No wonder the Edmund Fitzgerald got wrecked
Trip Start
Jun 06, 2004
1
9
27
Trip End
Jun 30, 2004
Wawa,
Ontario,
Canada
Monday, June 14, 2004
We are prepared to push the bike a bit to be quiet, but Ron is an early riser, so it's a friendly goodbye and off through a light rain to Thunder Bay. The rendez-vous is a classy hotel, and the food is delicious. Blueberry pancakes with fruit compote and whipped cream are a great accompaniment to the easy conversation. Ron and Henry are hilarious, and I really like Karen, who is straight-forward and smart
1-Two real characters
. Their daughter Serenity is delicately lovely and seems too self-effacing for her intended legal career. They used to live on Salt Spring, but Karen's native status has gotten them a great piece of land out here. They apologize for not having invited us to stay; Ron says he didn't think of it until we hung up. We're sorry to leave such congenial folk, but the clock is ticking and we tear ourselves away at 10:30.We pass the turnoff to the Terry Fox memorial. I feel ashamed of worrying about a sore bum when I think of what he went through. A true hero. Suddenly we can see Lake Superior, which my mind immediately identifies as ocean. More rocky bluffs appear, some with the dull, true red of poster paint powder. Not orange enough for iron--cinnabar, maybe? Many bluffs bear inukshuks, piled-stone figures originally made by northern natives to indicate good trails or hunting grounds. They are a huge fad, and I want to take photos and build one myself, but we go by so fast that I don't get a chance. Even the most remote cliffs are sprayed with the alley-cat love yowls of ardent Ontario youth. Inukshuks are much better.
Just as we are starting to see the famous rugged north shore, fog closes in. We get glimpses of sullen dark tarns, brooding trees, and faintly turquoise water lapping pinkish rock
2-The other side of the table
. But visibility drops to almost nil--nerve-wracking for poor Henry. We edge forward at 25 kph, and it feels terrifyingly bold. At a small native-run store I buy bead earrings made by the owner's sister. None of the few restaurants in Terrace Bay appeal, and we overshoot and end up having disgustingly doughy pre-packaged fish & chips at an isolated cafe.Miles from anywhere, an incongruous temporary traffic light stops us and another biker. Signs warn against proceeding on the red: it's a single lane. We wait impatiently for a very long time. Finally a car comes up behind us and confirms what we had feared: we are too light to trigger the light change!
I miss another moose photo, but it's too wet to keep the camera out. We crawl along. It's as if there is no world, as if we aren't really moving. It will be foggy forever. Neil Young runs through my head repeatedly: "There is a town in north Ontario..." I guess my brain doesn't have a good sense of geography! At last the fog lifts, ironically just as we swing away from the lake. My tailbone is incredibly sore, and I despair when Henry decides on an 8 km detour to aptly-named Marathon. However, he is right because there is a mall and I can buy a new pillow. With it underneath and my old one behind I can continue
3-Ontario's idea of a guard rail
. We have another long run, hoping to make Sault Ste Marie by nightfall. We stop long enough to jump up and down as the trip reader hits 4000 km. We have been averaging over 600 km a day. We also stop at a campground to get information about possible campsites further along. The flies are terrible. Even with our visors down they sneak in underneath. We are intensely grateful for the screen-doored info booth. I hope the other campsites aren't like this!
The countryside isn't particularly interesting, and I start to doze, then jerk to alertness. This is scary; what if I fall off? I bite my tongue in an effort to stay awake. I don't know where Henry gets his stamina. Most people couldn't ride on like this under the best of conditions, let alone after that eerie fog. Then the sky darkens. We hasten into our raingear just in time. First everlasting fog, now a deluge! We finally wash up in Wawa and Henry says, "Maybe this is the night we should stay in a hotel." He is really beat, and no wonder. I could never have done the driving he did today. Some locals recommend the Beaver at $56 + tax, but we assume there must be something cheaper in such a small place. We work our way down the row of motels. The Big Bird is nowhere near as pleasant as the Beaver, but it is only $46. In a fit of stinginess we go for the Big Bird. We get a groundfloor room so we can keep an eye on Gzowski out the window. It is after 8 pm and the selection at the only grocery open at this hour is not inspiring. Deciding we aren't really hungry, I only buy a juice and a 60 cent copy of "The Ivy Tree" by Mary Stewart.
We cover the hotel room with wet gear and listlessly channel surf. I read, and eventually we eat some leftover buns,cheese and a few peanuts and share a big apple. Henry drifts off as I finish the "Ivy Tree" in one go (of course, I have read it several times before).
