The Great White North

Marathon Run

May 25, 2012

Hello, all.

I've made it to Marathon, N.Y., and the Three Bear Inn, where I have a slow WiFi connection.

This is a very appropriate place name for this weekend.

I was originally planning to go to Ottawa. U.S. Memorial Day, so go to Canada, right? Wrong. This is the big foot race weekend up there. All the rooms are booked a year in advance. They expect about 40,000 people to show up for a marathon, half marathon, 10K, 5K, etc.

I don't want to go anywhere when 40,000 extra people are going to show up. I'm going to take some scenic routes along the St. Lawrence and Ottawa Rivers, but stay well away from Ottawa.

But the first order of business is to walk across the parking lot now to get something to eat and lots to drink. Driving is over for the day so the beer drinking will commence.

Bless everybody.

Renfrew of the Mounties

May 25-26, 2012

Ontario beckoned and I answered. Arnprior, the place on the Ottawa River where I had hoped to land a room was booked solid. The proprietor of the Quality Inn there made a few calls. The other places in town were full, but he put me in touch with a Best Western about 30 kilometers away.

That’s why I’m writing this from the Renfrew Inn, a Best Western hotel and conference center franchise in Renfrew, Ontario. It’s my kind of place. They have beer. Right now, I’m drinking Mill Street Brewery’s Tankhouse ale. It is bitter and wonderful.

But let me recount chronologically.

Diesel, the guy who was in his cups the last time I was at the Three Bear Inn and who wanted everybody, or at least the old volunteer fireman, to go to the strip club in Syracuse, wasn’t at the bar last night. Neither was the old fireman.

Maybe they were at the strip club in Syracuse.

There was, however, an interesting fellow who was drinking Absolut and orange juice (I guess for the vitamin C) and told me how he sent his mother to Ireland with some friends. The bus driver, the guy said, at first refused to let his mother off the bus in a certain part of Northern Ireland because he said it was dangerous. But her cousins or nephews and nieces were lined up to greet her—so she insisted, got off the bus along with her friends, and they didn’t blow up.  At least, that’s the gist of the story.

He was talking to Gina, the bartender and daughter to the owner of the place, about her boyfriend. I gather she has been dating someone for a short time. I think she said a month and a half.

A couple of times he was saying, ”I apologize for everything I just said.”

I bought him a drink because he is the sort of company I go to bars to meet. 

He ran afoul of Gina, though. One of the customers was a particular friend of hers and was having words with her significant other. The old guy at the bar kept butting in to their argument with silly comments.

I tried to explain to him that when the bartender says, “Watch your fucking mouth or I will fucking throw you out of my bar,” the bartender may be serious.

But he couldn’t stop needling Gina’s pal. She threw him out. I asked her: Is he a regular? She had never seen him before.

No wonder he has to apologize for everything he just said.

The WiFi connection was very slow. When Larry called by Skype from Thailand, we had just enough bandwidth for voice only. When the link breaks down, it is usually because of the service in the lobby of Larry’s hotel in Koh Samui. He found it a pleasant novelty that this time the breakdown was on my end.

I haven’t been to Koh Samui yet. I wonder if it’s a bit like Marathon, but without the stuffed bears.

May 26

I walked past the three stuffed bears to get breakfast this morning and then headed out a little after nine.

About an hour and a half up Interstate 81, I was in new territory. I passed through the Onondaga nation and Syracuse, but I was on the highway and didn’t see the strip club, or Diesel or the fireman.

It’s mountain country, those round old eastern mountains that have aged and become  beautiful and covered with trees—except where the trees have been cut down to make fields. I’m not sure, but they may be the western Adirondacks.

I was doing fine up I-81 and holding as well as I could to my 10-mile-an-hour rule. Sometimes it would get away from me and I found myself doing 80 in a 65 zone, but I backed off and brought the needle under 75.

Traveler’s tip: If you come this way, remember that just before you get to the first of the Thousand Islands Bridges, the speed limit drops to 55. This I learned from the state police officer. I zipped by her doing 77. She followed me to the toll booth, and after I paid my fee, the collector said, “She wants to pull you over.”

As I started to go, the roof lights came on. It was almost balletic in its precision. There was even a convenient place on the side where we could park.

I was embarrassed because I hadn’t been paying proper attention. Had I been alert, I would have been going under 65—less than 10 miles an hour over the limit and the officer probably wouldn’t have bothered to stop me.

The upside is that I got to be an outlaw again. I was even wearing sunglasses and one of my gangster hats.

[Editor’s note: Harry was further thrilled when he learned that he could pay the fine through a service called GovPayNet, which seemed to him a kind of PayPal for malefactors.)

A few minutes after that, I was in Canada. If I hadn’t been planning to return to the States, I might have made a run for the border and escaped a ticket.

