Awanabatch started out as a magical place to visit. A place where I could relax and unwind from the busy pace at home.

Over time, I’ve somehow managed to turn it into another source of stress. I’ve already shared my angst over the waiting list and my overwhelming desire to make sure our guests have the time of their lives. I’ve gotten to the point where I occasionally need a vacation from my vacation.

Thurston is in Batchawana this week with his brother. They went up to work on cabin projects, do some fishing and, supposedly, take the boat out for the winter.

Then he called yesterday to check our calendar.

Maybe they won’t take the boat out after all. Maybe we could go up just one more time.

I should be excited. Fall in Ontario is beautiful, and so are pontoon rides on the river—as long as you’re bundled up.

Unfortunately, I’m still suffering a little PTSD from one particular trip earlier this summer.

After realizing we were going to be short on comfortable beds for our friends, we made a last-minute decision to pull the camper up with us. I was a little nervous about Thurston towing it over the Mackinac Bridge and dealing with traffic.

Turns out that would be the least of my worries.

Having used the camper for other trips this year, I knew it was pretty well stocked. We loaded our clothes and headed out, making our usual stop at Meijer for perishables and alcohol. I grabbed Thurston’s bottle of tequila, but I couldn’t decide what I wanted. Eventually, I bought two smaller bottles—one blueberry vodka and one plain vodka.

I’ve never spent much time studying the fine print on a liquor bottle. Pints, fifths, liters; I know these measurements exist. I just don’t generally involve myself with them. Two little bottles equal one big bottle. That was the extent of my international customs calculations.

As we approached the Canadian checkpoint with our passports and receipts in hand, we chose a line. Immediately, we knew it was the wrong one.

The other lines were clearing at warp speed while ours moved at a snail’s pace. When we finally reached the window, our officer appeared to be new. She asked a million questions and reviewed our passports like she’d never seen one before.

Then she asked about alcohol.

I confidently explained that while I had purchased three bottles, two were small and together were about the equivalent of the bottle of tequila we always bought.

“How many ounces are they?”

Well.

I had no idea. They were in the camper with all the groceries. The receipt didn’t say.

She handed us a yellow slip and directed us to the search lane.

Now Thurston was fuming.

“Why did you buy three bottles? You know two is the limit.”

Because I couldn’t make up my mind. Besides, they were small. We were fine.

I got out of the truck, intending to retrieve the bottles and prove my point.

I never made it.

Three officers and a dog approached the truck.

“Step in front of the vehicle, ma’am.”

I was still remarkably confident. Until the officer emerged from the camper with an armload of partial bottles of alcohol.  Yup – we were hauling a bar on wheels.

Suddenly, the exact size of my blueberry vodka seemed considerably less important.

I’ve said that chemo brain not only affects the patient but also the caregiver. If I’d forgotten about all that alcohol, what else had I forgotten?

Granddaughter Camp. Friends Camp. People brought things. People might have left things. What else did I forget to declare?

They went through the truck, my purse and even our groceries. When one of the officers asked who had packed the camper, Thurston whipped his head around to look at me so fast I’m surprised he didn’t hurt himself.

He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. His deer-in-the-headlights expression said it all. He was innocent. And willing to cooperate fully with authorities.

In a real-life case of good cop, bad cop; one officer was pretty scary while the other seemed to find humor in the situation. Grama inadvertently trying to cross the border with her bar on wheels.

I was far too busy being terrified to appreciate the joke.

Eventually, an officer told us his supervisor had instructed him to send us back to the United States, but he didn’t believe that was necessary.

“Have a seat and we’ll get back to you.”

So, we sat. And waited. Like children sent to the principal’s office; they gave us plenty of time to think about what we had done.

Several dollars and a couple nerve-racking hours later, we were finally allowed to continue into Canada with our camper, groceries and what remained of our dignity. Minus our alcohol. And notified that our little adventure would mean automatic searches on future trips. Apparently, I will be guilty until the search dog declares me innocent.

Which brings me back to Thurston’s phone call.

The boat is still in the water. The fall colors are beautiful. The fishing might be good. There’s still time for one more trip to Awanabatch.

I’ve thought about it.

I’ll go.

But there are conditions.

We can take his truck. We’ll even make that trip to Meijer for groceries; but Thurston will be in charge of buying the alcohol.

And the camper stays home.

Yes – Thurston has proven that he can successfully tow it. Sadly, it seems that I can’t be trusted to remember what I put in it.