Christian Valley

Crossing the border into Canada was less dramatic than I imagined. A couple of pointed questions from the agent — mostly about whether we planned on sneaking into the maple-syrup utopia forever — and a raised eyebrow at our “yes, we really will go home eventually” story. Once convinced we weren’t a permanent threat to Canadian sovereignty, he waved us through like a guy shooing a fly off his lunch.

Grand Forks was our first pit stop — fuel for Marcel, groceries for us. While Kerri wrangled food inside, I stood out front enjoying a stolen moment with my pipe. That’s when two motorcycle knights in full gear clanked up beside me. They were all smiles, welcoming us Americans like we’d crossed some medieval drawbridge. Apparently, the border has been eerily quiet, traffic trickling back and forth as if the U.S. and Canada were in some Cold War standoff. We swapped a few travel tales, bounced some route ideas around, and parted with a sense of camaraderie. We were finally off on our Canadian off-road adventure.

After a brief stint on the highway headed West, at Rock Creek we turned north, pavement quickly giving way to a road that caught my eye on the map days before: Christian Valley Road. One hundred and fifteen kilometers of gravel (Google now insists I measure my life in metric). The road shadowed the Kettle River, occasionally punishing us with washboard stretches and potholes but otherwise treating Marcel kindly. Recreation sites popped up like breadcrumbs along the way — primitive campsites carved out of thick forest.

But we don’t do “designated.” We chose a nameless dirt road instead, dead-ending into the river after only a hundred yards. Perfect. Our first night in Canada: just us, the Kettle River’s gentle murmur, and a quiet that felt like it could swallow the world whole.

Day two, we struck gold — or so we thought. Another unmarked road, another push through mud and branches, another river-side paradise. Wild berries everywhere. A fire pit already stocked by generous ghosts of campers past. We declared it home for multiple nights.

And then came the mosquitoes. Not the lazy, half-drunk backyard kind. No — these were organized, military-grade, Alaska-level beasts. They didn’t just buzz. They assaulted. Pressed against our screens like angry rioters. I half-expected to see tiny fists pounding or little siege towers rolling into position. Despite sealing the van, somehow their numbers multiplied inside. By nightfall, Kerri and I were hardened fighter aces, slapping them out of the air in dogfights until our arms ached.

When morning came, the enemy had claimed victory. Dozens of swollen, blood-filled bodies clung to the ceiling liner like drunk paratroopers. Each one popped leaving a smear of our DNA on the felt. We limped into day two bloodied and sleepless, and though we improved defenses by nightfall, the war was already lost. The rain on day-3 offered cover for our retreat. We fled after only two nights.

We pushed north, the Kettle River our constant companion. Recreation sites came and went until one tucked deep into the mountains tempted us. The gravel road lulled us in, then snarled — narrowing in to a rock-strewn dare. I scouted ahead on foot, and we decided to try it. Marcel clawed upward, hugging a cliffside with one tire practically flirting with open air. Kerri’s white-knuckle grip on the armrest may have been the only thing keeping us upright.

At the top: a serene mountain lake. But the dense tree canopy smothered any chance of a Starlink signal, which made staying impossible. So, after a brief wander, we turned back, retracing our precarious steps.

Kilometers later, the gravel ended in a blunt, bureaucratic wall: a sign warning us not to continue without radio clearance from loggers. A radio we, of course, did not have — thanks to Kerri’s patented audible eyeroll when I’d suggested buying one back at her parent’s.

We tried the number on the sign. Dead. No bars. I hiked ahead, hoping to flag down a human being, and found only a sunbathing snake and abandoned logging equipment. An hour later, with just a whisper of Starlink signal, I called the logging company’s main office directly. Miraculously, a cheery receptionist called back two minutes later with the all-clear. “Watch for trucks,” she said. We didn’t see a single one. Figures.

We finally rejoined pavement near lunchtime and aired up the tires before rolling into Cherryville. At the intersection we planned to veer off again stood Frank’s General Store — a gas pump, snack aisle, and café in one. Burgers and pierogis hit the table, and we inhaled them with missionary zeal. It was so good, it became both lunch and dinner in a single blow.

Fed, fueled, and fat with satisfaction, the three of us — me, Kerri, and Marcel — were now ready to keep pushing deeper into Canada’s backcountry.