We went to the visitor’s center in Dawson City before setting out this morning. We dropped off horsey information for the interpreter. Pete went and got the soap and container that he’d left in the shower.

We took the ferry across the Yukon – beforehand, a policeman pointed out to us that the side door on our trailer had been left open. Oh Oh. We headed up the Top of the World Highway – incredible views. I had bicycled it twice. I hate to say it, but you see more when you travel by car. We found a promising trail, a single track that went over a hill, but bypassed it when we began hearing thunder. Too open for us to take the risk of getting hit by lightning.

Raudi and Tyra

We considered riding and spending the night in a gravel pit. I fell asleep as Pete and a gold miner chatted about gold mining particulars. He said that a semi and a large truck would be passing through on the road on our right. I told Pete after he relayed the message to me that we should keep going. He agreed.

It was a long, steep climb to the Top of the Top of the World Highway. It began raining. No trail riding possibilities emerged.

We finally arrived at the Canada/US Border. Pete and I were very relaxed, thinking that being US citizens, that there would be no questions, just a wave, which indicated that we were to keep going. I didn’t even bother to retrieve our paperwork, which was in the metal box behind the seat. We both had our passports handy, thinking this was all they’d want.

A broad shouldered, bald customs agent stuck his head out the building window and asked where we had been and where we were going. Pete provided him with this information. He then asked for our animal paperwork. A second customs agent then appeared and told us to come into the building. It was then that I started to feel anxious. I grabbed our paperwork out of the box.

The second guy was beefy, gray haired, wearing glasses that made him look like a geek, he took over. I noticed that he had a big shiny badge and CBP on his chest. However, he didn’t have a name tag. I took our paperwork out of the manilla envelope and handed it to Pete. He laid the umpteen forms on the counter.

The customs agent immediately said that he didn’t see our US import papers, then added that he could not let us go on because this particular border station didn’t allow livestock to go through.

I gulped. Pete looked uneasy. Pete made an attempt to explain what we had on hand and why we had it. Mr. Customs Agent Sir barked, “You aren’t listening. Be quiet.” Pete shut up. Mr. Customs Agent Sir kept talking at us, repeatedly reminding us that horses are now allowed across this particular border and that we’d have to go back to Whitehorse, get the right paperwork, and re-enter the US at Beaver Creek.

We were further told tha,t unlike the snow birds, who return in the spring with their horses, that we were unaware of this rule. “But,” he added, “you now know it.”

As he talked, Captain Pickard, standing behind him, suppressed a smile.

As he reiterated this, I thought, we can’t go back. We don’t have enough hay on hand. Try to explain this to hungry horses. Instead, I kept quiet as did Pete. Mr. Customs Agent Sir then let it slip that he was going to let us go through. Neither Pete nor I acknowledged that we were relieved. Instead, we let him repeat himself a few more times. Finally, he let us go.

Two miles down the road and Pete realizes that neither of the two customs agents had returned our passports. We went back and got them. Pete agreed with me that big fellow was properly contrite when we picked these documents up off the counter.

On we went, to the Walker Creek Campground. Nearly everyone in the campground came and checked out the horses. And, of course, they loved the attention.

Next: 168. 6/21/24: Solstice