By Lucy

[I forgot three things from my last post. The first is that Westjet had a surprise strike the day I had been thinking of flying back, cancelling almost all their flights overnight, so it’s a good thing I drove back. The second is that the LCBO started a strike on the fifth (The LCBO being the usual place to buy liquor in the province of Ontario, as liquor sales are very restricted).

The last thing was that when it was decided we’d be vacationing at a cabin on a lake, the Vagabond unexpectedly came home with a pair of water socks for me, and in my size! What a sweetheart!]

Lake of the Woods. What a silly name. Almost every lake in northern Ontario is in the woods! I like the Ojibwe name better: Pikwedina Sagainan, or “Inland Lake of the Sandhills”.

Lake of the Woods is a large lake in the middle of the untamed wilderness that is northern Ontario. Since it’s close to Winnipeg, the landscape is a bit flatter than the wild roller coaster east of Thunder Bay, but still not Prairie flat. The lake is dotted with so many little islands and coves that it’s less one giant lake, and more many little ones stitched together. It’s a prime fishing spot for Americans, mostly Muskie, Bass and Walleye.

We left late. The Vagabond was constantly adjusting what he had packed and where on the bike. Partially because the bike should be as balanced as possible – too much weight in one of the saddle bags, or an off-centred load in the tour-pak, would make it harder to ride. Partially because he was still annoyed I had brought less than him (teehee). I put the liner back in my jacket and washed the dishes while he fretted over whether to wear chaps or not. Apparently they’d be too heavy in the packs if it was too warm to wear them.

Gassed up in town, but we stopped in Shabaqua again. He wanted to check if the outposts still had liquor despite the strike, and they did.

Shortly outside of town, we encountered clouds. They cleared for the most part, but it was still nippy on the bike with the 100-click winds. When we had stopped in Shabaqua, I threw my hoodie on under the jacket. He lamented not wearing his chaps. It rained for maybe five minutes at one point and was otherwise mostly sunny.

We stopped again near Quetico for gas. There’s a Seine river nearby, for some curious reason.

The next push was the longest and most painful experience I’ve had on a bike. We drove straight to Fort Frances, only 200 clicks – not a long distance in a car. But on the bike, you have limited options for adjusting your position. The back of my thighs started to hurt and my calves started cramping.

Fort Frances is gorgeous coming in from the east! For whatever reason, they decided to cross Rainy Lake (another winning name) with a multitude of causeways. It give the impression that you’re flying over the water on the bike!

We stopped at Tim Hortons in town. I hadn’t realized Fort Frances was one half of a town split by the border, the American side being International Falls.

I expected us to sightsee a bit, or maybe gas up, but after we ate he wanted to keep going. We stopped in Emo instead (Emo?!).

At the gas station in Emo, a red-headed girl in her late teens/ early twenties ran out at the sound of the bike. As he turned the bike off and I climbed off, she threw her hands on her hips and declared “I suppose you want to fill it up yourself?”

He nodded and she went back inside.

“Well, she grew up.” He said.

I tilted my head quizzically.

“I used to come thru here a lot, when we were building the mine. Newgold.”

I didn’t know Newgold was here, or that he had worked at it. Tyler is always at Newgold, I wonder if he’d be interested in coming over to hang out. “How long ago was that?”

“2017, 2018. Back and forth, back and forth, constantly.”

That was starting to click, why he wanted to come here. It wasn’t just to get a cabin out on the woods, there was some sense of nostalgia.

“Think she recognizes you?”

“Not like this.” He gestured to his helmet.

Who knows, he’s pretty distinctive. He handed me his card and I went inside to pay. I debated asking her if she knows him, but I didn’t and she says nothing about it. She seemed to have a knowing smile, to me.

The highway north to Nestor Falls is pretty flat, straight and boring. I knew his energy was flagging at this point, so that was probably for the best.

The highway through Nestor Falls was dotted with places offering cabins. We found ours and pulled in. A man was standing out front.

“You the guys from Thunder Bay?” He hailed us.

“Yup!” I hopped off the bike and took my helmet off.

