There's a Beaver in the Freezer
Notes from a Liberal on the Lam in Canada
(Note: The scheduled blog for this week had to be delayed as the interviewee had a car accident. Instead, I am foisting this short story of my summer in Canada on you.)
Would you like to know a secret?
There’s a beaver in the freezer up here in Calgary, Canada. I know, because I spent the summer here and Betty Millham told me. Betty would never lie.
But I’m getting ahead of myself...
I Keep Running Away
Since retiring three years ago, I have been on the road in a campervan with my dog, Mr. Bones. It’s my new normal. We have been to the lower 48 states, Canada, and Mexico.
Rumors that arrest warrants are outstanding for me in all these places are untrue.
Normally, I avoid discussing politics on the road. It’s not a good way to make friends, but it sure can make you some enemies. Today, I have to confess.
I’m a liberal. Shoot me. Put me out of my misery.
Trump’s re-election totally devastated me. On Inauguration Day, I crossed into Mexico and spent the winter down at the southern tip of Baja California, but in late March, when it got hot, I had to return to the U.S.. Stuck! A prisoner of my own country.
By the summer of 2025, immigrant arrests soared, and the trade wars heated up. Life became intolerable. Then it hit me: I could go to Canada for the summer.
Another lifelong liberal on the lam.
A City of Two Tales
In early June, I arrived. I was back in Canada. Calgary, Alberta, a city of over a million people, was a City of Two Tales. A tale of Old West culture versus a large, steady wave of immigration. It threatened to rock the civic boat and sink the old status quo in its wake.
It was the time of bests, it was the time of worsts. Since getting into van life, I had never felt better, but American politics and politicians had never been more despicable.
Something had to go, and it turned out to be me. I couldn’t stop Trump, but I could flee.
On my own, I could not prevent the pointless trade war, nor deter Trump from publicly coveting Canada and trying to make it our 51st state. Instead, I began apologizing personally to every Canadian I met for the tariffs and everything else.
The apology worked. Canadians love to apologize, so they accepted mine. But even if my charm offensive sounds intriguing, you still want to know about that beaver, don’t you?
The Plucky Little Beaver That Built Canada
Let’s face it, beaver is the elephant in the room. It alludes to a double entendre dating back to the early 1900s. But in this story, I hope you’ll agree, beaver is inevitable. Sorry.
So, you ask, is the beaver still in the freezer? Let’s ask Betty, a white-haired 80-year-old who belongs to the same writing group I joined in Calgary. Hard of hearing, she placed a microphone on the table during our meetings and asked us to shout into it.
When the moderator asked for the most Canadian sentence ever, Betty’s hand shot up. “I have one!” We fell silent. Then she uttered the memorable phrase.
I laughed so hard I nearly fell off my chair. How did she come across it?
She said she had agreed to house-sit for a friend. Before leaving, he said, “I have to tell you something…”
“What then?” we asked. Betty sighed. “He left before I got the rest of the story. I couldn’t bring myself to look in the freezer.”
Why is beaver so important in Canada?
Little-known fact: the beaver fur trade built Canada, and it was a mainstay of the frontier diet. Hunters and trappers ate beaver on a regular basis. There, I’ve said it.
It was so important, the Catholic Church in Quebec declared it a “feesh” so people could eat it on Fridays.
Alas, eating beaver fell out of fashion in the 1900s. But Canadians’ ongoing love of beaver is reflected in Beaverton, a satirical publication like The Onion, and the popularity of beaver tail pastries (No beaver meat, just a symbolic shape).
Calgarians Stage a Stampede
Why did I visit Calgary? Living in a van, I am dependent on the weather. Because of its high elevation (3,500 feet) and northern latitude, Calgary has mild days and cool nights.
Best of all, I woke up every day knowing that the strange orange man had no authority there.
I learned a lot. Alberta province is the Texas of Canada; it has oil, gas, and cattle. Soon after I arrived, locals began asking me excitedly if I was staying for the Stampede. Horrified, I pictured innocent women and children being crushed to death by a large, panicked mob.
Turns out The Stampede is an annual rodeo celebration, an old tradition. What a relief. One fun quirk of the Stampede is that various communities host free pancake breakfasts.
Canada has twice as many immigrants as the U.S. Most of them come from countries without rodeo traditions, leading to interesting cross-cultural displays. I went to a Ghanaian rodeo breakfast. A Ghanaian man dressed in a red checked shirt and neck-scarf served us millet porridge; a Filipino breakfast featured a two-step line dance and western karaoke.
Making My Connections
When you fly, making your connections is vital. So it is in the van life: never anywhere for long, you make friends as fast as you can.
As an itinerant aspiring writer, my top priority was to find a local writing community. I discovered that the Alexandra Writers’ Centre offered a dry place to go on the frequent rainy summer days, free coffee, and Wi-Fi. It was where I would meet Betty.
***
Soon after arrival, through a Facebook page, I met Patty, a Canadian van lifer, originally from the Maritimes. She invited me to a country jam at a biker bar called Border Crossing.
An online review said the bar “looks like the HQ for an organized crime syndicate.”
