“Good game!” Dale said as he and Donna and their new friends Phil and Marlene took seats around the plastic table next to the pickleball court.
Dale and Donna’s first three weeks in Yuma had been a bust. Trouble with the furnace back home. Good friends not returning for the winter. They found out their favourite Mexican restaurant had gone broke and the pickleball court was closed for repaving. Then they’d caught COVID.
“We’re fine,” Dale told his son over the phone. “It’s a bad cold.”
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Actually, it had been much worse than a cold, and nothing they ordered from the pharmacy made any difference. But they made it through.
“We can sit out on the patio,” Dale said. “We couldn’t have done that at home at 40 below. And we can get food delivered from restaurants.”
When their symptoms cleared up and they had energy again, things turned around quickly. Soon they had new friends and a new favourite restaurant, and the pickleball court was back in business.
“That was such a great game. Do you want to enter the park’s men’s tournament next Friday?” Phil asked Dale.
Dale shook his head. “We’re heading home early next week.”
Phil was a retired electrician. His wife had been a teacher. They would be in Yuma for at least another month. “Why the rush?”
“My son’s got seed customers coming to the farm. He’s running the grain cleaning plant. We need to get the equipment ready for seeding,” Dale said. “Lots to do.”
Phil looked as if he wished he was needed at home too. “Farmers never retire,” he said.
“And Donna will be furious if we don’t get home in time to catch our grandson’s last hockey tournament of the season,” Dale said.
“We could get together in the summer,” Phil said. “Your farm’s not too far from Brandon.” Dale nodded, and the two men started naming parks and golf courses near the mid-point.
On Monday morning, Dale was coping with a headache while he packed up the kitchen. Donna was in the living room with her laptop. “I’ve found a place where we can get tested,” she called.
“I don’t need a test to know I had too many margaritas,” Dale said. Phil and Marlene had taken them out for a farewell dinner the night before.
It was the beginning of their 2022 trip home. “We need to take a COVID test before we can cross the Canadian border,” Donna said.
“No problem,” Dale said. “I just found four in the kitchen junk drawer.”
“We need PCR tests,” Donna said. “Government rules.”
“Ugg,” Dale groaned, setting the unopened box of Ritz crackers in the plastic tote that would ride in the backseat of the car. “I can’t stand those tests when I don’t have a headache.”
“We can’t get it done today anyway,” she said. “We only have 72 hours to cross the border after the test.”
Dale went to look at his wife’s screen. “I’m in no shape for math.”
Donna scribbled notes on the back of a park events flyer. One night in Salt Lake City. One in Billings. “We’ll have lots of time if we get the tests tomorrow morning before we leave Yuma,” she said. “But we’ll have to pay extra for fast results. Otherwise they say it could take up to 72 hours.”
“It’s like the government doesn’t even want us to travel,” Dale said.
“They don’t,” Donna said. “And if we test positive we’ll be spending 10 days in Billings.”
“Who doesn’t like Billings?” Dale asked, heading to the kitchen for another glass of water.
The line at the testing site was short on Tuesday morning. “You go first,” Dale said. “I hate having that stick rammed up my nose.”
Donna rolled her eyes and went ahead. They finished quickly and stepped out into a bright sunny day, a great day to drive to Salt Lake City.
On Wednesday morning in their hotel room Donna logged into the testing website while Dale checked the weather forecast.
“No results yet,” Donna said.
“It might not matter,” Dale said. “There’s a blizzard moving through Montana.”
“We’ll be fine,” Donna said. “It’s not our first blizzard.”
But by late afternoon Dale couldn’t see the interstate in front of the car and the overhead sign said the road ahead was closed.
Donna used her phone to book a hotel room in Bozeman, then rechecked the testing website. “Good news,” she reported. “We’re negative.”
“I’m feeling negative,” Dale said, clenching the steering wheel tightly after three hours of driving through blowing snow on an icy road.
When they finished breakfast in Bozeman on Thursday morning, the interstate was still closed. “We’ll still get to border in plenty of time,” Dale said. “We’ve still got 24-hours to make an eight-hour drive.” He was happy about the break while they waited for the highway to open. “We can swim in the pool. Go to Cabellas.”
The interstate opened soon after lunch, but the weather did not co-operate. Donna ate Ritz crackers nervously, leaning forward in her seat. “I think the centre line’s over to the left,” she said, trying to help. They took breaks at roadside stops to scrape snow off the car. It was nearly six when they reached Bozeman, but they kept crawling ahead.
“This is crazy,” Donna finally said. “It’s almost midnight. Williston’s still two hours ahead at this pace. Let’s rent a room there and get some sleep. If we leave early enough we can still make the border by seven.”
“I’m not taking that test again,” Dale insisted. “And we’d have to wait for results.” He held the wheel while the wind blew the car a foot sideways over the icy road toward the centre lane.
They inched past Williston in the middle of the night, then turned north for the last 60 miles to the border. Trucks and SUVs were stranded in all four ditches along the two-lane highway. Snow was hitting the windshield in wet blobs.
They were behind a chain of cars going 20 miles an hour.
“How much time?” Dale asked.
“Three hours.”
An hour later, they were finally at the border, but by now the storm had led to a buildup of vehicles waiting to clear the Canadian border.
Dale ate the last cracker.
“How long?” Dale asked.
“Forty minutes. Surely they’ll cut us some slack?”
Eventually they were next in line behind a two-door Kia.
“Finally,” Donna said.
But then the guard emptied the Kia’s trunk.
When it was their turn Donna’s watch showed 6:58 a.m. “Look. Quick. We’re negative,” Dale said, thrusting Donna’s phone screen into the face of the surprised guard.
Later, Dale would say he thought the border guard was trying not to laugh at them.
“You’re fine, sir,” the guard said. Then she looked down at the phone again. “But I’m sorry, ma’am. You’re two minutes past the 72-hour deadline.”
Donna’s face fell. Dale lowered his head.
Then the guard grinned. “Don’t worry. Close enough. Welcome back to Canada.”
Two quick questions about their passports and Donna and Dale were on their way home.
“I hope we have time for a long nap before the hockey tournament,” Donna said.
