|
I was lucky. They only threatened us with a dog search.
Back in the early 1990s, my buddy Ted and I had dreams of long days, high adventure and big pay checks. We'd lined up a pair of commercial fishing jobs off Alaska's Kenai Peninsula, and on a chilly day in May, loaded up his rusty hatchback and pointed it toward the Canadian border and the Alaska National Highway.
Ironically, it would be my Colorado driver's license, and not Ted's beater Celica, that caused us the most trouble on that haul. Somehow, that little laminated piece of plastic became a giant roadblock on the border between Montana and the Canadian province of Alberta.
"Colorado, eh?" the Canadian customs agent, complete with jump suit, flak jacket and holster, asked. "Lemme guess. You're coming from Fort Collins."
At the time, I'd never even visited Fort Collins, but my efforts at a geography lesson were not appreciated. Strangely, Ted's Florida license, thick beard and dirty poncho didn't seem to be arousing any suspicion.
"Let's cut the crapola," the agent said as he snapped on a pair of rubber gloves. "We know you're hauling. Tell us where the dope is and you get off easy. If not, we tear apart the car."
We shrugged our shoulders and reiterated that we were driving to Alaska to work. With a snap of his fingers, the jump suit summoned two women and a tool box to the innocent white grocery-getter.
Things went from bad to worse when the women immediately found an empty pipe, a heavy trace of resin on a Swiss Army knife, dozens of Grateful Dead bootlegs and Ted's bizarre scrapbook of aboriginal photographs. Naturally, they suspected us of carrying high-grade American poundage. Who wouldn't? There was only one small problem. We weren't.
Regardless, the Canadians emptied the contents of our bags onto the asphalt; they stared the vehicle down with mirrors; the tools came out; the car's panels popped off; but still they couldn't locate that phantom stash.
As the hours passed, the man in the jump suit started shaking with frustration, his fingers fidgeting wildly as he paced back and forth in front of the two-door car. Eventually, he popped. "Enough of this!" the man shouted and we were escorted into a small holding cell. After about 45 minutes of sweat time, the door opened again, and we were led to his desk.
"This is your last chance," he told us. "Tell us where the dope is or we're bringing out the dog."
Then our friend in the blue jump suit pushed it a step further. "I have to warn you," he said in a whisper. "The dog's been known to scratch paint jobs and tear up car seats."
Calling on years of training, he seized that moment to drop the bomb.
"Oh yeah, the dog's name is Balls," he said in a barely audible voice. "That's the first thing he goes for."
He had us where he wanted us. By this time, I almost wished I could produce the garbage bag of his dreams.
Thanks to that six-hour ordeal, we got pretty well acquainted with the main in the blue jump suit. Luckily, we never got friendly with Balls. It turned out the dog was actually "resting" that day. And after abandoning a pretty nice piece of "marijuana paraphernalia" to the Canadian crown, we got back on the road to Alaska. At the end of the summer, the incident was still fresh in our minds. We opted to sell the Celica and fly home.
Looking back, I recognize that we were shaggy headed college kids, carrying paraphernalia and probably fit several profiles. I recognize that the officer was just doing his job and trying to keep the Great White North safe from the evils of Colorado. But ultimately, the search was an exercise in humiliation. Plus, it took advantage of rights we didn't know we had.
Looking forward, I know that the Chocolate Lab that occasionally walks the halls of Durango High School is not named "Balls." I know that school and district administrators have safety and student welfare in mind when they call for a random dog search.
However, my stay at the Canadian border and last Friday's lockdown, weapons scare and dog search at Durango High School both crossed the line. Both the custom agents and school administrators got heavy handed with innocent people. They both opted for the ease of scare tactics at the expense of dignity.
With both incidents in mind, I'm actually grateful. I got my slap in the face as a rebellious, young man in a police facility at a border crossing. I'm not sure how I'd take it as a child in an institution that's supposed to be dedicated to higher thought.
- Will Sands
|
