Tom and I disagree about whether the Canadian border guard was just being her military self or was kind of, a little bit, angry at us. Was she just being efficient or was she glaring at us because President Trump had threatened to annex her country and now, here we were, wanting to drive The Epic Van across the border and bask in the uberpolite beauty of our northern neighbor.

There, certainly, was no, “Welcome to Canada.” But she let us in, and we headed for the Okanagan Valley, a slice of heaven dotted with lakes and fruit stands.

We visited this area last year with our Canadian friend (yes, alas, we have only one), Jane, who is now a national digital editor for the Canadian Broadcast Corporation. We met Jane (gasp) 25 years ago, during our year at Stanford as John S. Knight Fellows, and she is one of the subset of writing-group people who have met each year since for a get-together, usually on the Oregon coast.

Last year, the get-together was on Skaha Lake, near Penticton, at a house Jane found to rent. It had a big table on the deck, where we ate each night, overlooking the lake. There were inner tubes and kayaks for floating. And we rented bikes to ride the rail trail up into the hills. It was idyllic. We wanted to return.

Tom found a campground in Peachland, on the west side of Okanagan Lake, Todd’s Lakeside RV. We backed The Epic Van in under a lovely canopy of trees and carried our chairs across the two-lane road to sit beside the water on the pebbly shore.

I optimistically wore my bathing suit, thinking I would float in the crystal-clear waters. But it was overcast in the low 60s with a breeze across the lake, and I found I was only interested in getting wet up to my knees.

Of course, our more-hardy northern neighbors were full-body frolicking in the waves, jumping off piers, paddle boarding and floating around in all manner of plastic craft.

Trump should take note, because if it comes down to it, I believe these people are just made of stiffer stock than we pampered Americans.

For several days, we got up, had breakfast in The Epic Van, wandered across the road, read, got our feet wet, read some more, knitted, dozed, knitted some more, walked a couple miles toward town to eat in a lovely pizza place, then did it all over again.

Everywhere, there were signs of the U.S./Canada tension. At the restaurant, I overheard the waitress tell another diner that the drink he wanted was slightly different than listed on the menu because they were unable to buy a certain type of alcohol because of the new tariffs.

At one of the many fruit stands we visited, a patron asked the owner about the cherry season. It was nearly over, she told him. Unfortunately, she said, they had to leave some of the fruit on the trees because they couldn’t hire enough workers.

“You should get some of the Mexican workers the U.S. is kicking out,” the patron said.

The owner said that, yes, their workers did come from Mexico, but there weren’t enough.

I suspect they were afraid to make the journey across the hostile lower 48.

When we were sufficiently relaxed by lake life, to the tension of wet noodles, we headed back to civilization. Vancouver, British Columbia, where Jane lives.

Because Jane lives in a condo where we can’t park on the street, she arranged driveway parking for us at a friend’s house a few blocks away. The friend is the daughter of Carol Shields, an American who married a Canadian, who also won a Pulitzer for her novel, The Stone Diaries. Did you know you have to be an American to win a Pulitzer? I didn’t. Jane is a font of wonderful information like that. I also learned from Carol’s daughter that Carol earned her bachelor’s degree from Hanover College in Indiana, where my father taught for a few years when I was in elementary school. What a very small world.

We saw Jane’s lovely condo, ate at a marvelous Indian restaurant, hiked several miles through the Canadian woods just outside of town, and shared memories of our time at Stanford and all the gatherings since. We called Bob, one of our group, now in occupied Washington, D.C., in the middle of a job search, and Bonnie, another member of the group, in Maryland and happily retired. We all shared our worries for Dave, another member, who just had a bone marrow transplant and is in a Portland hospital waging a war for his health.

We talked of plans for a 25+1 reunion at “our” beachouse in Mazanita, Oregon, next year. Then we hugged Jane good bye and headed south.

Note: the U.S. border guard wasn’t any friendlier. No “Welcome home.” Maybe it’s us.