Journey To The Center  

Last Friday, I arrived at the shores of Lake Superior — to be more specific, at Batchawana Bay which lies on the eastern shore. Approaching the shore, I was immediately struck by the sound of the waves and was reminded of the Atlantic Ocean lapping the beaches of the Bay of Fundy in Nova Scotia. It was comforting and I loitered awhile, walking the lonely shore with Sabrina. The drift was different than one might find out east — a beaver-chewed birch log — but the feel was similar. That Superior should seem so much like the Atlantic isn’t surprising. It’s an immense body of water. According to Wikipedial, Lake Superior, is about 350 miles (563 km) in length and 160 miles (257 km) in width, and the deepest point … (about 40 miles north of Munising, Michigan) is 1,333 feet (400 meters) below the surface. It’s the world’s largest freshwater lake, the surface area being 31,700 square miles or 82,170 square kilometers, and it holds about 10 percent of all of the world’s fresh surface water.

Driving the north shore, you are constantly made aware of the proximity of the lake. Every few minutes, interrupting the deep stillness of the forests, a seascape of white-capped waves crashing against ragged rock outcrops, comes into view. The scene is but a scaled down version of the Pacific breaking against dark sea stacks along the Oregon and California coast.

I soon learned to seize every opportunity to rest at any look-off as the driving is demanding for someone like me — someone used to putzing along country roads at 80 kph (50 mph). On this section of the Trans-Canada highway, you share the road with long haul transport trucks that are easily pushing 110 kph (70 mph) on the twisting downhill grades that frequently run between towering rock cuts. The official speed limit is 90 kph, but you soon discover that you must fall into line and become part of the crazy roller-coaster steaming along the shore — otherwise, you are nothing but a dangerous obstacle to be bypassed.

Some of the rock cuts are marred by graffiti, but most are pristine — for, in truth, there are few places safe enough to stop and get out of your vehicle even to shoot a photo or two — thus, the paucity of photos from this part of my journey. The incredible views were captured and must remain in my memory.

Still, I was often amazed to spot an inukshuk erected on some precarious outcrop above the highway. Very determined hikers must have scrambled aloft to assemble them — small reminders that, although we may feel we are in the wilderness, we are never truly alone.

I noticed the above Canadian geodetic survey benchmark at one of the look-offs. I was going to see if I could hunt down info about it online today — I’ve heard that the benchmark info is all online — but I’ve got to get moving on. Perhaps someone will sleuth out the data while I’m on the road today.

Don and I always laughed about how it was that, other than on our way to Nova Scotia, we rarely ever turned to the east when we left the end of our lane. We always turned right — to the west. I guess it was because we loved hiking through the terrain up on the Canadian Shield. We felt at home and energized by the great expanses of rock, where the bones of the land are exposed through the thin soil, and the tall Eastern White Pines twist and wave their huge wind bent boughs. When I planned this journey, I gave some thought to going east for awhile, but knew that I’d soon reach my destination — and then what? Come back? Settle down for awhile? No, I didn’t think that was the right thing to do at this time. Going to the west was instinctive and I’ve enjoyed several days of traveling through the Shield here in Ontario, spending time in the land Don and I loved so well, but more about that in a couple of upcoming posts.

I haven’t had a chance to get back to the blog until this morning — in part, because I was staying with friends at their cabin on Lake Superior. They’re off the grid, so I didn’t try to post, although I did manage to read everyone’s comments back at Burning Silo, and even managed to leave one of my own using the blackberry that I’m carrying to keep in touch with my family. I haven’t tried posting with it and doubt that I will, but do find the connectedness of it a bit reassuring, especially as I’ve had some mechanical problems with my van (hopefully to be sorted out in the next day or so). Yesterday, I sent the following email to a friend:

I’m in the little town of Ignace. It’s raining like hell and my van has been running badly. It’s sputtering and threatening to konk out. I’m sitting in a parking lot letting it idle for awhile trying to dry out the wiring, but it is still sounding pretty stinky.

Believe it or not, there’s something kind of nice about being able to instantaneously grouse and share a bit of angst with a friend. No wonder people refer to these gadgets as crackberries. They really can be pretty addictive.

Anyhow, back to these photos. I took all three last Thursday while a bit east of Sault Ste. Marie. Wednesday hadn’t really been the best of days for me. It had rained, and yes, the van was running badly that day too. I didn’t get away as early as hoped that morning, so ended up driving in the dark and rain through the rolling, winding roads approaching North Bay. Thursday was better. The sun was shining as I left Sturgeon Falls and it remained with me all day. I began to feel comfortable driving alone — with Sabrina — through unfamiliar landscapes. At some point in the day, it occurred to me that I hadn’t been taking any photos and that was a great omission as the autumn leaves were so brilliant. We began stopping for little breaks here and there, especially along rivers.

Several older buildings asked to be noticed and photographed. Sometimes, it was impossible to stop as a couple of long haul transport trucks would be breathing down my neck as an old house or barn suddenly caught my eye. Once in awhile, I was able to get turned around and circle back to shoot a few photos. In the past, when Don drove, he was always so incredibly accommodating about retracing our way a half a mile or more so that I could photograph an old building, or a turtle digging a nest hole in the gravel of the roadside. I was always very appreciative of his terrific patience when it came to my photography pursuits.

The above barn was really quite something. The sheathing boards on one end had been stripped away to expose the wonderful post and beam structure beneath. The boards and tin had been neatly stacked within. I suppose someone is preparing to relocate the building. After shooting a few photos and driving away, I mused about how the exterior of these old buildings can look so weathered and beaten up, and yet continue to be so strong and vital on the inside. At this time, I’m finding that notion has many parallels with recent experiences.

The house below must have been special to someone at one time. The modest and very typical L-shaped farmhouse had been modified with a nice bay window. What happened to the people who lived here? Where did they go, and why?

*Note: I’ve finally got the “comments” working. As you may have noticed, I’ve changed the blog theme. That’s the only way I could get the comments to work, so for now, I’ll leave things as they are. Also, a couple of you have asked how Sabrina takes to traveling. She has always been a trooper when it comes to travel, and even seems to enjoy it. The last couple of months at home were so stressful that it really took its toll on her — and on all of us for that matter — so she actually seems to be relaxing and looking and feeling better the longer we’re on the road. I hope she’ll continue to adapt as we make our way along on this journey.