The last ride of the day dropped us a half-click past an empty truckstop near some tiny village in the God-forsaken land of who-knows-where. After an hour's time in which only a half-dozen cars passed us by (the hour seeming much shorter due to some... pleasantries, courtesy of Squanch) we decided to try our luck at the truckstop.
Luck was nonexistent, seeing as the only trucker we saw all night was going west. We looked around the stop for a sheltered area to spend the night - there was none, but we found an electrical outlet and I spent the night gaming out on my cell phone. I was awash with memories of Scrib, my hitchhiking partner of the year prior.
We'd spent a night awake in Kenora, elated by our first evening free from Habeeb, our less-than-entertaining driver, in half a week. He'd spent that night playing the same game I played now, and I felt part of his soul settle into mine as I played into the early hours of sunrise. Damn, I missed that kid!
Did he miss us? I dozed off entertaining hopes that the court date that had separated us wouldn't result in serious jail time; I awoke with hopes that the morning would offer us a decent ride.
The first car that fled from the rising sun behind us pulled over, stifling our need to put out our thumbs. The ride was a good one. We veered off the Trans-Canada and sped down the scenic route, Ye Olde Highway of Canada, which ran parallel to a stream that constituted the US Canadian border between Quebec and Maine. I remember thinking that it looked pretty damn easy to get across that border. You could canoe across in a minute, hell, even swim. Even if the current was voracious enough to pull you downstream, the river was barely a hundred feet wide. I made a mental note on the potential of smuggling contraband.
The ride got us a solid 5 hours eastwards and dropped us in Truro. Halifax was less then an hour away. The distance between me and my only real accomplishment in life was coming to a close.
West-to-east, baby!
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