On arrival, I noticed paint peeling, wood siding rotting, and weeds proliferating in the parking lot. Patty said, “Don’t worry. During the week, it’s a biker bar. But on Sunday it’s all country. This is where my friends hang out.”
Patty, who doesn’t drink, ordered a … pitcher of water. She called out to the server, “And don’t forget the straw!” The server turned around and gave her the stink eye.
***
On Friday evenings, I frequented Cold Garden Brewery, which has a dog-friendly patio. Mr. Bones loved it there. Lots of dogs to sniff. Beer in hand, I asked a group of young folks if we could join them. They said yes. Jenny, a new mother, had brought Gabriel, her three-month-old baby. As she passed Gabriel around to others to hold, I watched with envy.
As a 66-year-old with no grandkids, I could not help myself and asked if I could hold Gabriel, too. Jenny smiled. “Of course!” They adopted me as an honorary grandpa.
***
One Sunday, I was at another dog-friendly venue on the banks of the Bow River. A talented musical duo was performing.
While I was listening to the music, my dog was giving the women near us the glad eye. An attractive young woman with flaming red hair came up. “Can I pet your dog?” “Of course.” She called her mother over to pet him, too.
As they were leaving, she slipped me a small piece of paper with a name (Carol) written on it and a phone number. She lingered, smiling. For what?
For me? Why? My ears burned. I looked up. “Are you … Carol?” “Eww,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Carol is my Mom!” I blushed. “I see.”
“Gotta go,“ she said. “Call her, OK? She needs to get out more.” Mr. Bones stared at me. “Slow on the uptake, aren’t you?”
Cracks in the Veneer
At first, Canada seemed to honor First Nations people; they figure prominently in national political discourse, but oddly, they seemed to be largely absent from daily life in the city.
At Big Al’s, another country music dive bar, I met Riley, a tall, handsome Métis Indian from Saskatchewan, who wore a jaunty white cowboy hat and jade jewelry. He still enjoyed country music even though he had given up performing.
Now in his 80s, Riley told me he’d been a country singer and a rigger, working high steel. He said Indians have a good sense of balance. “We learn it as children.”
Later, he leaned in and said, "Whites treat Métis as Indians, Indians treat us as Whites. We never fit in.” He laughed bitterly after saying it, but I could not.
The Patty Melt
Patty (not her real name) had begun urging me to stay at her place.
But after I started a brief relationship in Santa Fe with Deliria (not her real name) last year, I learned it’s not a good idea to get involved on the road.
Deliria was keen on the idea at first, but her hairdresser wasn’t.
“You’re going out with a man who lives in a van and who claims he’s a writer? Honey, he may be a serial killer. End it.” Deliria did.
Patty assured me my nomadic lifestyle did not bother her, but I had been burned.
She also invited me to go camping near Waterton National Park. In late July, I went. She had a trailer in a nice RV park and showed me around the area. A good way to end my stay. I was due to leave on August 7th.
***
The second evening, maybe because I was going to leave soon, we sat up and talked.
She loosened up and dropped her guard. She expressed anger about her condo “being overrun” by immigrants. “The brown people in my condo don’t follow the rules. They let their kids run all over the place. They’re ruining everything. I hate them.”
My blood boiled. “Patty, that is a racist.” “I don’t care. I hate them.” Taking a deep breath, I said, “Let’s change the subject.”
When it was time for bed, she asked, “ Would you like to visit in the trailer?”
Thinking of the fiasco in Santa Fe, I said, “Thanks, but not tonight.”
The next morning, she had a strange gleam in her eye. “I’ve got a new nickname for you.” “It’s Romeo.” I cringed. “I can see you don’t like it,” she said, “so I’m going to keep saying it.”
Hurt feelings? Hostility? This troubled me. I have a three-strike rule. This was strike one.
That was Saturday. Something weird was in the air, but what?
***
Sunday night, in Calgary, I tried to boondock in the overflow lot at the Grey Eagle Casino. The security guards spotted my U.S. plates. They drove up and told me to leave.
Two strikes.
Monday morning, we were at our usual Starbucks, sitting on the patio. My dog barked briefly. The manager brusquely told me that no dogs are allowed and said we had to leave. I protested, “But all Starbucks allow dogs outside.”
He made a face and went inside. An hour later, two cops arrived and told us we had to go. Three strikes. What was going on?
Oh yeah. The troubling U.S. tariffs were going to kick in 48 hours later. In van life, you learn to watch the signs and leave before serious trouble starts. I felt the tension rising. Fast.
My gut said it was time to go. We fueled up the van and headed for the border. Glorious memories, but a bitter taste at the end.
***
We all have a beaver in the freezer--a furry rascal, a relic of the past. People cling to the past when they are not ready for the future.
Traveling exposes the hidden cracks in the mirror—some Calgary old timers are unhappy about the newcomers. Like a beaver, something was gnawing at them.
Maybe it was me? Or was it the orange man?
Want to Be Featured in a Future Blog?
In upcoming posts, I’ll feature stories of people who reinvent their lives in ways big and small. If you’ve taken a leap — and want to share your story—please let me know.
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Well that was fun!
Read it to the end. Very enjoyable though sad that we Americans are not very welcomed in Canada. When asked where I am originally from, I apologetically and sheepishly say the U.S.