As we prepared to return to Canada, everyone advised us to drive to Winnipeg via International Falls and Fort Frances—a much better route, they opined, than the one we had taken from Winnipeg to Hibbing, so we took that route and after driving through uninspiring wasteland for several hours, (I believe a scrawny coyote was the only sign of life we saw during that time) we arrived at an orange bridge. About halfway across, a sign said, “STOP! PAY TOLLS!” Well, I was not about to stop on a busy bridge (there was no one else on the entire bridge at the time!) so I waited until I had reached “dry land” before coming to a stop at Canadian Customs. By that time, sirens were wailing, red lights were flashing, and Canadian Customs officers (in the form of one shy young lady) were pouring out of the Customs Building: this was apparently Canada’s First Line of Defense, should an invasion occur from the south. Right then, according to the Customs lady, I had just made a very bad impression indeed upon the red-faced fellow back in a little dog house on the bridge, waving his arms in the midst of the sirens and flashing red lights; it was his bridge, or at least his job to collect tolls for the use thereof, and I had just had the temerity to cross it without stopping to pay him or to even pass the time of day or discuss terms with him.
Supposing I was now figuratively “in the doghouse” myself, I retraced my steps to his literal “dog house,” wondering what penalty or servitude I owed, not only for the tolls but for my breech of protocol, but as I went back the way we had come in the northbound lane, I discovered that I could not access his wretched little dog house from there anyhow without walking across the line of opposing traffic heading for the U.S. I had been quite in order to get off the bridge before stopping, since there was no safe provision for northbound traffic to “Stop and Pay Tolls” anyhow, and I so informed him. He pointed out that there was a space between the bridge girders where a driver could squirm through, cross the traffic moving south, and pay tolls at his booth. I owed him a dollar, he maintained, for the use of his bridge, and he would be much obliged if I would pay it and get out of his hair. All that fuss and bother for a dollar!
Meanwhile, there had been no further traffic. Upon reflection, I suppose there must have been another route that did not include a toll bridge, but I have no idea where that crossing might have been. I was disgusted that I had to fiddle with that goofy toll bridge in order to get into Canada, like paying a ransom to reach home. (If you don’t pay to cross that bridge, you stay, baby!) The shy young Customs lady was amazed at the number of people that poured from the car and that we could get so much baggage into the car besides all the people (there were only five of us, but lots of baggage).
The roads were good and the big Chrysler purred right along. After driving from Abbotsford to Hibbing and most of the way back home, we were becoming inured to the hum of the tires, the constant motion, and the ribbon of road disappearing beneath us. Gladys did some of the driving, too, which helped a great deal, but by the time we had left Mount Robson behind us I was becoming a bit light-headed—what might be called “stir-crazy” or “punch-drunk” or perhaps “road-weary” or some such condition—no doubt from the stress of the wedding, the driving and being “cooped up” in the car. I was also bored and, not thinking too clearly, I rather abstractedly (and thoughtlessly) wondered what would happen if I slipped the car out of gear while going about seventy miles per hour with Cruise Control in operation. So I tried it.
We were on a long straight stretch of highway (not always the case when driving through the mountains), and I could see no traffic ahead or behind for several miles. When I slipped the transmission into neutral, the engine revved to maximum, all the needles on the dash went crazy, and the car (naturally) began to slow down. With a sudden burst of common sense, I did not try to re-engage the transmission (but I did not attempt to disengage the Cruise Control either). So, before the engine destroyed itself, I tried to turn off the ignition, but here I met with opposition: The key would not turn in the ignition switch! Then I recalled that the switch would turn only with the car in “Park” or “Neutral” and again, with a glimmer of logic, I decided that selecting the “Neutral” position would be much more appropriate than the “Park” position just then, as we were still moving along at fifty or more miles per hour. All this took place in a very few seconds. By the time I had brought the car to a full stop on the paved shoulder of the road, I was no longer bored but I was a bit stunned! A kind motorist following us stopped and suggested that the crankcase oil had very likely been pumped into the “upper cylinder assembly” and would need a little time to run back down into the crankcase so it would not be burnt up with the fuel upon ignition. A little smoke issued from the exhaust, but otherwise there appeared to be no problems with the car, for which we were thankful. We resumed our journey home while I resolved to never try that particular maneuver again, now that I knew what might happen.
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