No Man's Land

Cool water swirled just above our ankles as we pulled the canoe forward, a welcome relief after a long day of paddling. The portage was easy—soft pea gravel underfoot, shaded by towering pines. We laughed, swapping stories, our soaked boots squelching with every step.

 

Alex, our guide, gestured around us. “This is called No Man’s Land. One side’s America, the other’s Canada. Canada’s closed because of COVID.” He shrugged, turning away with a smirk. “But I’m not looking.”

 

The boys bolted. Wet boots splashed onto forbidden land, hands snatching smooth stones—souvenirs of a pandemic-era adventure. I didn’t try to stop them, said nothing as they filled their pockets. I laughed to myself at how much heavier their boat would be with all those pounds of Canadian contraband.

 

We paddled away, our pockets heavier, our hearts lighter with the thrill of rule-breaking.

 

For one wild moment, we had been international outlaws.