Meteorologists try their best, but their job is essentially a guessing game. Normally I would be inclined to reproach, but as we woke up to a dry morning, I celebrated their inaccuracy.
Econolodge had the breakfast advantage - make your own waffles. AND they had Cheerios. Suck on that Microtel.
The crust of clouds ahead broke into blue skies, and we were off. Not a drop of rain the whole day. Soft cumulus and bursts of sun were a welcome change from what we had endured thus far. The border patrol officer could not have been friendlier, canceling out her cohort's shenanigans. I inquired about what the concierge at Econolodge had mentioned to us: "do they really scan your plates for the tolls instead of collect?" "They do, but with your bag setup, they probably won't even be able to get a read. But you didn't hear that from me." Bless you, sweet siren of justice.
Over the border, we caught a quick view of Lake Ontario to our right. Growing up in a small town where Lake Massapoag is classified as such, it is overwhelming to see a body of water extend the entire right side of the horizon and identify it as a lake. I guess that's what makes it great.
After navigating through a bit of traffic (and a missed turn) in the Toronto area, we set off on 400N. This was exactly what we expected for our Canadian cruise - more of the autumnal foliage, with dabbles of purple wildflowers, the light maize shades of dry grass, evergreens, rocky landscapes, rivers and ponds. The air was crisp, and the sun peeked out every so often to graze our face. It was glorious. I could feel myself slipping deeper into my own mind; peeling back the layers of my thought process. I wondered how much my memory would preserve of what I was taking in, and with the inquiry, reminded myself that I was here now, and no recollection could be this living, breathing moment. I thought of how the landscapes might reappear in dreams, emblematic of the great sense of peace and dissolution of self-enclosing boundaries that was so present I couldn't yet fully process it. Or perhaps the scenery would symbolize something unrelated - a struggle to remind myself, amidst preoccupation with inevitable trivialities and monotony that accompany being part of a community, of all that has been long before me, and all that will continue to exist after my life ceases.
There is - maybe not for everyone, but certainly for me - the undeniable aesthetic that Nature bears; one which most intimates the otherwise vacuous philosophical "in-itselves," i.e. "This is good in itself," or "This is enjoyable for its own sake." Nearly all life experiences are gateways, relations, connections to other parts of life and other experiences, and cannot be what they are without everything else being what it is. But Nature is beautiful in itself - its beauty does not demand a description or prior understanding to be beautiful. It just is. Beyond this, Nature as a symbol provokes the age old question of why there is something rather than nothing. We can summon various disciplines that have numerous responses readily available, but none can answer the question. They can describe, theorize, conjecture, extrapolate, but cannot get past what is before our eyes. All of this is. How literally awesome is that? I feel compelled to consult a maple tree about its metaphoricity. "You, sir, are. That is awesome. I see a metaphor in you that mirrors my own existence, and I too, hope my leaves blaze with such brilliance before they fall to the ground. Also, will it rain tomorrow? And when am I going to see a damn moose?"
We stopped at a gas station off the highway to refuel, and a gentleman walked out to greet us. Broken-in hat, broken in flannel, big sunglasses, and a scraggly white beard. I thought to myself, the Canadian prototype - until I realized that I was dressed the same, plus a leather jacket and minus the whiteness in what was now lapping the stubble phase. "Motorcycles, eh? Where ya headed?" He said that when he sees bikes pass, it's usually Harleys. "Meh... too lound," I said playfully. He nodded, and added, "they're like a cult." Bingo. A clarification for non-riders reading this - not all who ride Harleys are cultish and elitist, but nearly all who are cultish and elitist on a motorcycle are seated on a Harley. This is a scientific fact. Ask any meteorologist.
The gentleman commented on how he saw a mid-70s BMW cruise through about a week ago - a father with his 11 year-old son seated in a sidecar. He was clearly enthused by this, and I totally understand why. "Just think most of his buddies are tapping their fingers off on those fuckin' video games, and this kid is touring Ontario in a side car! I told him, 'son, do you know how lucky you are?'" The three of us - Snake, this man, and I, certainly did. He also told us about how "Canada is selling itself every chance it gets. Shipping all the jobs overseas and all that." After over two decades with an electrical company, he was cut unexpectedly, "and not even a thank-you." He moved from south of Toronto up to this area, and seemed to be right at home. "I went all over when I was younger; but I don't think I'll do too much traveling now... the world's a lot different these days." I felt compelled to assure him that this is the lesson of all time - things change, but it's never exclusively for the worse. But who was I? A young fella who had probably not seen half of what he had. He concluded my question of what it was like to live in the area, which had prompted most of the aforementioned, with "If I had it my way, it'd be 9 months of fall, and 3 months of dead winter. Just SMACK! Right into winter." I asked how cold it got in the dead of winter. "Oh, about -40 or so. But that's centigrade. The sun's shining... it's beautiful." We could have stayed there and talked all day, but a car pulled up to the gas station. "Well, I gotta run, that's the wife over there. You fellas take care, and good luck with your trip." I shook his hand, and thanked him for the chat. As he walked away, we overheard his voice trail off saying, "Heya honey - got the car washed, eh?" Therein lied the secret to his adoration of the cold, desolate beauty of the north - he had love to keep him warm.
Our gas station friend cautioned us of two things that later crept up hastily - it's started to get cold at night, and a passer-through reported to him that it already snowed in Calgary. Snow is our Achilles' heel on this trip - we are immobilized by its presence. As we pushed on to make up for lost time yesterday, the sun disappeared for the night behind heavy gray clouds. It became cold quick, and we were in search of a campsite to save money while the rain held up (and because we love camping). But the temperature was dropping fast. Panic started to set in as we cruised down our first leg of the trans-Canadian highway, and saw little to no signs of life other than passing cars, and an occasional billboard demanding a metric conversion for us to realize how far away the advertised destination really was. We pulled off a side road, and after a quick pow-wow, we mutually agreed that a good night's rest was invaluable for us to continue on tomorrow. The campsites our friend noted would be along the road came with the caveat that many of them might be closed for the season. To boot, the forecast for tomorrow was a 40% chance of rain. It would be a motel again, but we were not the least bit contentious. In other circumstances, I would leap at the opportunity to camp in the cold. We certainly had the gear for it. But after 360 miles of riding, and an uncertain forecast for the morning, a roof and a bed were sounding mighty good.
We arrived at the hotel, and checked the forecasts for the surrounding area and potential future destinations. The same spirit that guided us to the motel over risking a campsite was the one that has now altered our trajectory. We have nothing to prove to anyone. Safety is the primary concern, and exhaustion - or, worse, arrogance - can easily cost us. We examined the map thoroughly, and decided to alter our route - tomorrow, we enter back into the US. Less risk of cold (and snow!) than continuing further northwest into Canada, less money (the exchange rate sucks at present), and a more direct route to the promised land: the Pacific Northwest. And to our West Coast destination - San Francisco, and the man, the myth, the legend, Big Mike. He is not the only reason we set out to the left coast, but he is certainly up there. More to come on him. For now, let's see if the meteorologists earn their title tomorrow.
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