Minot, ND >> International Peace Garden >> Winnipeg, MB >> Victoria Beach, MB 400 miles ridden/8 hours
After strolling through the International Peace Garden, I pulled up to the border patrol booth, ready to start my final leg through Canada. The guard – who must have had a thesaurus in the office with him – couldn’t believe I was traveling solo and asked in every conceivable manner whether I was in a motorcycle club, gang, organization, group, fellowship, faction, fraternity, collective, etc. This went on for quite a while, me insisting that indeed I was a lone traveler, the guard too incredulous to believe it.
This game of semantics over, we then played another:
“Where are you headed?”
“Home.”
“No you’re not. You’re going into Canada.”
“True, but I’m going to drive through Canada on my way back to Boston.”
“So you’re really going on vacation in Canada then.”
“Sure,” I conceded with an eye-roll. Some of us say “puh-tay-toe,” others say “oot and aboot.”
Because I got to Winnipeg – the capital of Manitoba – much sooner than expected, I figured I’d set up camp outside the city and do some sightseeing. Unfortunately, my first campground choice was booked and the second existed only on a map, so I headed downtown to find lodging for the evening.
Navigating through an unfamiliar city and having to deal with traffic was a nightmare after weeks of solitude on open roads. I’d planned to shoot photos of the architecturally striking Provencher Bridge, but felt I was lucky enough to have made it to the Information Centre alive. Since all the hostels in the city were booked, at the advice of the Info Centre representative I headed north to Victoria Beach.
An hour later, I was setting up my campsite on the shores of Lake Winnipeg. The guy in the plot diagonally across from mine just stared at me the whole time, pretty creepy. I waved hello and once finished with the tent, set off on in search of food. The area reminded me of Cape Cod, but smaller (maybe one-tenth the size) and much less crowded. I stumbled across a hot dog stand and they were kind enough to tell me of a nearby restaurant with lakefront patio seating.
There, I struck up a meandering conversation with some locals, including Rene, whose birthday they were celebrating. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Creepy Campsite Guy, who was sitting on the deck by himself, watching all of us at the bar. I went over and invited him to join us, but he opted against it. Shortly afterward, he left.
I told Rene and his friends the story of Creepy Campsite Guy and they invited me back to Rene’s house, where they were going to continue the party with a barbeque. I asked where the nearest package store was – can’t go to a party empty handed! – but, small as the village was, couldn’t find that or Rene’s house (not remembering the address certainly didn’t help), although I did take a clifftop ride along/above the shore and saw some amazing mansions.
Creepy Campsite Guy was awake and awaiting my return apparently, because as soon as I killed the engine he came over and asked if I wanted a beer. I politely declined, and he asked again. And again. And again. And again. The more I explained that I didn’t want a beer, the more insistent he became that I join him for one. Suuuuuuuper creepy.
I explained I’d been riding all day and was beat, but that didn’t dissuade him either. Finally, I told him that I had to catch a ferry in Quebec in four days, and I really needed to get a good night’s sleep so I could hit the road first thing in the morning.
With visions of being decapitated and having my corpse violated dancing through my mind, I tied the tent zippers together from inside and slept with both a knife and the bear spray in my sleeping bag. If anything Michael Meyers-esque was going to happen, I wasn’t going down without a fight.