Hawkesbury, Ontario

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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