The lower 48 is inundated with weather data. As of today 33 out of 39 websites bookmarked on my computer pertain to weather. It is the first screen I wake up to and the last I review before reluctantly going to bed.
There are sites for the jet stream; radar; pressure gradients; convection; visual, water vapor and infrared images from distant satellites; weather buoys in the Great Lakes; marine and land based forecasts. There are more. It is important to keep track of tropical storms and hurricanes, as they will throw a wrench into the regular weather patterns. And it is nice to know what the jet stream is up to as it gyrates across the Pacific Ocean.
This said, when in Canada we were back to looking out the window and tapping the barometer. Not that it mattered much this year. This year, for the most part, we spent in the protected waters of Ontario’s waterways. In its rivers, canals and small inland lakes only occasionally sticking our bow out into the bigger waters we usually spend all summer traversing.
I admit that when we finally snuck out onto Lake Ontario’s northeastern shore we did not have the heart to venture south onto the open lake. Instead Carrie Rose found herself working her way through shallow wetlands seeking refuge in the Rideau Canal.
Waterways are a different realm. We’ve been there before. Late one October many years ago we fool heartedly ventured 50 miles southwest from the Chicago Lock through the magnificent architecture of the Main Branch of the Chicago River, along the South Branch to the Chicago Sanitary and Ship Canal, the Des Plaines River and finally stopping a few miles short from the Illinois River.
We passed through two locks, which dropped us some 70 feet; went from city, to industry, to pastoral landscape and back again. There were shoals, currents, and gargantuan tugboats pushing their tows. There were bridges that needed raising and lock gates that needed opening. It was a slalom course done at 5 mph. We were so preoccupied with piloting the boat that barely a picture exists of the cruise.
But I am not sure why I am focusing on the past. This year we drove—and I mean drove—800 nautical miles through the rock strewn crystal clear waters of Lake Huron’s North Channel and Georgian Bay to get to the cottage and farm lined Trent-Severn Waterway into Lake Ontario and Kingston, ON. Then we took a short sojourn into the Rideau Canal, retraced our steps back out and cruised north into the Thousand Island region of the St. Lawrence River ending up in a shed at Alexandria Bay, NY.
As the waters changed so did the personalities. We went from the congeniality of the Midwest, to the magnanimous Canadians, to the feistiness of the Québécois, to the not unpleasant but abrupt folk of upstate New York. And all along the way people were drawn to us because of Carrie Rose’s irresistible charm and the cred that being from Chicago bestowed on us.
When our response to the inevitable question of where we are from sunk in, universally they said, “In that!” And to that we’d nod and smile, and slowly retreat into our wood lined sanctuary.
For a sanctuary, albeit a small one, it is. A refuge from the daily grind, from the wider worlds of culture and politics, from good things and bad into a life with the simple purpose to move on, to stay afloat, to keep off the rocks and to manage to anchor or dock without embarrassing ourselves . . . and in the end, for a job well done, collect a reward measured in scoops of ice cream enjoyed out in the mix of sun and cloud.
Happy Holidays!
Charlotte & Dean
