How communities divided by the Canada-U.S. border in Alberta are adapting to the pandemic

All that comes between Coutts, Alta., and its American counterpart, Sweetgrass, Montana, is a small strip of grass about 20 metres wide.

A yellow and orange plastic chain, strung between fence posts, and a few signs and cameras are all that separate Canada from the U.S. — and all that separates the Clarks from a family reunion.

Kelly Clark and her husband Ryan park their dark blue pickup truck by the border, with the rear facing the U.S. They pull down the tailgate to sit on the end and wait for their daughter Lara and her friend to drive up on the U.S. side for a distanced chat.

"We have to stay so many feet away from the fence. Border Patrol comes up and checks just to see what we're doing because that's what they have to do. And, yeah, we just sit here and visit," Kelly said.

"It's a lot harder. You can't touch, or hug your friends and family or spend time with them ... we haven't been able to hug our grandson for almost a year."

Canada and the U.S. have agreed to extend the closure of their shared border to non-essential services until at least Nov. 21. 

But while surveys have found the majority of Canadians support the closure, to help stop the spread of COVID-19 from a country that has surpassed 10 million cases and as cases surge in some Canadian provinces, it has hurt businesses and relationships on both sides of the border.

As a customs broker, Kelly's work is considered an essential service — she's authorized to cross the border for work, but not for her personal life.

Before COVID-19, the family visited weekly, riding bikes together or taking shared camping trips,

But with travel restrictions at the border, for the past nine months those visits have been reduced to less than once a month, and family dinners or embraces are off the table. 

The two communities' proximity means many friends and family are adapting to life apart. 

Connie Bach said that since the restrictions were put in place, their family has held funerals by video call instead of in person.

"Life has changed completely," Bach said.

"The situation is heartbreaking."

Highway 4, seen through the window of Hills of Home Cafe, in Coutts, is nearly deserted on a Sunday morning in October.

It's hard to imagine the highway as a major artery for traffic from the U.S.; before the pandemic 500,000 trucks and one million travellers would pass through each year.

The cafe is still serving essential travellers, like truckers, but fear of COVID-19 has kept some locals away. 

Carolyn and Keith Dangerfield, who own the business, say revenues have dropped from between $600 and $800 a day to $300 to $400.

"It's disheartening when you open at 7 a.m. and don't see customers until 1 p.m.," Keith said. "It's down, it's not a disaster yet — but I do hope we get it straightened out very shortly." 

The couple's children and seven grandchildren live in the U.S.

"There have been the visits across the fence … but it's not like having someone in your home," Carolyn said.