Day 18 - Nelson, British Columbia to Ponderay, Idaho - 143 Miles

Yesterday in Nelson, as you know, it was a day for walking, as we searched the hills around town for location shooting sites for Steve Martin's movie, Roxanne. In the process we accumulated around 20,000 steps each. Today, it was a day for hitting the road, enjoying the majesty of the Canadian Rockies, and sticking to the two-lanes as we motored south toward the U.S. Canadian border. Most of the day we encountered little traffic on Route 3A/6 south toward Creston, B.C. The scenery was nothing short of awesome!

In the morning we had weighed our choices as we usually do before setting out. We could go back north a bit and catch Balfour Ferry across Kootenay Lake with an eye toward the British Columbia town of Kimberly. We could drive the 3A/6 combo and head south, then east, then north, forming a big U-shape that would deposit us in Cranbrook on Route 95A. This was the route that we would choose if we chose to remain in Canada. Or we could drive part of the choice above, but at the town of Creston we could turn south and head into Idaho toward the town of Bonner's Ferry and Sandpoint.

It took some time, but we finally decided to just head back to the United States, a country much more friendly to our Verizon phones and mobile device, though sadly not as spectacularly beautiful as we had found British Columbia.

At that point Fate decided to make our lives more interesting. At noon we parked beside the roaring cataracts of the Kootenay River that runs south from Kootenay Pass, a long, hard grade we spent a good portion of the late morning steadily climbing mile after mile. The truck got pretty warm going up that long grade, warm enough where you could smell the oil, though the gauge didn't register much above normal.

Once we reached the summit we let the rig rest a bit and we walked around taking photos of all the snow still left thereabouts. Descending from the summit was much more easy, though I popped the gearshift into 2nd to hold the rig back a bit. Fortunately, the lack of traffic meant that virtually no one passed me even though I was rarely going faster than 50 mph.

Our bit of excitement came when we parked the rig beside the Kootenay to have a bit of lunch and discovered that the fresh-water pump for the onboard water tank had all but ceased to function. I blamed the bumpy 50-mile ride on a B.C. logging road for the pump's recalcitrance, and I set about checking out the pump unit for loose wires, a tell-tail burned smell, or some other unexpected malady. Not finding anything, I proceeded to examine the fuse panel. I made sure all the fuses were pressed into the cradles, flipped the breakers on and off, and generally tried to find something suspicious, all to no avail.

At this point we decided that wherever we stayed for the evening better be darn close to a Recreational Vehicle fix-it shop, or we would not be able to dry camp or otherwise function without a direct camp hookup to a fresh-water supply.

After lunch we gassed up in Creston, B.C., then headed straight south for the border crossing. Since we had experienced no difficulties with coming into Canada, we expected little if any difficulties leaving. Ha Ha! When we pulled up to the border guard's shack, we had the good fortune to be talking with a decidedly humorless chap who took one look at me through his mirrored sunglasses, and decided that I was probably the miscreant for which he'd been waiting all day.

He asked where we had been in Canada and what we had been doing there.

I said, "We've been in Nelson," as cheerfully as I could, expecting him to be the same.

"What were you doing there," the guard asked.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," I said, still expecting the lighthearted demeanor of the Canadian border guard that we had met coming into Canada.

"Try me," he said without cracking a smile.

Finally sensing that maybe it wasn't the proper time to be lighthearted, I said as seriously as I could, "We were searching for shooting locations for the movie Roxanne." Then I stupidly said, "How old are you? Were you born before 1989?" I could feel the guard stiffen, as if I had asked him how many refugees he'd caught today.

Behind my guard, I could see a heavyset, much more pleasant-looking guard who seemed to suddenly catch on to what I was saying. He got up from his desk and came over. "I've seen that movie," the second guard said with a big smile. "It's a good one."

But still the first guard didn't crack a smile. He reminded me of one of those East German guards who was hoping to catch someone escaping East Berlin before the wall came down. No smile. Monotone speech. He was obviously trying to get me to admit to some misadventures.

In the same monotone, the first guard said, "bringing in anything? Maybe some marijuana?"

Okay, now I realized just where the East German guards had gone to work after the wall came down. He needed a job, and we needed more border scrutiny. Obviously America had hired this East German to guard the Canadian border. "Ah, no marijuana," I replied. I thought about making some sort of joke out of the question, but wisely thought better of it.

"How about agricultural products," the East German said, "Oranges and other citrus, tomatoes, avocados, peppers?"

"Yup, got those," I said. "Concetta chimed in and said, "we just bought them."

Without missing a beat the East German said, "Alcohol?"

I knew what to answer here as the incoming Canadian guard had asked the same question, then went ahead and gave us the correct answer. "Several bottles of table wine," I said, "and a bottle of Vodka for personal consumption."

Throughout this whole conversation the East German had not shown the slightest inclination of doing anything but conducting an interrogation. At this point he just stared at me, then asked me to put my arm down from where I had rested it on the open window so he could see my face clearly. Then, after a pause, he said, "You see that center lane over there?" He pointed at a spot fifty feet away and off to the side.

"Yes," I said. "I'm sure he was waiting for me to call him 'sir,' or maybe comrade border guard, but I had no such intention.

"Well, pull over there and turn off the engine. Someone will be out to check you over."

