Tag: Lake Superior

Gitchigoomi 1957-1975

 

I was born in Port Arthur, Ontario, on the north shore of Lake Superior.

Crawled, bawled and took my first steps on the Precambrian shield. Bedrock and fresh water. Boreal forest, ten thousand lakes, rivers and streams. Twenty-five below in February. Plastic bread bags in our boots. Scarves, toques and breath-frosted balaclavas. Skidoo mitts. Skidoo boots. Skidoo suits. Skidoos that barely ever ran. But man, the outfits brought a new age of warmth. Snowshoes, cross-country skis and downhill at Mount Baldy.

Black flies and mosquitoes come summer. Canoes, campfires, canvas tents, Coleman lanterns, Mitchell reels and fishing rods. Hank Storm strumming his guitar. We had camper trailers by then. Singsongs and fish-fries. Northern Pike and Pickerel. Always an aluminum boat pulled up or tied up. Slow leak and an ancient hit n’miss Viking outboard. Dirt logging roads. Gravel highways. Tote roads, orange vests, a pocket full of 22 shells and partridge hunting up near Dorian and Ouimet Canyon.

Hicks Lake.

Land of the Sleeping Giant. Nanabijou. Pulp mills, grain elevators. And the union. Twenty bucks an hour sweeping floors. Or so they said. Or so I remember. Devote Catholic school boy. Corpus Christi. Altar boy and nun’s favourite. Not an athlete like my friends, but an actor and artist. Caught drinking beer before a dance and kicked out of school in grade ten. Chairman of the Students Council. Dime bags of pot. Driving the Dodge Dart. Bag boy at Safeway laughing with the moms, carrying on and carrying out their groceries.

In 1975 I boarded a plane for the first time. Standby to Ottawa. Greyhound to Kingston. And I was away. The great lake Gitchigoomie splashing in my veins.

 

 

Postcard from Kakabeka

Nineteen eighty nine I pulled over and picked him up a few miles out of Thunder Bay on my way home from work. He could have been one of our Finnish neighbours who had arrived decades ago to work in the lumber camps north of Lake Superior and now sat in small tidy kitchens that looked the same as they did forty years earlier drinking coffee speaking Finn. Not that he looked like a lumberjack on the contrary I mean his age clean simple well weathered appearance neatly combed hair one hand on the comb the other following to make sure every lightly oiled strand was in place. He wore a short sleeved polyester shirt with a stripe the type salesmen used to wear on hot summer days faded trousers adidas and carried a small cardboard suitcase. Smart casual well cared for fashion from secondhand bins the most unlikely looking hitchhiker I had ever seen.
He inquired after the local economic situation noting the probability of depression and high unemployment. Pardon? Having approached several homes without a cup of coffee or sandwich to spare the last woman peering anxiously through a window not even opening the door what other explanation could there be.
His journey began in Toronto where he lived on the street for years medicated dependent sick and dying until resigned he gave up on doctors and prescriptions and surprisingly began to feel better. As health returned his view of life and circumstances changed he decided now would be a good time to travel and see Canada. If you lived on the streets you could certainly live on the highway. He hitchhiked by day slept in ditches and under trees by night covering himself with whatever he could find. It was all matter of fact and so far working out.
I dropped him off at the grocery store in Kakabeka and gave him whatever was in my wallet. Unfolding the bills a momentary glow lingering smile he looked me directly in the eyes took my hand and said the oddest thing. God bless you in business.
I have always been grateful to him.