received.  The last thing I wanted was to be on the threshold of leaving Canada--remember we were required to stop and provide formal proof of our exit, not just gun the gas across the border--and be asked why I hadn't taken my test in violation of national travel requirements.

It was another rough night.

 

 Day 3.

The day began with the telehealth line still not working and ended with my youngest children rebelling at being in the car for a third consecutive day.  They made this known by whining, fighting, and then screaming for the last two hours into Edmonton.  My remaining helpful children fled to the truck to read Percy Jackson with Dad.  My GPS didn't work in Canada because my phone carrier was not recognized internationally, so we got lost and had to stop at a gas station to buy a map when calling the hotel for directions was less than helpful.  Once we found the right road, a building fire slowed traffic to a crawl.  When we finally made it to our comfortable hotel after 10, I was fried.  We'd be leaving Canada the next day.  There was no point in setting an early alarm.  If I was going to be arrested, so be it.  At least I'd get tested there.

There are no pictures.  We will never speak of this day again.

 

Day 4. 

It was only 5-ish hours from Edmonton to the U.S. border in Sweet Grass, Montana.  I excavated the essential paperwork from the bottom of my van, ready to plead my case at the border.  Rick was still nonplussed about the whole situation, but he's always wanted to be an international fugitive, though admittedly for something cooler than failure to take a viral test.  The drive was uneventful. Alberta is fairly flat, and mostly farmland; the littles had worn themselves out the day before and the drive was blessedly quiet.

The border is marked by a large concrete complex that squats on the highway; other than national flags and the signs written in French if you're heading into Canada, there isn't much to tell one country's crossing from the other except the direction you're going.  I knew we needed to turn in at least half our unused tests and get our names officially removed from Canada's Naughty List, but I couldn't see where to turn in before we were forced to the American side of the border.  I pulled up to the window.

The U.S. agent looked up, bored. "Americans?"

I nodded and handed over our official documents.  He rifled through them, tapped briefly at his computer, and handed the papers back. "Welcome back."

"Um...I need to turn these in?" I tentatively shook one of the boxed tests.  He managed to keep from rolling his eyes.

"That's apparently the rule. You definitely want your names off the list. Take a left up there and circle back around.  There'll be a parking lot on the left."

"Thanks.  I would've done it earlier, but..."

"No problem.  It's hard to see the turn.  See you in a bit."

I took a left and felt only a little buzz of trepidation as I pulled back into Canada.  If things went south, we'd just make a run for it. I grabbed my trusty folder of legal documents and an armful of tests and scurried inside while Rick and the kids idled in the lot.  We were so close.  I had all the papers, and I wouldn't mention the unused tests unless explicitly asked (and then I'd probably dissolve into such a pitiful blob they'd just push me over the border).  There wasn't much of a line.  It would take 10 minutes, and then we'd be free. 15 minutes, tops.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight.

Half an hour later, Rick came inside to check on me; the border agent was still tappity-tapping away, removing us one by one from multiple data systems on a rather slow computer.  This was fortuitous, as Rick needed to provide some ID.  We sat for another 10 minutes, and then the much-friendlier border agent wished us a good day and pointed to the door.  No word was ever mentioned of testing at all.

We jumped back in the vehicles and Rick led the way into Montana.  When I stopped at the American window again, a different agent peered into the van as I offered up our papers.

"These all your kids?"

"Yes sir."

"All girls?"

"Yep."

"All girls.  That's cool.  Well, ma'am, your husband says you have all the drugs."

I blinked.  After ten seconds I managed to stammer "Y-you mean the Tylenol?  It made sense I'd carry it since I have all the small k--" About this point I realized he was joking. "Oh, yep, I do.  Alllll the drugs.  They go with the van."

He nodded. "And the kids.  Kids make the best mules because no one ever expects them.  Hey kids, this lady bribe you into the car with money or candy?"

Jane and Aeryn didn't miss a beat. "Money."

The agent nodded again. "Yeah, always hold out for the money."

I laughed. "It's good to be home."

He thumped his chest. "'Murica." and waved us on through.

I caught up with Rick at the first rest stop.  For the first time in days, the anxiety was gone.  I was giddy.  Canada was a good country but it was a relief to be done with all the official, legal technicalities.  Oh, and to not be in jail.  In all fairness, I had probably catastrophized a little more than was reasonable, but that didn't matter now what we were back in the States.

Now we just had to make it to Texas.