An after all not so bad day in Ontario
ME (text, 5:30 p.m.)
Frustrating day. Starving — just now found a place to eat—and I’m still 1.5 hours from “metropolitan” North Bay.
MITCH (text, 5:33 p.m.)
Sorry it’s been a tough day … write about it and don’t forget when it’s time to plan next summer!!!
ME
Good perspective—I’ll do that
So here goes. My Airbnb apartment, just over the border in Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, sits above the Whisky Barrel bar, which closed last night at midnight, so I can’t blame the noise. Alarm wakes me up at 9. Snooze. Wakes me up at 9:30. Snooze. I wake up on my own: 11:07.
Whattt?? My Airbnb hosts had specified, repeatedly, that check-out time was 11 a.m., and that “charges may apply” to slug-a-beds. As I’m both a late sleeper and a conscientious guest, I jump out of bed, text my hosts that I got a “late start,” but will be out in “minutes.” I said I was conscientious, not entirely honest. A face wash, let alone a shower, out of the question, I scoop up my overnight bag and stuffed-to-the-gills backpack and skedaddle.
A late-night search for espresso had turned up nothing but Starbucks and Tim Horton’s. Might as well go local. There’s a Tim’s conveniently located three minutes away. Score! But the espresso machine has “just broken down.” I make do with regular coffee (I know, poor me), then use Tim’s wi-fi to find the address of tonight’s accommodations. I’m headed to North Bay, Ontario, 5 1/2 hours away. I scarf down a protein bar and Tim’s coffee in the car, cursing Miss Bossypants, who apparently hasn’t heard that this small city (pop. 72,000) has only one-way streets downtown. I drive around in circles for a few minutes before happening onto the Trans Canada Highway. Success!
A few miles down the road, I remember that I left my camera charger in St. Cloud, Minnesota, two nights ago and my camera’s due to fritz out. Luckily, there’s a very nice camera store very near my Airbnb, so leave the highway and circle the block again. It’s open, the clerk is helpful and has what I need. Costs me $50 bucks Canadian, but this still counts as a success.
It’s slow going on Hwy 17, the Trans-Canada Highway. Top speed for most of the 17 is 90 kwh, which translates to about 56 mph. After zooming through Idaho and Montana at 90, I fill quite put upon, and since I’m being peevish, I note that Canadians are road rule followers, even to the extent that most seem happy to remain in the right lane, even when a passing lane appears. A group of bikers in black leather roars dutifully behind me when I pull to the right to let them pass.
Still, 56 mph turns out to be too fast for wildlife recognition. I’m staring at a strange-looking group of grazing cattle before realizing, when I’m almost past them, that they’re caribou! Most people would be thrilled to see caribou in the wild — why is missing a photo op such a problem for me? I apparently haven’t really experienced wonder unless I’ve photographed it. Similarly, I “miss” many, of which there are many near the road of the looming, unpainted variety. But just out of Sault Ste. Marie, there’s not enough shoulder to risk pulling over. I figure I’ll see many more of the same on this trip, barns with conveniently located pull-overs for my photographing convenience. No doubt the same will go for caribou.
Yep, you guessed it, not so much. I see nary a caribou, moose, or even a deer for the rest of the day. I finally catch up with a few marvelous, stalwart Ontario at the end of the day, lit cinematically by the low sun. Because, yes, despite Miss Bossypants’ estimate of 4.5 hours, it takes me 9 and a half hours to drive from Sault Ste. Marie to North Bay.
Some of this lollygagging is built into the plan. I tried to schedule only 4 hours of drive time a day on this trip, so I could explore backroads and small towns at my leisure. Now that I’m at the end of my two-month adventure, however, I’m feeling strained, and have scheduled days of 5 hours of more driving time. I do attempt to slow down and admire today as well; mileage signs are frequent on Hwy 17, as are billboards announcing diners, resorts, Indian restaurants, trading posts, and other highway delights.
However, the majority of these businesses, when I arrive at the tiny towns that harbor them, have closed—permanently, it seems. These are hardscrabble towns, most of them. Some place names seem to have First Nation origins (Attawapiskat and Mattagami rivers, Missisa and Otoskwin lakes), and feature tribal health centers and tribal government offices. Residents of these towns appear to house both Native and non-Native Canadians. Many are former steel or mining towns in which the mills and mines are long closed or are well past their prosperous days. [This land was the home of the Ojibway (Anishinaabe) until, in 1849, non-Natives moved to the area to mine its rich copper veins. Sometime later, nickel and gold were discovered by white prospectors. In fact, in Sudbury, where I eat a very late lunch/early dinner and texted Mitch to whine, nickel was discovered by Thomas Edison — yes, that one. Needless to say, once nickel was discovered, the land was appropriated by whites; and so the story goes.
Running next to the Mississippi River two days ago in St. Cloud, Minnesota, I silently asked Mom and Dad to send me a sign, if they wouldn’t mind. I like to think that, if they were alive, they’d be fascinated by my adventures, and that, if they’re still somewhere watching, they look on benevolently. I miss them both madly.
Today on Hwy 17, I notice sign after sign advertising “Ernie’s Signs,” an area sign-design-and-maintenance business. Ernie is my dad’s name. And, as my cousin Andie notes, Ernie is not a common name. So if that was you, Dad, good one.
At 60 (or 40, 0r 20, or 0) mph, I have plenty of time to read signs. It would seem that all road repair halted during the height of Covid has commenced this summer on Hwy 17, and I pass through at least five of those one-lane set-ups where a laconic provincial employee swivels a STOP or SLOW sign at long lines of cars.
After a stop at the Snake River tribal trading post to buy T-shirts for the kids, and several missteps trying to find a non-fast-food lunch stop, I find a good now-dinner spot in Sudbury, where I text Mitch and this story begins.
Immediately after which, the story takes an upturn. As I’m leaving, my server tells me she’d love to pull her kids (ages 5 and 7) out of school and take them to Bermuda for three months. “Do it,” I tell her. “I know, right,” she says. “I could teach them just as well or better — people think it’s weird, but why can’t we just live our best lives—is that so wrong?”
I’m not sure precisely what all this encompasses for her, though I agree in principal, natch.
Pretty quickly it seems, probably due to my improved mood, I arrive in North Bay. My host, Leila, shows me around my spotless home for the night. It’s almost 9 p.m. by now, and I exclaim over the sunset. “If you want to take photos, you have to go now,” she says. I drop my bags and off I go, and it’s a magnificent evening at the public marina. After all, a not bad — in fact, pretty damn good — travel day. And so to bed.
For more photos and commentary, go to ONTARIO — Lisa Carl: ReCovering America (squarespace.com).
