by Jeff Mills
“Nothing is more important than this day”
~Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Years ago, I made the conscious decision to embrace winter. Canadian winter, outside and in. Even built an energy efficient home heated by wood so it would be warm and cozy like a cottage. A kettle always on hand at the wood stove heating water for coffee or tea. Danish hygge I suppose. I woke up this morning and made a large pot of Polish inspired cabbage roll soup. “Stick to you” hearty soup. A winter’s soup. Heat the pot to a rolling boil. Remove the pot and wrap it in my ratty old down ski jacket to simmer on its own for a few hours. I never wear this jacket; I only keep it for this purpose. It’s blue, has tears where it leaks down feathers, some cuts are covered with tape and inside are stains, evidence of previous batches of chili, stews, baked beans, or soup.
Around the corner at Bennie’s Corners is a MNR property, a couple hundred acres I think, with fat bike trails groomed by a couple dedicated volunteers who chug through the forest on a Russian built Snow Dog snow groomer. Sold mostly to trappers, the Snow Dog is reminiscent of some of the earliest snowmobiles. A scale train engine of sorts. A track on the front with a motor pulling a small sleigh behind with a seat for the operator. Depending on the kind of snow (wiki tells me the Inuit have as many as 53 different words for snow as they know best that there is snow and there is snow). The snow of late I describe as light, like corn starch. No idea which of the 53 Inuit words best describes this type. I just know it’s taking its time to pack tightly under the weight of the groomer and its driver. We fat bikers “air down” (remove air from our 4 “ wide tires) so as to not cut into the snow as we ride the groomed trails but to hopefully ride on top of the snow. We watch the ambient temperature and the air pressure in our tires. Today’s ride as always was a joyous affair albeit a tougher ride than most thanks to the soft conditions. Like surfers seeking high waves, fat bikers live for those perfect conditions when the trail is smooth and hard, a 20” wide white sidewalk twisting and turning up and over the hills of this preserved, cherished, public space. I am blessed to have these trails in this beautiful wood lot a short three kilometres from my house, with Volunteers passionate about grooming the trail for the pleasure of the riders. I keep my bike resting in my car at the ready.
That was my Saturday morning.
Saturday afternoons if I’m anywhere near a radio always includes CKCU’s “Reggae in the Fields.” Canada’s longest running Reggae show, boasts its host. It’s been a staple of my listening pleasure for the better part of 50 years and today helps make Queensway traffic almost bearable. Saturday rush hour that could rival any workday. Bumper to bumper!
We have a special place to park whenever we skate on the canal. Residential side street a short walk down to a few benches and a cupboard of cubby holes for swapped out boots.
Although I’m not much of a skater I’ve always aspired. As a kid I was a poor hockey player. I blame poor skates with little ankle support. A few years back Malcolm Gladwell offered me another excuse. I’m a mid-December baby who had dudes a full foot taller and the better part of a year older than me with good skates carving circles around me as I did my best to stay upright. My dad on the other hand, a prairie boy and good hockey player loved to skate. He told stories of flooding the woodshed/barn to have an indoor rink. During the war while stationed in Lunenburg NS he would take his speed skates to the harbour, “we all did” he’d say, “and we’d skate out to the sea!” As a young dad he was a kid’s hockey coach. If he was disappointed with my lack of skill he didn’t show it. After a particularly poor showing in a game when I was eight years of age, he asked me if I had enjoyed the game. He gave me an out and I took it. Not an easy decision to quit our national pastime for a young Canadian boy during the age of Mahovlich, Armstrong, Bower, and Keon. So that was it for me, skates and ice. At least until I became an adult. I always felt I missed out. Not hockey per se but skating.
I bought a few pairs of used hockey skates at sales in those days, but none fit comfortably, and skating was both painful and a chore. No joy here. Then came Nordic blades. Blades with a platform to accept cross country ski bindings. I had cross-country ski boots that fit comfortably that kept my feet warm, so I bought some blades. They are more than 20” long and go like stink! At least after I warm up those muscles and joints I swear you use for no other purpose than skating.
Skating on the rideau canal this Saturday was magic. I couldn’t get enough. Joni Mitchell’s “wish I had a river to skate away on,” an earbud in my head, gliding with little effort, taking it all in. Thankful for the NCC who easily could have packed it in after last year’s non-winter with only a few days of skateable ice. All that bother for what? Well they are outdoing themselves this real winter. Today, I want to skate and skate for fear the weather will change, warm up and who knows what’s in store next winter.