“Can I ride the bike up to the cabin?” The Vagabond asked.

“Up to you if you want to try and make it up the gravel drive. I’ll walk you over and then you can decide.” He had a sharp glint in his eyes I didn’t like. I suspect he thought we were romantic, but something illicit, like having an affair.

The “resort” was little more than a dirt road with a collection of cabins, wedged between the highway and the lake. That’s all we need, though. Our cabin was at the back, closest to the lake. Harder to get to with the bike, but more private.

As we stopped by the cabin, the owner mentioned he has motorboats for rent. The Vagabond says he’s pretty sure his license has lapsed, and the owner says that doesn’t matter because you’re renting off his license.

Once he walks away, I asked, “You had a boating license? Why?”

He shrugged, “Why not?”

“I dunno, it’s just hard to get a read on you some days. You have so many different sides.”

He chuckles, smiling his wide, crooked grin. “The ones who got one thing, good for them! I’m glad I got a variety pack!”

Me too!

We walked the bike up the gravel drive, not that close to the cabin. It was designed for trucks, not motorcycles.

The cabin is small and quaint. The deck wraps around the front, with the porch and the windows facing the lake. The main room had a small kitchenette, a couch, a cot, and a table with three chairs. There is a TV over the sink. The bedroom is little more than a closet, just large enough to wedge a queen-sized bed in to. The bathroom is a closet as well. The fridge and the hot water tank needed to be turned on with the fuse panel.

The owner told us he had 3 contractors cancel on him at the last minute, so the cabin was ours for the week if we wanted. Lucky us!

As we walked in, we stopped to admire the lake. A hummingbird flew right up to my face and stopped for a moment, hovering.

Wow! Hummingbirds… an oracle for love, no?

After we unpacked the bike, the Vagabond sat on the porch, and I wandered around. There was a dirt path down to the dock. There was a small fire pit, and by the water a shack for cleaning fish in. There was a bunch of motorboats, kayaks and little paddle boats at the dock.

Once he’d settled in a bit, we got back on the bike and went a couple of clicks up the road to the only grocery store. Pickings were slim, but then there is only like 500 year-round residents. I grabbed a box of crackers to satisfy the cramps if they struck, and some instant oatmeal for the morning. He grabbed his usual apples for breakfast, and we grabbed a case of water. I hate buying water, but there was a sign in the cabin that said “the water has been treated but not tested”. We decided not to try it.

After groceries were away, we walked down the road to Green’s restaurant. He says he used to go here all the time when he was working at Newgold. We held hands until we were within sight of the restaurant, then he didn’t want to risk someone saying something.

The door is by the side with the bar. As we walked in, a woman got up from her stool. Quite intoxicated, she stumbled backwards and the Vagabond caught her. She twisted around as she regained her feet to see who’s arms she was in.

“Oh! You’re handsome!” She chirped.

I giggled as the woman blushed and stumbled her way out of the bar for a smoke.

They have a new waitress who was very flustered and forgetful. The short-order cook eventually came out to ask what we wanted because she had gotten confused. I had a Kentucky Bluegrass, which was good if a tad sweet, and we shared the fried Walleye, which came with two pieces. It was very good – I’m unsure if I’ve had Walleye before.

The sign “Remember why you started” hit me like a ton of bricks. How often do we get lost in simply carrying out the motions of life, and lose sight of the goals we had when we started?

When we went up to the bar to pay, the clerk asked, “Oh, are you the couple staying at the couples cabin?”

He stopped to hit the can on the way out of the bar. I stepped out and a woman was outside, having a smoke and giggling.

“That bumper sticker over there is hilarious, eh?” She pointed. It said “I love dogs, I tolerate people“

I smiled and nodded, I’m not much of an animal lover, but people can be annoying. We stood outside chatting for a moment, and the Vagabond joined us when he got out.

After we started walking back to the cabin, he said “so, we look like a couple.”

“Yeah, and no one’s mad at you about it.”

He nodded slowly. “I wonder how they can tell?”

