05travel.ind

Hey Kids,
Already wrote three hundred words of this essay then suddenly lost it to the non-macintosh technology I'm using.
Where was I?

Oh yeah, I was about to escape Thunder Bay, bicycle purgatory, the odd side of the loony.

Well that was hell. Greyhound. Boarded the bus at nine in the morning and every single person had a double seat to themself and all of them are pretending to be sound asleep.

"Okay kids, unless you're able to produce a stub that shows you paid for two seats, I'm a gonna sit down beside one of ya and that's that!"

Nobody blinked, except a little goth girl sitting two thirds of the way to the rear. She smiled. I sat down beside her. Told her she was the only person on the bus with any class. Said it so the others could hear. Not a one of them made so much as eye contact with me for the rest of the trip. It was like being shunned. Maybe I deserved it.

My foot hurt like the blazes, and I was crankier than grandpa at the proctologist's office. You think Greyhound is tough when you're feeling good. Ever wanna feel bad, Go Greyhound when you're foot is fooked. There's just something about the roll of the beasts that makes them uncomfortable. Then, on top of that, we get some driver who quit smoking a year ago and wants to make sure that no one on his bus gets a chance to smoke in front of him, so he drives the entire distance between White River and the Soo without so much as giving his passengers a pee break. Yeah, there's a toilet on board, but you need a white gown, a surgical mask, and a decent cathater to use it.

Grumpier than before I left, I arrived in the Soo, at sunset, on a nice night when the west wind rolled off Superior making the big willows and maples shuffle.

Literally, the town had a musical feel to it as I made my way to the old Algonquin Hotel in its center. It's a HI hostel now, but that hasn't scared off the drunken ghosts nor dimished the distinct aromas of spilled beer, stale tobacco and urine that permeate the place. Still, its quiet and safe, and not too far over my budget.

Once checked in, I made my way up the street to the greasiest, so greasy its classic, greasy spoon I know of anywhere in this fair land. It's a place called Mary's, and its been wedged into a little stone building about midway down the main drag since 1937. I had chicken, and one of their homemade tarts. It filled me up. I didn't die. If for the culture of the place alone, it was worth it. When I walked in a large contingent of Americans were walking out. The place was full, but as the Americans got up to leave, the locals left in the place got up to bus the tables, wipe them down, and sweep up the debris. You know people like a place when they get up and help the waitresses after a big rush. The yellowing signs that announce the day's specials, the hand-printed and zeroxed menus, spattered with spilled coffee, and the dirty aprons of the entire staff, showed no pretense.

The place was greasy, very very greasy, and I liked it, despite the fact I'm a bit of a neat freak virgo.

Anyway. Slept restless in the Algonquin despite the huge open window through which Superior's breezes blew cool and resfreshing. Don't know if it was anxiety about the ride, my foot, both, or the fact that an old girlfriend of mine has a yoga studio not a block from the hotel. Whatever it was, it wasn't the best of rests.

Next day, I hobbled on down to the Greyhound again and retrieved Blu and BoB. Blu was in a good mood and went back together in minutes. Nothing was missing or broken. That darn bike nearly put itself together again. To celebrate I took us for a ride down along the Soo waterfront and the old canal, that was built to help the Canadian Government get Mounties out to to Lake Superior, so they could get back on the trail and go kick Louis Riel in the butt for trying to make Manitoba a free and independent nation. (Hung him for that). It was a nice ride, but it was clear within the first half hour that my foot wasn't ready to ride, let alone with a load. It hurt a lot, real bad.

Anyway. Fortunately for this little wanderer, my pal Guillaume from Quebec showed up as promised. We loaded up and whisked away, talking a million words a minute, until under the cover of night we pulled into the Ojibway campground just east of the Soo. We set up camp, stood around for a little bit watching some sort of fireworks from the American side of the North Channel, then went to sleep. In the morning we found ourselves on a beach that was overgrown with all sorts of kootch grass, wild berries, and other brush poking from the brown hot sand. Our day began with coffee, porridge, and a dip in the water, which was so shallow we had to wade out a quarter mile to get over our heads. It was quite lovely there in the morning sun with nothing but blue water, loons flapping and an open sky.

A few hours later we were rolling through stinky Espanola and along the causeways to Manitoulin Island, where we were greeted by a black bear and her cub, coming out of the berry bushes to our right as we rolled by. They were a healthy pair with thick black coats and brown noses. It appeared moma was teaching her cub about crossing the road. “Now look out for the little red civic with Quebec plates carrying a scruffy old hippie and a clean cut piano player.”

We had fun that day. Listening to music, working up a couple songs, singing for the folks on the ferry from South Baymouth to Tobermorey. Had a little crowd gathered around we did, discreetly listening while I exposed my young Francophone friend to the lyrics from '60s psychadelic bands like Country Joe and the Fish.

