The crossing guards
RCMP patrol offers an inside look at Biden and Trudeau’s border problem
Along the busiest spot for clandestine migrants of the 9,000-kilometre border between Canada and the United States, every approaching set of headlights causes a flicker of doubt.
There is suspicion in a car idling on the side of a dark country road, and a driver at a four-way stop who suddenly activates the turn indicator at the sight of an approaching vehicle, but cedes the right of way. Or the very sight of a minivan. A minivan could be carrying large numbers of “south-bounders” — migrants sneaking or being smuggled into the U.S. from Canada. It could also be involved in nothing of the sort.
RCMP Sgt. Daniel Dubois, head of the Champlain Detachment, the biggest in Quebec, can never be sure because policing this 168-kilometre stretch of the border resembles something of a never-ending game of gotcha, one played against migrants, smugglers and traffickers.
Dubois and the hundred officers under his command also straddle a line between policing and politics.
Canada is struggling to accommodate the tens of thousands of asylum seekers who are entering from the United States through Roxham Road to bypass the restrictions of the Safe Third Country Agreement, a bilateral treaty that obliges migrants to make their claim in whichever country they reach first.
And U.S. lawmakers have noted a sharp rise in migrants crossing into the U.S. from Canada, with some concluding that America’s northern border is being used as a back door for illegal entries.
On the eve of U.S. President Joe Biden’s visit to Canada this week, the RCMP agreed to lift the curtain on their work to show the efforts, risks and frustrations involved in patrolling the border that the province of Quebec shares with the states of New York, Vermont and New Hampshire.
At the end of Rang St-André, a country road in Lacolle, Que., a warped red steel barrier shows the brunt of a vehicle that ignored the warning signs installed by U.S. Customs and Border Protection and took a high-speed run to get to the U.S. from Canada.
It is one of about 25 roads that start in this country and end in that one, and it’s popular with migrants and smugglers who are not dissuaded by the fact that you can see through the treeline a few hundred metres away the flow of trucks and cars at the actual, legal border crossing at Lacolle.
In the past, migrants rented cars, drove themselves here and hopped across the red barrier, abandoning their rentals at the cul-de-sac as they headed off in search of work, family members or asylum in warmer American climes. These days, most come from Mexico, Venezuela and Nicaragua.
“Sometimes they have no plans to stay in Canada, so they use us as a hub to get to the U.S.,” Dubois says.
At this particular moment, Rang St-André is quiet and peaceful — a nostalgic image many Canadians hold of the Canada-U.S. border from years gone by.
Dubois drives back to the main country road that runs parallel to the borderline, points out the wild turkeys grazing in a snow-covered farmer’s field and lists off the diversity of wildlife: deer, mountain lions, bobcats.
“I had an encounter about a year ago with a bobcat. I just pulled over right there and he — or she, or it — was right there, probably 25 feet away from me.”
Suddenly, Dubois spots bigger game approaching in the opposite lane, and his mood changes. It is a westbound, gold-coloured Volkswagen Passat with a burned-out headlight.
“I’m not sure I like that,” he says, adrenalin rising with the pitch of his voice. “I don’t like that. I don’t like that!”
The car turns left onto Rang StAndré.
“You’re going to turn back?” Sgt. Charles Poirier, the RCMP’s Quebec spokesperson, asks from the back seat.
“I’m thinking about it,” Dubois says. “And the good thing about StAndré is that it’s a dead end.”
He turns his unmarked SUV around and sets off in pursuit. A kilometre down the road, he finds the same car parked just a few steps from the red barrier cutting Rang St-André from Meridian Road in Champlain, N.Y.
Two men in their late 30s, a driver and passenger, are startled as Dubois and Poirier jump out of their vehicle in full uniform.
The men throw their hands up inside the car when they see the flashing lights.
“Turn it off!” Dubois commands the driver. “Turn it off!”
The man removes the key from the ignition and places it on the dash. He doesn’t speak English but starts offering up documents. A Canadian immigration form. Quebec registration papers for the vehicle. A Turkish driver’s licence with his name and birthdate.