“The glow of love on your face.” I said, somewhat sarcastically, somewhat truthfully. It’s not like he gazes at me with puppy dog eyes, but there’s something about him that you can just tell. Like last year, when I was pretty sure he was into me even though he wasn’t flirting.

After we got back to the cabin, I decided to try one of the pot gummies. I don’t like trying random pot edibles – my tolerance is really wonky and I get couchlock easily, but since he hadn’t let me bring mine, why not. It hit me quickly. He wanted to go out to watch the sunset on the dock, but I didn’t relish the idea of trying to stagger back to the cabin and went to bed instead.

I woke up in the middle of the night – he was on the couch with a tumbler of whisky, clearly in a dark mood.

Oh, shit! July 8th. Right. Stupid gummy. I still couldn’t think straight.

I sat up with him, head swimming, until he could be convinced to come to bed. I woke up at 8 AM as he was leaving the cabin in his swim trunks. I waited for him to leave, then checked the level on the bottle of whisky – he was definitely still intoxicated. I couldn’t imagine he slept well. I made myself my tea and a bowl of oatmeal, but I couldn’t make myself eat. What kind of mood would he be in when he came back?

There were a couple of giant, fluffy storks fishing on the lake. It’s always amazing to see such large birds land on and take off from the water. They just seem too big to fly!

When he came back in, he sat at the table and looked at my untouched bowl of oatmeal. “I’m sorry about last night.”

I nodded, still looking out the window. I truly believe he’s sorry. I also think that once is a whoopsie, twice is becoming a pattern.

“I love you.”

That made my head whip around. He hasn’t offered many of those recently.

“Yesterday was rough for me. And the whisky found me in a bad mood…”

Sure. And there’s layers to everything. He’s been going for a while, depending on how strongly you believe his assertion that the two months in Italy were not restful. December, January, in Italy, then in Dryden from February til three weeks ago, then right to Geraldton for two weeks. Not a week off for 7 months.

“You need to take a break. You’re running yourself ragged.” I pointed out.

He closed his eyes and nodded. “I’d like to go cuddle for a bit, then we can go out someplace for lunch? Does that sound good to you?” He asked me.

Sure. So we laid in bed for a couple of hours, eventually dozing off. Then we threw on clothes and went out. I put on a shirt that had been a dress until I’d finished puberty. All the inches around my hips (not that I’m complaining) translated to lost inches vertically, but it was still a cute top. It could be a dress around the cabin, not like anyone could see in, but on the bike I need jeans anyway.

We drove up to Sioux Narrows and around a bit before settling for lunch at the Lazy Loon. We both had burgers – they were alright, but they were clearly from the freezer and not homemade. I wish I’d tried the “Smashburger”. The frozen lemonade was good.

There is a mini putt course next to the place and I pestered the Vagabond to play with me. There’s no good mini-putt places in Thunder Bay! But also, there isn’t much out here to do, beyond go back to the cabin and laze around. They didn’t even have a tiny museum like Dryden does.

I lost – I blame the midday sun beating down on us! I’m pretty good at mini-putt, but I have a tendency to hit the ball too hard. The Vagabond is pretty good too, has to have an eye for distances and angles as a carpenter, and a better tolerance for full sun! It was pretty fun to watch him take the game seriously despite the fact he was obviously doing it just for me.

They have a “Veteran’s Memorial” across the way, which was just a park with a tank and some plaques in the middle, but it’s better than nothing. I wish the plaque was in better shape, its only been ten years since it was 2014!

The grocery store in Sioux Narrows was better stocked. We grabbed steaks and bell peppers for dinner, then went back to the cabin.

We lounged around the dock until dinner time. I appreciated the water socks for walking down to the dock, although I can’t swim with them on. I went swimming a few times – the water was cold once you jumped in, but warmed quickly. The Vagabond wasn’t much for swimming, although he jumped in a few times. No one’s ever taught him to swim, so he was surprised at my perfect dives and practicing the different strokes. I am very out of practice and tired quickly. I was also nervous, there wasn’t any flagging to indicate to passing boats that there was swimming in the area.