Experienced a huge deja vu as we rolled through Tobermorey. Way back in the 1950s my grandma used to take me there. I swear, I recognized the place and, had I had the time, I think I might have found a lot more. But being young and from the big city, my pal wasn't into stopping long, so we made our way rather quickly to Bruce National Park, where we set up camp, had a big pasta dinner, then sat around making a little music. This kid and I have something going on there. His music fits my words and vice versa. He gets it, and so do I. A while back a pal of mine asked if I'd ever had a musical conversation with anyone. I have begun to understand what he was talking about.

The next day we headed further south, through Wiarton, Thornbury, Meaford and Owen Sound, where we liked it so much we thought of staying, and I ran into a traveller woman that I've run into in the oddest places for many years. Last time we met was on Saltspring, two years ago. She's always been something of a sign, a good omen. We never talk much, ask how one another is, and move on. It was the same here.

That night we parked near Orillia, and though the campsite left a lot to be desired, we got to the music much earlier and with much more success. By the end of the evening we had the basics of two decent songs and good ideas for half a dozen more. The jam was moving along.

The next day would be our longest. An early stop in Orillia would grow too long. A later one in Peterborough, the same. Guillaume and I began to grate on one another. I won't get into details but in the end, while we were chowing down at a neat little place called the Kaladar Hotel, and Guill had gone off to sip a beer while I did a little writing, I wrote a song: "it ain't nothin' that a moment and a decent meal won't heal. . ."

That night we camped at Sharbot Lake Provincial Park, paid $30 to listen to semis on the highway, but had the neatest little campsite, down from the road, away from the car, on a little spit overlooking Black Lake. We didn't do much in the way of music and argued a lot. We were on one another's nerves and it took us some time to figure it out. We did, eventually, but not until the next day, after the morning swim.

That day we toured Ottawa, which seemed to rub Guill the wrong way. Many of is friends are separatists, many of them unilingual French. He's grown up with them, their opinions and ideas are important to him. To break the ice I said, "Guill, call home on your cell. Tell them where you are and ask if they want you to do any graffitti!"

He relaxed a lot when we crossed the Ottawa River. I did too. I could no longer read the signs. I was in a different country, language-wise and driving-wise. All I could do was sit back, shut up, and try to figure it out. It's coming.

We arrived late in Montreal, after driving down through Oka, where the big standoff between the Mohawks and the Army happened a few years ago. There's an incrdeble stand of pine trees there. I'd like to go back there on Blu sometime.

At about dark we pulled into Guill's place in Rosemere, north of Laval. After visiting with his mom and sister, we crashed. The next day Guill took me around to a local cafe, The Little Hog. Then we went back to the house, hauled out the piano and guitar, got a few more promising musical ideas, and I finally got to hear his rendition of my poem: Writing My Name On The Wind. It's good. All we have to do is put in on tape.

Late that afternoon my long lost brother Dan got ahold of me. Dan's a promoter here in Montreal. He's been part of the scene for many years. When he called he said he had to do a show that night. I asked if it was the Brian Wilson show. Wilson, the main songwriter for the Beach Boys, is on tour with a big band doing a live performance of his comeback album Smile. It's a critically accaimed piece that's often been referred to as "phsychadelic surf."

Dan, my brother, said no, but do you want tickets?

Next thing, Guill and I were driving into Montreal to see Brian Wilson at Place des Arts, a world class theatre complex in the center of the city! I hadn't been in Montreal but 24 hours and I was already in a seat next to the sound booth at the Place des Arts, with a crowd of Quebec's arts community elite all around me. Good sign methinks. Good show too, especially when he got away from his Beach Boys schtick and started into his more experimental stuff. The guy is still a wizard at nearly 70. Still has his voice too.

Today my brother picked me up and I'm now in the old Irish district of Montreal, Point St. Charles. Its an area of row housing, one way streets, railroad yards and some serious character. I'll tell you all about it next time.

Meanwhile, yes, the foot is a little better, but its still not ready to ride. Gets to hurting pretty good after a half hour, but I'll keep trying. We're off to the Eastern Townships tomorrow, to my brother's wife's family place. I'm looking forward to it. I've never met her, Carrie, or their children, Alice and Gahan.

So the adventure continues, I've just got more wheels that's all.

Hope you're all well,
Will

On April 1, 2005 I set off across Canada on my bicycle. Or at least I'd planned to cross Canada. These pages are an account of that trip, as told through travelogs I sent to friends. I hope you enjoy the ride!

All material contained herein is copyright by Will Webster.
All Rights Reserved.

On April 1, 2005 I set off across Canada on my bicycle. Or at least I'd planned to cross Canada. These pages are an account of that trip, as told through travelogs I sent to friends. I hope you enjoy the ride!

All material contained herein is copyright by Will Webster. All Rights Reserved.

All material contained herein is copyright by Will Webster.
All Rights Reserved.