Hawkesbury, Ontario. I love this old
place. It’s on the Ottawa River, about halfway between Ottawa and
Montreal. It’s about 80% native French speaking, but bilingual. It
has the feel of there being lots of history back of it. Ontario has
so many of these places like Hawkesbury where I would love to spend a
long time. Mattawa is another. Cornwall, Summerstown. Ottawa. Oshawa.
North Bay. Blind River. White River. Thunder Bay. Toronto. “Say the
names, say the names,” said Ontario’s poet, “The Voice of the
Land,” Al Purdy.
I get into Hawkesbury early on an
overcast day in December, to pick up a giant paper roller on my
flatbed and bring it back to a mill in New Hampshire for the next
day. It's late afternoon by the time I am loaded and ready to go,
but by that time the snow, “announced by all the trumpets of the
sky,” is starting to fall. Small, drifting flakes at first, then
slightly bigger ones, swirling down everywhere. I can see that this is going to be a real snowstorm and a difficult drive home, so I
decide to stay right here in Hawkesbury for a few hour's sleep.
I pull into the parking lot of a nearby
convenience store and go inside to ask for permission to park there
for a couple hours. A young, decent bright, Canadian
girl says “No Problem. Pas de problème.” She asks about my truck having a sleeper and I tell her that I
just have a simple bed and table in there, but there are some big
trucks that have all the comforts of a home: queen-size bed,
refrigerator, satellite TV, shower, toilet, the works. I buy a
sandwich and a fruit juice, and walk outside into the fast-falling
snow, feeling the decency, kindness and humanity which I've just
experienced.
It's dark by now and the lights of the
parking lot show the snow really coming down. I climb into the
sleeper, cover myself with a comforter, say my prayers, say my
favorite names, and immediately fall asleep.
Four hours
later I wake, get a coffee from the store, and get started down the
road to the 417, the TransCanada Highway. The snow is about six to
eight inches deep by now. Woods, fields, old wooden fences, a few
houses give me bearings. I get down to the 417 and
start toward Sainte-Anne-de-Bellevue and Montreal. Here there are no
fences, just wide open spaces with the wind blowing everywhere. I can
barely see. There are no car tracks to follow, no plows, and the wind
is blowing straight across the road and back again. “Where IS that
road?” comes out of my throat a couple times. I think of William
Henry Drummond's poem about the wreck of the Julie Plante on
Lac-Saint-Pierre: “De win' she blow from nor' -eas' -wes',- De
sout' win' she blow too,” That was right here in this part of the
world, just down river a little way. “ “For de win' she blow lak hurricane.”
I reach Rigaud. There's a travel centre
there with a Tim Horton's, lights on, open. I pull into the parking
lot where there is now a team of four monster snow-fighting trucks.
These are real plow trucks with big blades on front and sides,
chains, magnificent machines, four of them sitting there idling while
their drivers are inside the Timmy's having coffee. I know they know.
One of them definitely looks sheepish. But I'm sure they all know the
criticism: “Here I am out driving in the storm, risking my life,
not even able to find the road, and you guys are sitting in Timmy's
having coffee.” I heard it once expressed sarcastically over the CB
by a driver who said “I ought to get a job plowing, that way I'd
never have to go out on the road while it's snowing.”
I drive on to Montreal where the roads
are plowed and lighted. I get over the bridges and out the other side
to the eastern townships. Here the highway is plowed but with a
well-packed-down surface just underneath the powder. I'm talking it
real easy but these French-Canadian guys are just flying by me on
their way up to Quebec City and Rivière du Loup, leaving great swirls
of snow behind them as they disappear into the darkness in front of
me. Magog takes forever, but I get there and turn south toward
Stanstead and the border. The snow isn't letting up so I decide to
stop for the rest of the night at Stanstead, where I know there is a
truckstop. I'm just too tired to go further. The White Mountains, all
that. The paper mill will just have to wait for their roller. No
more. We all have limits.
The last thing I see before climbing
into my bunk at Standstead are two old French Canadian guys at the
pumps, fueling up their snowmobiles, fully dressed for the adventure
with parkas, helmets, goggles, the whole bit, full of fun and
adventure, having just the greatest time out there in the storm in
the middle of the night.
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