The View Across The Hood Of a Peterbilt

It has been a bit since the spaciousness required to write in this place has been accessible. Family and farm and the seasons of life have taken priority, and sometimes life requires the focus of putting one foot in front of the other. Now however, as both the literal and the metaphorical seasons shift, I hope to have the time needed to craft here again.

As I work at finding the writer’s version of sea legs, I want to tell about an unexpected gift that came our way in the late summer.

Northwestern Ontario experienced drought this summer and farmers were running out of feed for their livestock. Through a government initiative, hay was going to be trucked from Southern Ontario to that area, but they needed trucks and truckers to run it out. With the lull in the farming seasons and others to care for the work here at home, my farmer hubby’s hand flew up. I happily climbed into the passenger’s seat for the long haul.

Both of us are smitten with the northern landscapes. For me, having grown up in Savant Lake, the rugged beauty of the lakes, rocks, and bush imprinted onto my soul. Travelling by transport truck through the Canadian Shield was yet another way to see it from a slightly different vantage point. Gentle mists hovering over the black waters in the first light of day like a breath on a cool morning… Striated rock faces sheered back to shoulder the road, some with inukshuks balancing on their summits… The glory of Lake Superior basined in place by massive, dark stone cliffs… Tiny islands with their smattering of jack pines silhouetted against the twilight skies… And the trees – so many trees – a collage of green hues with hints of the show come Autumn. When we go on road trips, Fred is pretty accommodating of his wife’s photographic needs, pulling off so she can get a good image. I knew pulling a semi to quick halt beside the road for a picture was both out-of-the-question and foolhardy, so I contented myself with quick snaps through the windshield. The red hood of the Peterbilt became a fixture in these shots.

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We saw bears, moose, and bald eagles. The one night we pulled in at donut shop parking lot along with dozens of other trucks and walked across the 17 to a restaurant for supper. As we sat at the picnic table eating our meal, I looked across at our truck in time to see a plump black bear trundling by it. I was so glad that I had devised an indoor plumbing system for my through-the-night bathroom needs! Later, when we were back in the truck, the bear lumbered by again scaring a strolling trucker nearly witless.

On the one trip, the weather was so warm we had to run the truck during the night for the air conditioning to keep us cool. Another trip, the temperatures was so cool that we needed the truck running to stay warm. After the first trip, when we had trouble finding places to stop easily for food and also tiring of the limited options, we purchased a little plug-in cooler and packed vitals for the road. Egg salad and tuna sandwiches, fruits and veggies, and KitKat treats served us well. Truck stops had the feel of a modern-day oasis – rigs pulling in, fueling up both trucks and truckers, replenishing supplies, and resting for the night. Using the hot water from the coffee bars, I would make us our morning tea into our travel mugs using tea bags and milk that we brought from home. Most of the truck stops were equipped with showers. While that took a bit of mind over matter for me, the pleasure of feeling freshened up certainly won out!

We did the trek four times in the weeks of late August and early September, each trip taking four days. Our first run took us to the Rainy River area. As we headed west beyond Thunder Bay and passed through the likes of Emo, Barwick, and Mine Center, childhood memories came flooding back to me. Mom and Dad would visit friends in this area, everyone sharing the common bond of having relocated from the Waterloo County area. I remember gathering around a long table in one home bravely eating the porridge with raisins that was served. In another home, we were also served porridge, and I smothered it in brown sugar. The dutiful children of the home informed me that I could get diabetes from so much sugar, and I have not forgotten that to this day.

The next three runs took us to a sheep farm just west of Dryden. As we drove through Ignace and past the sign for the 599 that said “Savant Lake 128 km”, there was still a remnant of me that felt I was coming home. The young farmer who was our contact for the hay delivery unloaded us, explaining how farmers in the area were allotted a certain number of bales per load. It was a merely a bandaid solution, but sometimes you need a bandaid to buy you time.

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One of the greatest gifts of these trips was being able to reconnect with an old school friend from Savant Lake. She and her husband, their granddaughter, and my friend’s mother met us in Dryden and we talked and reminisced, laughing and teasing over pizza and tea. We also touched on the hard topics of residential schools and the life that was inflicted on indigenous children and their families in the name of assimilation and to “kill the Indian in the child”. Revisiting and rekindling our friendship, a friendship that began between two girls who happened to be from different cultures, was truly a rich and rewarding time. On the next trip, she texted me to see if we were in the area and we met up again for tea and dessert. Our visits left me with an emotion that was akin to unadulterated joy. We had the pleasure of having them visit and stay with us at the stone house farm later in the Fall; I had the delight of knitting two of my worlds together.

We took an extra day on the trip where we met up with friends, and wheeled all eighteen wheels of our tractor trailer through Souix Lookout and on to Savant Lake. I chatted with the owner of the Four Winds Motel and she immediately placed me with “Wayne Martin” when I told her my name. My beloved childhood village, where I lived a vibrant and lively ten years of my life, was now mostly deserted as most of my friends have moved to the Saugheen community 15 miles north of the town. However, I felt a real tenderness towards it as we wandered through and had this feeling of looking in on my child self. So much has changed or been abandoned, but there were still place-markers for me that were like touch stones to that time.

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We capped off this extra day with a visit and a meal shared with our nephews and their families in Thunder Bay. There was more story telling and animated conversation as we gathered around another long table relishing fare from their little homestead and enjoying the connection and interaction with them. We felt that shift of generations and ageing with being the elders in the circle.

I speak glibly of the hood of the Peterbilt. But, truth be told, when Fred’s uncle asked me if I’m getting my license to drive it, I quipped back that we were in the Kenworth truck. He looked puzzled, and Fred navigated the correction without embarrassing me to say that we were in fact in a Peterbilt, surrounded by little Peterbilt insignias inside the cab and out. I stood corrected. As a person who likes details, I had missed a significant one. Further confession – in my head I had to make sure that I say Kenworth and not Kenmore. Kenmore was the brand of the sewing machine that my parents bought for me on my twentieth birthday. My trucking knowledge was enhanced through our working vacation, but I’ll be riding shotgun for a while yet.