I had to take off my sunglasses at the passport check. Last time I crossed into Canada, last July, the border guard ran my passport into a computer and then asked me (calling me by my passport name), ‘Harold, why were you fingerprinted?” Say what?

I told him the truth: I was fingerprinted when I was 16 years old in order to get a special license to work underage in a liquor store in New Jersey. At the time of my interview with the border guard, my most serious offenses were two speeding tickets. (Of course, I claim three now.) So why are my fingerprints still floating around the ether in a government file? And what’s worse, my government gave them to a foreigner.

No questions this time, though, about fingerprints, only the routine stuff about imports and weapons. And I had none of that. Well, a folding knife, but that isn’t a weapon because I usually open letters and cut apples with it.

The first thing to do in Canada is to take a one-hour cruise among a few dozen of the 1,800 Thousand Islands. These are tiny, rocky bits of ground (according to one sign, the remnants of mountains that have worn down) with cabins, bungalows, and mansions on them. They are accessible only by boat.

The big landmark is Boldt castle, built by the owner of the Waldorf-Astoria. It was built as a gift to Boldt’s wife, but I’m not sure she ever went there. 

There is another island nearby that had a summer mansion for Boldt’s daughter. The photo for the day is of a house and island called “Just Room Enough.” 

According to the trip narration on the boat, Boldt built it for his mother-in-law, “who could not swim.” Supposedly he dropped her off in the spring and picked her up in the fall.

There are also two islands very close together that are one property. One is in Canada and the other in the U.S. They are connected by a bridge 10 meters long. According to the narration on the boat, it is the world’s shortest international bridge.

I took a two-lane blacktop highway that followed the St. Lawrence River. It was to take me to Brockville, where I was to make a left onto the highway that would get me to Arnprior.  But the way was blocked by a street fair. Can’t pass that up.

Street fairs are the same everywhere. This one was distinguished by one hell of a blues band, fronted by a woman who did vocals and drums.

The coolest thing was a coincidence. It always is, and that’s why I take road trips.

I saw a group in dark robes at the top of the hill. Is it a high school graduation? I need exercise, so I climb. Closer inspection reveals plumed hats. It’s the Knight of Columbus.

But first there are statues and plaques. The town is named for a Major General Brock. A plaque shows a monument to him that stands in St. Paul’s Cathedral in London. I saw that two weeks ago. I remember it because it shows him stricken with his mortal wound and an Indian is looking on.

He died in 1812 defending Queenstown from an attack by the enemy. I especially remembered it because my ancestors were the enemy on that one.

I went into the Brockville Courthouse, which was right there and had a sign outside saying “doors open.” Turns out, Doors Open is a local project to conduct tours through public buildings—the courthouse, churches, even a local club.

I joined a tour led by a court reporter who works in the building. The old jail from the 19^th century is still used to hold prisoners overnight before their bail hearings. 

The building has been remodeled. One wall of the old jail overlooks the new waiting room where the accused meet counsel. There are barred windows in an old stone wall and the waiting room wall is all clear glass or plastic. One room in the courthouse, known as the Heritage Courtroom, has been carefully restored.

A retired judge who worked there for 25 years does the Heritage Courtroom. He is a very cool guy. We talked about Brock, how thrilled I was to be called the enemy, and he said he was one of the people instrumental in getting the plaque put up that had talked about Brock’s monument in St. Paul’s.

If you look out that courtroom’s windows, you can see the St. Lawrence and the northern shore of the States. A long time ago, this was a nervous place because they were on constant red alert for fear of the U.S. The judge mentioned invasions from both sides of the river.

I hoped to investigate that later.

I had chicken curry and an Alexander Keith India pale ale at the Georgian Dragon in Brockville. A new brand to me, it was mild for an IPA, but flavorful and it might even be good in the bottle.

I know I’m on a trip because I got lost two or three times today and had to backtrack.  At one point, thinking I was on the northbound route, I came back to a highway I had seen before.

I stopped at a convenience store to buy a better map and also ask for advice. I was told to go around the Tim Horton’s and make a left and then a right.

That was extraordinarily appropriate. Tim Horton’s is one of Ontario’s great success stories. It is the Krispy Kreme and Dunkin’ Donuts of Canada. 

There is a Tim Horton’s in Penn Station in New York, and one just about everywhere in Ontario. I went through one town today and there was a Tim Horton’s on the right, another on the left a few hundred yards down the road, and a little while later a convenience store that advertised Tim Horton’s doughnuts for sale.

Right now, I have a Thermos bottle of Tim Horton’s coffee waiting for tomorrow morning and a few doughnuts. It wouldn’t be right at all to pass through Ontario without visiting Tim Horton’s place.

On the way to Arnprior, I found a five-arched stone bridge across the Mississippi River. No, not that one, but another with the same name that runs through Ontario.

