What a trip across Canada by thumb and rail taught me

There is no better way to understand a country the size of Canada, so in the summer of 2000, on break from my studies at the University of Washington, my friend Mark Quintana and I set out from Vancouver, B.C., to hop freight trains and hitchhike across our vast neighbor to the north.

Memories of that odyssey have taken on a different meaning as President Donald Trump has turned against the U.S.’s loyal friend, insulting its prime minister, threatening tariffs and menacing its people with vows to absorb it like an overcooked steak.

Further disheartening, but understandable, is the way Canadians are recoiling the way any longtime friend would to this betrayal, getting their elbows up in shock and dismay. 

I have visited many times since, but perched in the wind and dust and noise of a freight train I saw a side of Canada many Canadians will never see: the crags of the Rockies, the endless daylight near the Arctic Circle, the buttercup-yellow canola fields of Manitoba and the morning mist rise from the Quebec countryside. Hitchhiking didn’t just bring us into Canadians’ cars and trucks for hours and hours of conversation, but their kitchens and living rooms. 

In the states, hitchhiking puts you in contact with fringe characters — drugs are the first thing drivers ask about — but in Canada, retirees spotting wildlife picked us up on the Alaska Highway; a mother and daughter immediately asked if we had any music to share; a cup of coffee spiked with Bailey’s was offered by a young hippie couple who drove us into Edmonton.

We still had wild rides, like the young oil field roughneck who drove us in his convertible Mustang to Calgary at 100 mph. And uncomfortable conversations. Dustin, who invited us to crash at his house in Dawson Creek, was particularly befuddled by our attitudes about health care and guns.

“It’s drummed into you at birth,” he said, a hint of sympathy in his voice.

A teenager hired to clean the Beez Kneez hostel in Whitehorse narrowed her eyes at us when she confirmed our citizenship, and said flatly, “I don’t like Americans.”

It’s not that Canadians don’t like Americans, said a punk rocker named Steve who drove us 800 miles in his band’s van from Nipigon to Ottawa. 

“We are afraid of you,” Steve said.

A lot can change in 25 years, and I’m no expert, but what I saw of its people during our 7,000-mile, 32-day Canadian basic training is the same spirit seen today in Canada’s reaction to Trump’s bullying: Canadians love Canada and they love each other. It was in their generosity to the stranger, their easy way with each other, how a Montreal police officer chased down a gate jumper at a festival while calling out “Monsieur! Monsieur!” Even their cops are polite.

Watching them interact led me to an uncomfortable realization: Americans don’t love America like Canadians love Canada, and Americans don’t love other Americans like Canadians love their fellow Canadians. They are right to fear us.

Mark and I ended our sojourn in a proper hobo manner, getting kicked off a CN freight train heading toward St. John’s. The Mountie, who at first detained us in French, left us on the side of the Trans-Canada Highway in New Brunswick.

The next morning we walked toward the sleepy international crossing into Limestone, Maine, and stopped at the Canadian checkpoint. Inside we found a half-dozen border guards standing around chatting.

“What part of Canada did you like most?” they asked. Montreal and Yukon, we said. They waved us farewell, and we stepped over the imaginary line to the American side, where stood a small house. 

Inside we found a man wearing a Border Patrol uniform and an intense-looking crew cut, pistol on his hip, sitting beneath an official portrait of President Bill Clinton.

His first question to us: “Do you guys do drugs?”