North of the Border

The border between International Falls, USA, and Ontario, Canada, is the middle of Rainy River. Several methods suffice to transport goods and people southward into the US. They work as well going north, but only the easy way is needed in that direction. There is the narrow road bridge just above the dam with its pedestrian walkway, and three miles to the east is the railroad bridge. But these are not adequate for transporting certain goods. For these, small aircraft, radio controlled boats and hollowed out logs are sometimes employed.

A man was out night fishing recently when he noticed a black skiff gliding southbound across the bay. Its captain in her black wetsuit, raised the jib and filled it with no more noise than a tossed bedsheet. A rotund man was pacing a gravelly beach just east of where my coffee-mate fished. My new friend had bigger sailboats in mind than the old plywood flattie, but as he watched her, she assured him the boat was built for beaching and she could pop eighty pounds across the bay without having to dock or have another boat meet her. But what if she got up on the flats and the man holding a flashlight in one hand held a gun in the other? I think border people like these stories as much as British Columbians like bear stories.

I took a loop through a field in walking to the bridge this morning. As I passed near the Boise Cascade paper mill, I was notified of its presence by a pleasant aroma. A wind brought it to me, and I was not offended. Horror stories surround paper mills of old—their terrible stench, but Boise is one of the most modern and seems not to stink. I can say the same for the Canadian paper mill just across the river.

The frozen ground is lumpy with old boot prints and fossil bicycle tracks, now hardened and preserved for some springtime anthropologist. These tracks were left by boys or tomboys on mountain bikes—knobby treads, weaving without determined direction. My direction is not determined either, but I make it seem so by pedaling quite straight.

I crossed the bridge and was looked at skeptically by a Canadian in uniform. He searched my pack and did not believe me, I think, when I said I was out walking to Canada for pleasure. I turned east on Scott Street and walked the length of town. On the way is Dee’s Café where the cadre of retired Canadian men seems very American. Here too, they all know each other and all wonder about the newcomer. I might become famous before this is over, just because they don’t get many newcomers in the winter.




At noon my shadow is ten feet long as I walk along the river on a very nice pedestrian path. I don’t know what fruit these are, maybe somebody will tell me. By the way, my yesterday question about the birds has been answered somewhat credibly here in Canada. They call them “common goldeneye.” They look like mallards, but cannot be called such so as not to appear Californian.