Pancake Bay to Lake Superior Provincial Park, ON
Traditional territory of the Ojibway and Anishinabek
117 km
Sunny but cool by the evening, 25 ºC
Headed north after a lovely breakfast with André and Andrea into the hills of the Lake Superior coast. The clouds broke up and the sun came out. The warmth felt great on my skin. Met six cyclists.
Today was the supposedly-huge Montreal River Hill. It was a hill, sure, but not really comparable to the other elevations we’ve tackled on this trip. I wouldn’t have thought it was worth having its own name, but who am I to judge. The river itself was interesting, a deep narrow canyon with some sort of power generation happening.
Successfully avoided being eaten by bears.
As the evening shadows were stretching across the highway in Lake Superior Provincial Park, I came up to this guy, Ben, leaning against his truck, smoking. I said good evening and he offered me a drink of water. Not one to pass up hydration, especially after a long sunny day, I gratefully accepted both bottles he and his wife offered me.
Most people I know speak somewhat disparagingly of transport trucks. They’re intimidating for small vehicles and very intimidating for cyclists. To be honest I haven’t really felt too threatened by the trucks, even in this narrow stretch of northern Ontario highway, but there’s still kind of an us-versus-them mentality in my mind. Truckers seem monolithic and anonymous. I know this sounds bad but I when I’m on the road I find myself thinking them less as people and more as just big huge vehicles. If that makes sense.
So here was a chance encounter, a refreshing drink of water, and a pleasant conversation with a real human who, along with his wife, happened to drive a transport truck for a living. All of a sudden there was a face and a person to the big huge vehicle. He talked about his roots in a Mennonite community in Mexico that left Canada to avoid being conscripted in World War II, he talked about truck maintenance (two million kilometres and counting) and the different parts of the country he’d seen. As I departed, he wished me a safe road.
“I’ll try not to run you down,” he joked. Then he got serious. “I always do give you cyclists lots of space. If I can’t, then I slow down. I always do.”
Boy, did he honk goodbye as he drove onwards to Winnipeg. I’ve never waved so gladly.