At this point I figured that the East German, and whatever storm troopers he could quickly assemble, would be out to disassemble the rig looking for some elusive stowaway, or perhaps cartoons of cigarettes meant for smoke-deprived Nevadans. But to our surprise, the good natured guard was the only one to approach the rig, and his mission was solely to confiscate yesterday's produce purchases. He was extremely pleasant, almost apologetic, and didn't mandate any sort of proof or personal search once I had gathered up all the offending agricultural products. After that we were free to go.

Fortunately we had anticipated being asked, in addition to our passports, our registration and insurance for the RV, which Concetta had in her lap. I can only imagine, with sweat tricking down my spine, what might have happened if we had any trouble producing said documents. Finally away from the border check, we breathed a sigh of relief and thought no more about our most recent acquaintances.

Our next mission was to find a RV fix-it shop for the water pump. It being the tail end of Memorial Day, I wasn't super confident that we would be successful getting a new pump, even if we found the shop. In all likelihood, the shop would be closed until tomorrow. But before we could turn our attention to that task, we had to repurchase all of our produce section items if we wanted to have a nice dinner this evening. What I intended to do was ask around at the market to see if anyone had any recommendations.

As fate would have it I was wearing my "I LOVE HISTORY" T-shirt today. After parking our rig at the Safeway in Bonner's Ferry, we were approaching the market when a young blond woman walked out, headed for the parking lot. "I love history, too," she said as she passed.

I immediately stopped and called after her. "Wait! Since you love history, I can trust you to give me some information."

This must have pleased her to no end, for she stopped, wheeled around, and came back. "Sure," she said. "What do you want to know?"

"Well," I said, "Is there a company in town that fixes RVs?"

The blond woman thought for several seconds, then said, "Nope, I don't think so. But down in Sandpoint or Ponderay, south of here, I'm pretty sure they do."

"Do we have to go back north to catch the right road?" I asked.

"Nope," she said, and turned to face the street adjacent to the market. "Just get on Route 95 out there and take it all the way."

"Great. Thanks," Concetta and I both said, and the young woman smiled warmly and strode away.

Once inside the market I asked the same question of our checker as well as the customer standing behind us who, as fate would have it, had driven up from Sandpoint to shop. The chap from Sandpoint told us roughly where to go to find the RV center, and so we were definitely set.

As it turned out, we did have a little trouble actually getting to the RV center. We saw it from the freeway, but it took some intricate maneuvering to actually drive there, which unfortunately involved heading the wrong way down a one-way street for a few feet. Fortunately, our guardian angel quickly revealed the mistake and we were able to get in the correct lane without incident.

When we arrived at the RV center there was a chap coiling a hose on the property who looked up as we rolled in and stopped. There didn't seem to be anyone else around. I got out of the rig and walked over to him. "What can I do for you," the guy asked me with a smile.

When I explained my problem, he said, "Come on, we'll take a look." He asked me what the pump had been doing and what measures I had taken to troubleshoot the problem. Once I had answered all his questions and we were both on our knees staring at the pump in the port side locker, I asked him if he could just replace the pump.

He grimaced. This pump is as good as you can buy. It isn't very old, and I doubt it has gone bad already. Probably something else is wrong.

I said, "Listen, I'll pay you whatever you want to get us up and running. We'd like to take off tomorrow sometime.

He grimaced again. "Well, we're not really open. The boss is letting me work on my own rig here, but I couldn't really work on yours."

"I'll pay you cash if you can fix what's wrong," I said. "We could even take the rig next door to the RV camp, and you could work over there so you boss isn't involved."

He stared at me for a long moment. "Well, it's not like I don't know where my next meal is coming from, but I could sure use the money."

"Okay," I said. "Let's do it then."

He smiled. "Okay, let me get my tester and we'll check the circuits. We don't have to move it." And that, my friend is yet another chapter in the Davis Family saga for lucky breaks on the road. The worker, whose name turned out to be Christopher, perhaps after the patron saint of travelers, went over every aspect of the system from electrical to water filters. We put in a new filter for the fresh-water tank, cleaned another, and then went into the rig and started on the electrical part. Here Christopher soon discovered that the contacts for one of the fuses was a tad too wide. He got a pair of needle nose pliers, squeezed the contacts just a bit, then returned the fuse to its proper spot. And presto! The pump came back to life, and both Christopher and I were now grinning from ear-to-ear.

I was so impressed with Christopher's dedication and professionalism, that I handed him a c-note and thought it a great deal. During the course of our checking routine I had learned that Chris had spent a large chunk of his life working on deep-sea fishing boats in the gulf of Alaska. Most recently, he had been working down in Arizona. Now he had come back to his hometown, and was planning on staying. You just meet the most interesting people on the road.

So now we're in camp, happily up to snuff in all of our support systems, and I hope that Christopher is treating himself (he's single) to a nice meal in the best restaurant in town. I wouldn't have been able to conquer this particular problem without him, or if we had formally checked the rig into the RV center tomorrow, it's quite likely the tab would have run much, much higher. So, a toast to my new buddy and a bon voyage for his next adventure, should he once again wander from his home.

And when you hit the road on your next RV trip, we hope that your luck is just as good. We wish you exciting destinations and memorable travels from the Davises, the Happy Wanderers.