Crossing the Border
Short Story Day 116 of 365
Traversing the Alaskan-Canadian highway at least seven times a year to bring repossessed cars back to the 49th state was Phil Clancy’s secondary job but the one that paid the best. His primary occupation was that of a missionary to the Gwichyaa Gwichʼin Indians in Fort Yukon.
Without wasting time in hotels or motels along the way, Clancy made the trip with few rests stops or breaks.
For this trip, a church in Minnesota was sending one of its promising and enthusiastic preachers to accompany Clancy and possibly spend years in The Last Frontier if all went well.
They made it all the way to western Washington and were close to crossing the border into Canada. Clancy informed Stu Carlson how it typically worked when he crossed the border.
“Have anything to declare? Any weapons? Any illegal substances?” the border agent said the thousandth time that month.
“No, no, and no.”
“See you next month, Mr. Clancy.”
This time, however, the conversation, was a little different than Clancy wanted it to go:
“Anything to declare? Any weapons? Any illegal substances?”
The young preacher Stu held up a Bible and yelled, “I have the Sword of the Lord in my hand!”
Out came the weaponry, and thus began the four-hour bumper to bumper search of Clancy’s two-year-old Lexus he was couriering.
There would be no record times on this run to Alaska.