A check with the RCMP operations centre, which serves as the Mounties’ eyes, ears and brain across the border, shows the man passed from the U.S. into Canada, through Roxham Road, on Oct. 13, 2022.
The passenger has no identification papers. But using the name he provides to Poirier, they learn that he also crossed into Canada some time ago at Roxham Road to make an asylum claim.
Parking steps from the border is not illegal
You don’t need a police badge to pose the question: What are these two doing back at the border?
The driver holds up fingers on either side of his head to mime their alibi.
They have driven more than hour from Montreal to see the grazing deer.
“This is highly suspicious. Their story doesn’t make any sense,” Poirier says. “Are they waiting for someone? Are they waiting for something? Are they waiting for a package? Are they dope runners? It could be something that was stashed here, close to the border, and they’re coming to retrieve it. We just don’t know.”
The back seat of the vehicle is empty. The trunk has a few power tools that would seem to jive with the broken-English explanation that they work in the ceramic business in Montreal.
The simple act of parking at a dead-end street, steps from the border, is curious, but not illegal. After the vehicle and document check, the two men are allowed to drive away.
“Here’s the problem with these two,” Poirier says. “They’ll be back. Is it in an hour? In two days? In two weeks? They’ll be back because they didn’t get what they were hoping for.”
A visit from U.S. Border Patrol
The RCMP border patrol is always on guard, particularly as the sun starts to go down.
Dubois drives west along Montée Guay toward Rang Edgerton, a road that cuts through farmers’ fields and provides a simple, unhindered crossing point into the U.S.
“This is the main focal point these days,” he says.
Evidence of recent activity is strewn in the dirty snow and a watery ditch. A pop can and food wrappers. A child’s pink coat. A single black shoe.
Two weeks ago, Dubois found discarded immigration documents someone had tossed away before seeking new opportunities in a new country.
The numbers of people crossing illegally from Canada into the U.S. began to rise sharply last fall. Since October 2022, more than 300 people a month have illegally entered the U.S. into what the Americans call Swanton Sector, which runs along the northern border from eastern New York to New Hampshire. In December and again last month, U.S. agents intercepted 416 and 418 border crossers respectively, according to publicly available statistics.
The vast majority who have entered the U.S. since October, 1,607, were single adults. Another 318 were travelling with family. Seven were unaccompanied minor children.
Nearly 1,200 were Mexican citizens.
It might seem counterintuitive, that clandestine migrants would cross the border out in the open, in plain view of Rang Edgerton’s occupied farmhouses. But the location is very attractive for those looking to cross and make a quick getaway.
“First of all, there is the road on the other side,” Dubois explains, pointing across the boundary line toward New York State Route 276, which runs parallel to the border before turning south.
“If you need a pickup, somebody can wait for you there.”
He is here just a few minutes before a green and white U.S. Border Patrol vehicle pulls up, and an agent gets out.
Dubois approaches, knowing that while his idling black SUV is suspicious for the Americans, the sight of the bright yellow line running down the side of his RCMP uniform’s pant leg will quickly settle his counterpart’s nerves.
They greet one another and Dubois shouts the latest news of the two Turkish men at Rang St-André to his counterpart.
“They were up to no good,” he says.
“What colour was the vehicle?” the American asks.
“A gold Passat,” Dubois says. “They crossed at Roxham a few months ago.”
It is cross-border diplomacy and intelligence-sharing on the 45th parallel, the geographical line dividing the two countries in this area. The close eyes and quick response from U.S. border agents are also deeply reassuring for Dubois.
When migrants get lost
Lesser known is that there is a dedicated RCMP team of officers and civilians who work on “technical intelligence,” following bordercrossing trends, installing and maintaining cameras and tracking devices all across the boundary line that tip off police to suspicious or illegal activity.
These tools alert police when someone makes a run for the border. But they also oblige them to do a dangerous accounting on occasion — particularly when people cross through a forest, thinking they can escape detection.
“Sometimes there’s an in and an out. I see them go in. I see them come out,” Dubois says. “If I don’t see them out, then they’re somewhere.”