At one point I curled up on his lap, such a simple treat usually denied to me. It is slightly tiring to be constantly on the look-out for people judging us. Being here was allowing him to relax – even if someone was unhappy with us, we’d be gone in a day – but we had rarely seen the other guests. At most, we watched as they piled into a boat to head out onto the lake.

The owner came by to hop into a boat and take the fish guts somewhere on the lake to dump them. The Vagabond asked him if we could stay another night and he agreed.

Our original loose plan was to putter around, staying at a different location every night. That had already been changed by booking two nights here, but I could see the exhaustion in his face as he reclined by the lake. Even I had struggled with the insane work schedule we have and I’m half his age! He had some sort of idea of staying at Ears Falls on Thursday, but I was starting to think it wasn’t going to happen, which wouldn’t be a bad thing. What he needed to do was sleep in, not cook, and relax. I was just happy to be taken on a vacation and not have to worry about anything.

The storks came back again. They seem to be daily guests, in the early morning and late afternoon.

Dinner was good. He cooked the steaks and peppers on the BBQ, seasoned with just salt, pepper, and fresh lemon juice. One thing I love about his cooking is how he buys quality ingredients, keeps it simple and uses the natural flavours of the food, instead of buying something cheap and loading it with salt, sugar or sauce.

We sat inside with a bottle of wine because the mosquitoes were out in force. I decided to try and find some board game app on my laptop (with the touchscreen) and he commented how the view from the window looked like a painting.

“Yeah, like a Group of Seven painting.” I said.

“What’s that?” He asked.

Dude, how do you not know what the Group of Seven is? Especially because all along the highway from Thunder Bay to Sault Ste Marie are signs saying “Group of Seven” touring route! It’s not even the stereotypical masculine disinterest in art – he’s very artistic and cultured. The back room is littered with canvases and painting supplies. So I pulled up some of their famous works and explained a bit about them, and we sat there talking about art for a couple of hours.

He gave me this dew-eyed look. “You’re really cool, you know that?”, he said, placing his hands over mine so I had to look into his eyes when he said it. “I’m glad I met you.” It’s kind of silly, but it felt like he had placed his hand around my heart and squeezed. I shivered, trying to process the emotion.

We slept in ’til noon the next day. He couldn’t make up his mind what he wanted to do, so I declared that I was going to Green’s for brunch. He grumbled but agreed to come along (I would have gone without him anyway, cuz I was hungry). I got the Honey Chicken Sandwich, which I didn’t take a picture of because it was just a chicken sandwich. The real star of the show was the honey sauce, which was lick-the-plate-clean good!

We walked across the road to the other little store in Nestor Falls, but they weren’t much for groceries. The woman whom I had talked to the other night at the bar was there; working, perhaps? She didn’t recognize me, and when I suggested she had had a few drinks, the cashier exclaimed, “Her? Drunk? Never!” sarcastically.

Later on, we went up the road to grab some more groceries. He decided on pork chops, black forest ham for some reason, and zucchini. They had beer and wine but no coolers at the store, and I didn’t feel like grabbing another bottle of whisky – at this point, anything we didn’t finish tonight would either have to be thrown out or packed up. As we exited the store and started packing everything back in the bike, he nudged me.

“Look, there’s your friend.” The woman from the other night, going in the store. She didn’t notice us, however, and I decided against chasing her down.

We frolicked in the lake for the afternoon, before cooking dinner on the BBQ again. He ended up making something like rouladen.

Last night in paradise.

In the morning, we sorted out the bill, packed up the bike, and headed out.

We passed a heron, standing so still in the some cattails it looked like it was made of plastic.

I saw four deer in total, a couple eating grass in the ditch next to the road. A couple running away from the road, prancing through the fields.

Every other electrical pole had a large nest from some bird of prey on it, and hawks and eagles swooped overhead with regularity!

