The Adventures of Bobby Sock and Friends, Part 4

Bobby goes to Canada, eh?

Whilst unsuspecting Canadians lay sleeping, Strike Force Rasreth prepared to cross the border into foreign soil. Our plan was simple. Insert our team into hostile territory and gather as much intelligence about their plans to infect us with mad cow disease (aka, Celine Dion Syndrome) as possible.

We went over our checklist again…

Vaguely Canadian-looking map? Check.
Extra batteries for the spycam? Check.
Car filled with cheap American gas? Check.
Protective gear for the spontaneous hockey games that break out from time-to-time on Canadian streets? Check.
Reading material for the long, boring drive? Ummm…

Drat! Knew we’d forget something. So, before we hit the road, we went where all soon-to-be foreign tourists go…

Pepperkat picked up a Lenore comic (which, I’m told, is not nearly as cool as Johnny the Homicidal Maniac or Squee, but I don’t know). Meanwhile, Whiny the Elder settled on an RPG tome: Chicago Chronicles, Vol 1.

So, properly armed, off we set for the Great White North. (Which, ironically, meant that we headed South.) We went down Route 1A to Ellsworth and Jordan’s Snack Bar. For everyone knows that an army travels on its stomach. And a Maine army’s stomach needs seafood.

And though even McDonald’s in Maine sells lobster rolls…*shudder*

There’s nothing like the real thing.

After our provisioning stop, we traveled down Route 1 (taking the scenic path, just to throw off suspicion), stopping to look at the mud flats along the way.

“Someday, lad, all this will be yours.”

It was then that we had the brilliant idea to take a totally unplanned detour into Acadia National Park and the Schoodic Peninsula.

(We made Pepperkat wade out into the icy surf to take the picture. Which is why she’s not in it.)

There was much rock-climbing/crevass-crawling goodness to be had. And the jury will please note that most of the pictures in this section of the photoblog do not contain yours truly, who not only followed his teenagers across the rocky outcroppings and into the foul-smelling caves but did not have a heart attack while doing it (that anyone saw).

“Yes! We didn’t fall to our doom! Can we try again?”

Our primal lust for physical exertion satisfied, we once more headed in a somewhat Canada-ish direction. There would be no stopping us now. We had our cover story down. And it was damned good. If we were stopped for questioning at the border, we would tell them that we were South American donut merchants on our way to a big pastry convention in Dieppe. Then, we’d toss them some backbacon and a carton of smokes and run like hell. It was such a good plan, I was disappointed when the border guard just waved at us and said, “Welcome to Canada, eh?”

We were home free. I was so happy with our success that I allowed myself to quit worrying for a minute. Next stop: the Algonquin Hotel in St. Andrews.

It was then that Venita reminded me that the Algonquin was haunted… (Jinkys!)

[TO BE CONTINUED]…

The Adventures of Bobby Sock and Friends, Part 5