The RCMP conducted about 10 search-and-rescue operations this winter. Some are prompted when U.S. agents flag four migrants heading north into Canada through the woods but only two emerge on the Canadian side.
Other times a concerned family member will call after receiving a desperate call from someone who has got lost and is in danger.
Poirier, who worked with the Champlain Detachment in 2019, recalls a Haitian family crossing with a foot guide who got lost himself and led them into a swamp.
An older, heavy-set woman with the group fell into the swamp and couldn’t get herself out.
“She ended up being amputated because she had severe frostbite on one of her feet,” he says.
In January, Haitian migrant Fritznel Richard froze to death while trying to cross into the U.S., where his wife and son live. CTV News reported that Richard called his wife in a panic, saying he had got lost in the woods but worried about calling 911 in case he was arrested and deported back to Haiti.
Richard’s body was recovered not far from the curving treeline that police call Sri Lankan Trail. Years ago, it was the path used by Tamil migrants trying to get into the U.S. from Canada. From the road where the trail starts, it’s about two kilometres to the border.
“This is a good example of how deceiving the terrain can be,” Poirier says. “You can’t see it but there’s a bend there. People get lost in there. I got lost in there once because it’s a cornfield, and when it’s up high you get disoriented very quickly.”
Disorientation in cold weather leads to hypothermia. Hypothermia leads to confusion and sensations of overheating even as the body grows dangerously cold.
“You sit down and you start undressing because even though you’re super-cold, your brain perceives that you are super-hot,” Poirier says. “It’s a recipe for disaster.”
‘They’re running towards the U.S.’
The last stop of the night is Chemin Sweet, a dark and deserted road lined on either side by thick, imposing woods.
“It looks like ‘The Blair Witch Project,’ ” Dubois says he drives south, his headlights haunting the road ahead. “You’re almost expecting a ghost to show up in front of you here.”
At the end of the road is a mound of snow and a stand of trees that would seem impenetrable even in daylight.
But some migrants, out of desperation or overconfidence, make their go of it here.
In addition to the 200 or so people who cross daily into Canada through Roxham Road — people the RCMP officers must interview and assess — there are so many migrants crossing from Canada into the U.S. that choices must be made.
“If we catch 12 crossings a night, we have to investigate 12 different occurrences, with very little hope of success,” Poirier says.
In Canada, at least, migrants trying to cross into the U.S. aren’t breaking the law.
“We’ll go after the smugglers, because they’re profiting from this and they’re putting people in danger,” he says, before admitting that, even there, the odds are stacked against law enforcement.
“To go after (smugglers) we have to prove that there was a conspiracy to violate U.S. law. A conspiracy takes more than one individual, so we have to co-ordinate with U.S. Border Patrol to find out who the receiving smuggling agent is,” Poirier explains.
“If we only have the one here, we might not have enough — it’s just a ride.”
Then, Dubois’s radio comes to life. It’s a message from a dispatcher at the operational control centre.
A car has been spotted on one of the remote police cameras dropping off three people at Chemin Benoît, 70 kilometres to the east.
“Was it a taxi?” a patrol officer asks.
“I can’t confirm it was a taxi, but it was a car that dropped off three people. They’re running toward the United States,” the dispatcher says.
“Call our friends,” Dubois says to himself, like a coach quietly willing the actions of his team from the sidelines.
A moment later, the dispatcher announces that the Americans have been alerted.
“Let me know if they turn back north,” says the patrol officer.
Poirier explains that the officer will proceed to the crossing point to make sure no “funky business” is occurring — drugs, guns or other contraband.
“But also because if the people who intend to cross get spooked by U.S. Border Patrol, they’ll turn around and come back, and that’s usually when they get lost.”
The patrol officer is 20 minutes away. It’s too far to have any hope of intercepting and searching the driver or the suspected migrants. But if something goes wrong, it may be just close enough to save a life.
‘‘ It looks like ‘The Blair Witch Project.’ You’re almost expecting a ghost to show up in front of you here.
SGT. DANIEL DUBOIS RCMP CHAMPLAIN DETACHMENT