According to the sign, it is "the only stone bridge of its kind in North America," but the sign doesn't say why. Could it be the only stone arched bridge. I don't think so. Maybe because it has five arches? Not much of a distinction. If you come this way—up Route 15 above Smiths Falls, you may want to bring a civil engineer to clarify the issue.

There is little access to the shoreline of the Ottawa River on the Ontario side. I traveled the River Road for several miles above Arnprior, and the bank is lined with private homes. Like the National Lakeshore in Michigan. There was one public dock, where a family was fishing and I was able to stand and look.

The river is wide and was a blur in the sunshine. The Quebec bank appears to be much wilder. The forest comes down to the water and there are very few houses in sight. It may have looked almost like that when the Iroquois lived here.

As I said, the Renfrew Inn is my kind of place. It has a restaurant with a bar. When I got there around nine or so, things were winding down. But then the lady behind the bar gave me the news that they were having trouble with the taps. The beer was too warm, she said.

Wait, wait. I was in London two weeks ago helping a lot of pubs stay in business. So I ordered a Molson Canadian and a Rickard’s Red. They were little below room temp and damned near perfect. Good beer tastes better when it is cool, but not refrigerated.

The only problem was that they were coming out of the tap with too much foam. The girl would spoon out some of the head and draw some more beer. A guy came out of the kitchen to warn me about the warm beer, and we had a pleasant conversation about preferences in beer temperatures. The girl had worked hard enough, so I had three-quarters of a pint of each brew. At 12 dollars and change (Canadian) for the pair, they were the most expensive drinks I’ve had since I left New Jersey.

The glasses of Genesee ale draught at the Three Bear, for instance, were a buck each. That means if you drink enough beer, you can cover the cost of the gas you burn in getting there. I may have done that, by the way, but I lost count. I also played Quick Draw, the video lottery, and won 15 dollars on a 12 dollar bet.

All right. The beer is kicking in now, so I’ll wrap this up. I thank Art at the Quality Inn in Arnprior. He is the reason that I am not sleeping on the backseat of the Taurus tonight. I thank the gods who watch over me that I can be privileged to engage in this kind of nonsense. I thank all my friends for their goodwill.

God. I must be drunk.

I can't recall where in Ontario the shoe 

tree was, but it's too funny to leave out.

The Long Trek Home

May 27

Before I set out from Renfrew, I had seen on a map a reference to the Battle of the Windmill. OK, I’ll bite.

I headed for Prescott, Ontario, a ways east of Brockville on the St. Lawrence. Fort Wellington is there. It is a reconstruction of a fort that was built during the War of 1812 to defend the place against U.S. invasion. The fort is full of reenactors in period uniforms.

One was the cook. He offered me a piece of pastry he had made in an iron oven over an open fire. It was delicious. I mentioned my experience talking about mutual invasion with the judge, and he knew the judge, Paul Cosgrove, because his parents were both “law enforcement officers.” They may have been policemen, but he didn’t specify. I was still a malefactor, being careful to drive not too far over the speed limit, so I didn’t ask.

If you’re ever in Prescott, Fort Wellington is worth a visit. Named of course for the Iron Duke (whose effigy I also saw in St. Paul’s), the fort also figured in what the Canadians call the Rebellions. A college professor named MacKenzie led a revolt in the early 1800s against an entrenched cronyism that had taken hold of the Canadian government. I don’t have all the details, but the brief rundowns I was reading suggested that a sort of aristocracy without titles was controlling everything and keeping it in the family.

The rebellion failed, and a lot of the rebels headed south. They found a lot of sympathy in the U.S. and so they and a hundred or so pals from the States invaded Prescott in the expectation that the locals would back them up. But not so.

They wound up stuck in a windmill. There were cannons, reinforcements, gunboats on the river—all the exciting stuff you read about in rebellions and invasions. They held out for several days before they ran out of food, water, and bullets and had to quit. Not a well-thought-out plan, I guess. But then, they were looking for a welcome from the locals.

Anyhow, after a trial in Toronto, the Canadians hanged a few, sent a bunch to Australia, and deported the rest to the United States.

The windmill was later repurposed as a lighthouse. there is a narrow trail with stairs you can follow down to a picnic bench right on the river bank, on the edge of Canada.

Prescott is also home of the former Poke-a-Lot Tattoo Studio (alas, now closed) where “Tattoos are not a business, but an addiction.”

I crossed back into New York near Ogdensburg and made my way back through the Adirondack Park, a large area of the forest that contains highways and towns but is largely protected, I guess.

The woods consist largely of evergreens, possibly some type of fir. It has its share of unusual things. I made a video of the trees, and then crossed the road to find a cluster of butterflies on the ground. 

I don’t know what they were after, perhaps something tasty that was spilled or growing in the grass.

There were also two mismatched lakes. There likely was a dam out of sight, but out of sight made the differing water levels very funny looking indeed.

I was planning to stay somewhere out there, but decided to push through and got home sometime past midnight.

No beer that night.