The Lower 48

It was hard to leave Alaska.  We had a long hard trek across Canada pulling several all night drives because we lingered too long in the beautiful mountains of Alaska.  Our first adventure hit us at the border:  we were pulling our RV into customs and the border guard mentioned some form number when he examined our file.

"What does that mean?"  My mom pressed, worried.  She always feels uncomfortable crossing borders.

"Oh, it's not bad."  He assured her, picking up on her worried tone.  "It just means that you've been crossing the border a lot."

And it was true.  Coming in and out of Alaska through the southeastern islands that we had been back and forth nearly 8 times in the last month and to the border guards this means business.

We were waved unceremoniously to the side where we were greeted by 6 big tall guards with their hands on their batons.

"Step out of the vehicle!"  The biggest one called, eyeing us skeptically.

We trouped out of the bus one by one all wishing we had thought to clean.

"How many people do you have in there?"  The guard barked, peering at the door.

"Only 6."  Mom assured him.  The man's look told us that 'only' had been a bad choice in words.

"Do you have any firearms or weapons of any kind on board?"

"No."  We all said in unison in that creepy way that only a family who lives on top of each other can.

The statement was true, unless you counted the bagpipes as a weapon.  Personally I had my doubts.

"Anything sharp?  Knives and the like?"

"No."  Dad said.

"But watch out for your hands on the siding."  Mom warned.  I could have sworn that one of the guards rolled his eyes.

They made us leave while they searched every inch of our RV.  When they were satisfied that we weren't smuggling any Canadians into the country, we were allowed on our way and back on the road...