I wonder who the brave creative soul was who first strapped some knife blades to the bottom of their boots. I’m sure they were Dutch. “I’ve got this idea” they must have said “if we can attach metal blades to the bottom of our wooden shoes, surely we can travel more quickly down the canals and with less effort!” “I know it sounds crazy but let’s try it!” “It’ll be a blast!” Without this modest beginning there would have been no Gordie Howe, Rocket Richard, Gretzky, no Torvill and Dean.
(from the Parks Canada website)
The Need for a safe route to Upper Canada
“The American Revolution created a hostile country to the south of Great Britain’s Canadian colonies. For many decades after the establishment of the United States, Americans believed that the conquest of Canada was a piece of unfinished business left over from the revolutionary war. In the event of war, the colony of Upper Canada (present-day Ontario) was at particular risk along the St. Lawrence River from Montreal to Kingston. The river route, vital for the transportation of goods and people to and from the Great Lakes area, was easily cut off because much of the southern shore of the river was in American possession.
The need to deal with the weakness of this water link to the Great Lakes became apparent when tensions between Great Britain and the United States led to war in 1812. Canada was fortunate to emerge unscathed after the two-year war, but there was a clear recognition that something had to be done to resolve the issue of the vulnerable St. Lawrence River route.”
I skate further…
Seems I was wrong, the first skates didn’t have steel blades, they were bone! Further research tells me skates date back at least 5000 years to when the Fins lashed horse bones to the bottom of their footwear to glide and save time moving across the southern lowlands. With Finnish winter days as short as only 4 hours of sunlight anything that can speed up travel would be welcomed. Seems they kept their feet straight ahead propelling themselves forward using a pole to push them along. Ah, evolution!
When hired to build the Rideau Canal after the war of 1812 skating was the furthest thing from the mind of Colonel John By. His was a colossal task to build a waterway from Ottawa to Kingston using existing swamps and rivers. Men died, many men. He was late completing this task and way over budget so suffered great criticism from the detractors of the day. He died three years after the canal’s completion. Now designated as a world UNESCO site By gets the recognition he always felt he deserved for his engineering feat. Today we celebrated his achievement. His spirit skated glide for glide with me.
The skate way was busy but there was room for all. There were skating love birds who every now and again would stop for a kiss. They would hold each other arms as they approached face to face so as not to bonk each other in the head. Experienced old couples, hand in hand. Young couples. Families with children at different stages of skating proficiency. The youngest getting a free ride pushed by a mom or dad in their strollers. Kids learning to skate using an assistive device not unlike their grandparents’ walkers. Young girls, aspiring figure skaters, skating forwards only to hop around to glide backwards. The canal, a cross section, a slice of Canadian life. A United Nation of sorts. People of all ages, colours, and levels of skating prowess. Many, I’m certain, have just successfully completed their written citizenship exams, taking it upon themselves the physical challenge to prove their loyalty to Canada by learning to skate. Some already launched. Still shaky under their own power they had expressions on their faces showing fear, panic and joy simultaneously. One grown woman with a man on both sides, each very close clutching her arms. Not skating even, just standing together on the ice. She was going to do this!
Here and there were Hockey fans sporting the jerseys and togues of their favourite teams – Habs, Leafs, Team Canada. And everywhere, laughter. Joy, love and laughter.
This was my afternoon…
Back to Almonte for freshly made felafels and shawarma at MO’s Shawarma on Mill Street. Yum!
To finish off this winter day was a “Folkus” concert at Almonte’s Old Town Hall.
Opening was local Mike Wattie accompanied by fellow band mate Steve Martin. Known for their crafted covers of famous artists tonight was Mike’s night to shine sharing his own songs. Who knew we had such a talented singer/song writer in our midst.
Headlining was Steve Plotz, Canadian born, California raised, dual citizen. Some would describe him as a stand-up comedian with a guitar, but he was so much more. Playful and funny, a citizen of the world, a troubadour, minstrel, a showman, sharing and experiencing life, a consummate guitarist and storyteller. At one point he stopped in meditation in reflection, and we all did as well. Every audience member in silent harmony and peace. Present. Every audience member with glowing smiles having left their troubles at the door. A happening, a “be in,” an experience. On this Canadian winter day, I was particularly moved by his version of Ian Tyson’s Four Strong Winds. The first song Tyson ever wrote, he told us, written after seeing Dylan at the Café Wha folk club in NYC. One of the most important songs of the Canadian folk songbook.
I’ll leave you with this in the darkness at the end of a winter’s day; a verse from his song “Shine On,” his self-proclaimed favourite song that day –
“…If you’re gonna reach, reach for the sky, smile at a stranger, let tears fly, celebrate peace, don’t pick fights, communicate love, turn on your light, shine on, shine on, shine on…”