He was a little cranky. Work had told him they wanted him back a day early, which had messed up his planned schedule. He had a massage appointment for Monday, which he was now debating if he could move to tomorrow after we got back. He developed some sort of loose plan to stop in English River for the night, instead of going up to Ear Falls. We stopped in Sioux Narrows for gas and someone’s car had stalled in front of the pump, so he just wriggled the bike up between the car and the pump and filled up anyway.

At one point, a mama duck and a bunch of baby ducks crossed the highway in front of us. He stopped a good distance from them, but then honked the horn at them anyway!

Between Dryden and Kenora we saw a Cybertruck going the other way. I’ve never seen one in real life! I wonder where it came from. Still, proof if proof be needed that electric cars are viable, even here.

The fields of wildflowers were absolutely gorgeous, especially now that I was a passenger and could appreciate them without focusing on driving.

At one point, I noticed something odd in the distance. It looks like a forest of bare trees. That didn’t make any sense… could it be the remnant of a forest fire? I’d never noticed it before.

We went up over the top towards Dryden. He stopped in Vermillion Bay and debated getting a bite to eat there, but couldn’t find the place he was looking for. We had stopped at a park, and a guy who had stopped to stretch his legs started chatting to me about the bike! I’ve noticed something about the motorcycle makes people more gregarious – perhaps the idea that I’m some sort of uninhibited wild child, unchained from society’s rules.

The sun was unrelenting. Aside from the cloudy patch and burst of rain on the way out, it had been sunny for 3 days straight and the heat was starting to wear.

There was road construction in Dryden that hadn’t been there when I had come through ten days previously. It was nearly unnavigable to a bike; a three or four inch rise in the asphalt, off gravel, would make you slam on the breaks in a car, but with a motorcycle, what do you do? If you hit it at speed you’d probably flip the bike, and if you go slow you probably won’t be able to mount it.

The Vagabond took a third option – go on the sidewalk, which was level with the gravel road.

We were only on the sidewalk for a second- just long enough to get past the lip in the asphalt – and the sidewalk was deserted, but it was long enough for a cop to round a corner, see us, and hit his siren.

Woops.

The Vagabond pulled over at our destination – a chip stand by the side of the road – took off his helmet, and sheepishly waited for the cop to come over and scold him. I was pretty sure I should be silent, but I popped off my helmet and stood nearby. I think the cop decided that the Vagabond was my grandfather and he wouldn’t do anything really risky with a young woman on the back, so after he explained himself the cop just told him to be more careful in the future and left.

The chip shop was lovely. I was feeling good, dancing with the music. They had a special for jumbo cheese Smokies with sauerkraut, which I could have had three of, it was so yummy!

Being back in Dryden always feels important to me, especially since the Vagabond was here with me. In the shadow of the mill, smelling the overboiled cabbage smell of the digester. It doesn’t hold any significance for him, not that he’ll admit to, at least. Just another shutdown; same mill, same hotel, as it had been for years.

If I hadn’t been here last year, on his crew, I wouldn’t be in this spot today, guaranteed. I would still be in Barrie, fighting for scraps, barely scraping by and certainly not traveling like I have been. I wouldn’t have had the gumption. It’s hard to explain why, it’s not like he was pushing me to move or travel more. But he had an influence on me nonetheless.

He set me free.

We stopped again in Ignace to fill up. Every time we stopped, he asked if I was sure I wanted to stay in English River for the night, and I figured out that he was wanting me to say no so we could go home. So I told him so. He grumbled and complained, but took off like a bat outta hell when we left again.

We got back to Thunder Bay around 8PM. We’d been gone 4 days and covered roughly a thousand kilometers.

It feels more relaxing, in some ways, being at his place instead of mine. My place is temporary, only there as long as I pay the rent. Who knows if I’ll be able to come back next year after I relinquish the room to go to New Zealand for the winter? But his place is always here, and him with it. He wouldn’t let me go hungry – no more trips to the soup kitchen for me. And if I was evicted, I could come here to stay, at least for a bit. The kind of security I didn’t have before, even in Barrie. I’ve known, even before I fled my parent’s place at 19, that the only person I could rely on was me. Until now.

Sometimes home isn’t a place. Sometimes it’s a person.