Crossing the Border

I'm off to Spokane, Washington, in a few minutes, which means I will be crossing the US-Canadian border at one of the remote ports of entry above Spokane. I'm coming from BC Bud country, which means the border crossing is always, um, interesting. You never know whether they are going to wave you through in a matter of a few seconds, or tear your vehicle apart, make you empty your pockets, and maybe even do a strip search. It always makes me feel so wanted by my homeland. It helps if you have a reasonable story. It seems like there's nothing to set the border guards off like a little uncertainty or nervousness. Up here, they are mainly looking for pot (and in the other direction, the Canadians are looking for cash, cocaine, and guns). The astounding thing is that they would think anyone would go through the ports of entry with a load of weed, when all you have to do is look around at the wild, pine forest-covered mountains that make up the border around here. There are remote logging roads that bisect the border, there are smuggling trails left over from alcohol Prohibition, there are miles of trackless wilderness where nobody goes except young men with backpacks full of weed who hike, bike, ski, or ride horses to the other side where those American dollars are waiting. Ah, yet another border crossing. Always a thrill.