by Anonymous, as told to Mike Calabro
Ounce for ounce, marijuana is more expensive than gold and doesn't last nearly as long. So if you want to smoke the good stuff, you're going to have to grow it yourself or shell out some serious money for the privilege. And while growing is a nice option for some, not everyone has a green thumb or even the "seed money" required to get started. Fortunately, I found another way to get my hands on the devil's lettuce. It's all ah-boot Canada. Our neighbors to the north have mastered the art of marijuana cultivation, and due to the fact that the risk involves little more than a fine, the price per pound is significantly lower. This, coupled with the exchange rate, means lots of doobage for little fundage. Just get the goods across the border and you'll be smokin' bowls and countin' Benjamins in no time. That's what I did, and it happened by accident, kinda.
It all started just after last call in the parking lot of the Tuna Town Tavern, northern Montana's premiere dive bar and townie hang-out. It was winter and I was wasted after a long day of snowboarding, followed by a long night at the bar pounding beers. Lacking both a ride home and the sobriety required to drive myself, I decided to do the responsible thing and pass out in the hatchback of my 1986 Subaru wagon. Unfortunately, my drunken slumber was interrupted by the retina-burning beam of Officer Weird Mustache's flashlight. Furthermore, it turned out Montana law dictates that sleeping in your car while intoxicated is the same as driving while intoxicated, and so my unlikely bed earned me two nights in the slammer, a $500 fine, mandatory counseling and a nearly perfect driving record slandered by a big fat DUI. The infraction also entitled me to other benefits including but not limited to: unaffordable insurance, suspended license, getting fired and access denied to my favorite foreign country, Canada.
Getting yourself banned from Canada really sucks when you live as close as I do, as it's the best local source of quality rock climbing, deep pow-pow, hot chicks and, best of all, super-sick mountain biking. I'm talking about lift access to gnarly terrain on dozens of runs for thousands of vertical feet. It's downhillin' heaven, and there was no way yours truly was going to sit around all summer while my bitch-ass friends shredded the Great White North without me. How hard could it possibly be to get into Canada anyway? The Montana/Canada border is basically a 40-foot-wide clearcut through a huge, rugged wilderness bisected sporadically by the occasional road. There isn't even a fence. Once I decided to really do this, I was more concerned about grizzly bears than the border patrol.
The plan was simple and involved only myself and my most trusted friend, Barney. Together, we loaded up the rig and drove within a couple of miles of the border before making a little detour up one of the many mountainous logging roads that branch off from the main highway. Once we were deep enough into the woods, I unloaded the bike, fired up the global positioning system, took the safety off the bear spray and started rippin'. In theory, the hard part would be finding the road again, and then finding the car, but I figured that would all be no problem with a GPS. Man, was I ever wrong. The actual border crossing was totally easy, but the rest turned into a nightmare. There was no trail, so I ended up bushwhacking through miles and miles of extremely dense forest, pushing or carrying my bike most of the way. I must have fallen at least a hundred times on slippery logs and wet rocks, and when I finally came out of the woods, I was way too close to the border station. Thankfully, no one saw me, but it was dangerous.
The return trip was even worse. For some reason, I went pretty much the same stupid way, except uphill. I returned home that night as tired and beaten as I'd ever been, and asked myself the obvious question: "What's so great about Canada anyway?"