One . . . Long . . . Yawn . . . . . .

     I said "Au'Voir" to my sister and her hubby near the Saint Laurent River; they were headed to Rhode Island for a sailing adventure and I was headed west to Montana. I had already been through Michigan, Wisconsin, Minnesota and North Dakota several times in previous years, so I decided to remain in Canada and take the road less traveled, "The Northern Highway".

      La Lair umphed, thumped, shook, rattled, and swayed on this highway because it was under construction, to be constructed, or already badly constructed. Several times, I stopped to re-arrange fallen items behind me in the cargo area. Some road sections were gloriously smooth, but the view rarely changed . . . .

     For hundreds of miles, there were lakes and tree plantations and no paved shoulders, just gravel shoulders, and no bisecting paved roads. All other roads were dirt roads with the exception of a few very small villages. About every hundred miles was the appearance of a "man camp" for tree plantation workers, I suppose similar to off-shore rigs for oil and gas employees who are shuttled back and forth from isolated employment in the Gulf of Mexico to their homes every three weeks or so. It's lonely country . . .  but it's heaven for avid fishermen, fisherwomen, hunters, and ski-mobile enthusiasts. Nobody else has a good reason to congregate here.

I saw three separate bears on the bisecting dirt roads to this highway . . . didn't see any moose.

There were moments of isolated beauty . . . 

I had supper on this picnic table on a dock and was thankful for the lake breeze that kept the mosquitoes and flies away. I spent the night here, too.

About day three into this long, too long lonely highway, the road got hilly and my heart skipped a beat of happiness.

When a road sign announced the "Ouimet Canyon Provincial Park" was ahead, I stopped to visit and walked its pleasant short trail.

          Soon, I was in Thunder Bay on Lake Superior, and since it was July 1, it was "Canada Day" which is the Canadian equivalent of our Independence Day on July 4. I watched the sailing regatta with a friendly Canadian woman who owned a Bed and Breakfast nearby.

      She told me Thunder Bay's fireworks were decent, but most folks go across the border on July 4th to see the best fireworks in the USA. I mentioned that the USA had better roads, too, and she wholeheartedly agreed.

     The next day, I drove westward all day, hoping I'd see a change of scenery. But the hazy horizon on straight roads went on and on and on . . . I was bored, so I did a road trip mileage report at 48 mph in sixth gear on a straight wind-less road for four hours. My best mileage was 31.3 miles per gallon.

  I stopped at this windmill which was constructed as a pun for Mr. Holland, the first postmaster in a small village named after him. It had a picnic table so I made brunch; buckwheat pancakes and coffee. 

     I suspect a citizen of the "Rural Crime Watch Committee" (yes, there were signs announcing the existence of this committee) made a call to a local farmer, because he visited me with his two very young sons. I asked him if it was always hazy here, and he told me about the wildfires in Saskatchewan. He was friendly and polite, and once he was convinced I was harmless, he wished me well in my travels and returned to his home.

      I pondered my future travels in Canada with the news of wildfires and continued hazy days ahead of me. Decided to enact Plan B, go south as soon as possible. That plan took me to the beautiful fields of eastern Montana. Life on the road was starting to feel good again! My happiness improved considerably (here's where I singalong with Jimmy Cliff's song, "I can see clearly now, the haze is gone, it's gonna be a bright bright bright sunshiny day!)