Nous sommes allés nager dans la piscine KOA avant le petit déjeuner. Ensuite, nous avons joué au hockey de l’air dans le KOA Kommunity Kabin avant le petit déjeuner. Aussi, nous avons pris des douches et rangé la remorque, avant le petit déjeuner. Enfin, on n’a pas mangé le petit déjeuner.

Nous sommes allés à Montréal pour acheter des bagels. Nous avons acheté des bagels, le saumon et fromage à la crème à Saint-Viateur Bagel et Fairmount Bagel. Ils sont les deux plus célèbres magasins de bagels à Montréal. Je fis sandwiches pour Ces Johnston Enfants.

Nous sommes allés à la ville de Québec prochaine. La journée a été très chaud et humide. Nous ne cherchons un terrain de camping parce Mama fait une réservation pour nous à l’hôtel Hilton! Nous avons garé la voiture et sommes allés pour une promenade dans la vieille ville.

La vieille ville est entourée par un très grand mur. À l’origine, le mur a été construit par les Français, mais les Anglais ont fait plus grand. Les bâtiments sont très vieux et intéressant. Nous avons regardé deux artistes de rue près du Château Laurier.

Ces Johnston Enfants jouaient dans une fontaine de couleur a côté de la l’hôtel de ville. Ils étaient humides et heureux. Aussi, la soirée a été un peu plus frais.

Nous sommes allés pour une visite dans un entraîneur de cheval. Le nom du cheval était Peu Pit. Le nom du guide était Donald. Donald nous a parlé de l’histoire de la ville de Québec. Peu Pit n’a pas parlé. Il est amusant de rouler à la nuit. La vieille ville est très belle. Pantalons Courts se sont endormis. Il peut dormir n’importe où.

Puis nous sommes allés pour le dîner dans un restaurant appelé l’Omelette. La nourriture était cher mais pas bon.

Je parlais français à pratiquer mais beaucoup de gens parlais anglais en retour. Je pense que mon accent est mauvais, que je parle trop lentement, ou je parlais français comme un idiot. Peut-être qu’ils pratiquent l’anglais.

Enfin nous sommes retournés à l’hôtel et on a regardé la fin de Spirited Away (Chihiro, en francais). Il est un grand film.

Aujourd’hui, nous sommes au Québec, alors je vais écrire en français. Je présente mes excuses à mon professeur. Elle est un tres bon professeur, mais je suis un mauvais étudiant.

Ces Johnston Enfants ont mangé du beurre d’arachide et à la confiture sandwiches pour le petit déjeuner. En fait, Pantalons Courts aime manger du beurre d’arachide et de sandwiches gelée pour chaque repas. D’abord, nous sommes allés à la National Gallery. J’ai aimé l’exposition Alex Colville, mais son point de vue est très blanche. Il y avait très peu d’art autochtone à la Galerie. Il y avait une galerie d’art inuit, mais d’autres personnes autochtones sont invisibles à Ottawa.

Ensuite nous sommes allés pour une promenade au marché Bywater. Il faisait très chaud, alors je acheté gelato pour les enfants. Ils ont fait un gâchis.

Enfin, nous sommes allés pour une promenade à côté du canal. Les enfants étaient très chaud et fatigué. Il était une courte promenade. Nous sommes retournés à la voiture et de partir pour Montréal. Ces Johnston Enfants endormis immédiatement.

Nous sommes arrivés au KOA-Sud de Montréal à 20:00. Les enfants sont allés à l’aire de jeux et moi avons fait le dîner. Il faisait chaud et nous avons dû nouilles froides, limonade et tarte aux pommes à froid pour le dîner. Après, nous avons nettoyé les plats et regardé un dessin animé.

Il était aussi mon anniversaire. Joyeux anniversaire à moi!

We enjoyed a brief respite at home on Monday. The day was mostly spent preparing the next, eastern, leg of our journey. I also did a great deal of cooking. For dinner, we had salmon, salad, fresh corn, and potatoes, with carrot cake for dessert. I make a mean carrot cake. We were stuffed.

On Tuesday, we packed Mama off to work and packed up the car again. Shortly after lunch, in the hot thick humid afternoon, we set out. It started to rain almost immediately, which did nothing to lessen the oppressive heat, but forced us to close the windows. No, the air conditioning is still not fixed. Who has the time? We cruised along the 401 east in a mobile sauna, simmering in our own juice and rubbing little clear circles in the steamy windows so we could see where we were going. Mostly we were going from someplace wet to someplace wetter.

We had outrun the rain by the time we reached Cobourg and the ever-popular Big Apple restaurant/factory/attraction. The kids had passed out from heat stroke so I had to wake them with promises of bunnies and treats. Everybody should wake up that way. We spent an hour and a half ogling desserts and candy, but mostly playing mini-golf. Both Those Johnston Kids consider a putter a kind of flattish driver, so my more nuanced touch won the day again. At least the course was not as laughably impossible as the one at the Thunder Bay KOA. We held our heads, and small apple pie, up proudly at the 18th hole.

The rain caught up to us just about then, so it was back to the car and squinting through maniacally waving wipers. Our route left the 401 at Belleville to go north-east through the more interesting farm communities. We made it to our destination, Fitzroy Provincial Park, as night and yet more rain fell. I stuffed Those Johnston Kids with leftover salmon sandwiches, veggie chili, and carrot cake. Baby Girl and I did our best to sleep in the cacaphonous downpour but Short Pants was out like a light. That boy can sleep anywhere.

On Sunday, we enjoyed more crazy pow-wow action, and spent even longer swimming at the government dock. We also collected rocks, because that’s what we do. You haven’t been somewhere until you’ve brought back some of it’s heaviest substances in your luggage. Specifically, we were looking for fossils. Most of the shoreline around Cape Croker is glacial moraine, piles of stones of various sizes, all scraped up by glaciers from the shores of the ancient sea that used to cover much of North America. The stones are full of little fossils of ancient sea life, mostly corals, sponges, and early sea plants. We have lots already, but it’s always fun to find them. It’s treasure hunting.

We saved enough time for a few more dances at pow-wow. I bought Those Johnston Kids some new moccasins for dancing and the footwear seemed to inspire their efforts. Moccasins, interestingly, were and are still not a durable good like shoes today. When the people wore them exclusively, they were a consumable. Several pairs would be packed for a trip because they didn’t last for more than a few weeks. Or they could be made quickly on the trail from available materials. You can buy fake moccasins now with rubber soles, but that seems rather pointless. If you can’t feel the ground, it’s not a moccasin. It’s – I don’t know – a hushpuppy or something.

We were sad to pack up and finally leave Cape. It had seemed a much longer weekend and were relaxed and happy. I have lived many places, but Cape is Home.

It was just about time to get back on the road. The trailer required a slew of repairs, not all of which I’ve had to finish while we’ve been at home. Besides replacing the tires and installing a new jack, I had to fix a couple of electrical problems, and replace a leaky propane line. For bonus points, I made a couple of small improvements to the mini fridge and stove as well.

That work, plus the obligatory cleaning of car, trailer, laundry and gear took us up until last Friday the 15th. Then we were off to pow-wow at Cape Croker. Pow-wow was one of our goals all summer. Whatever else we got up to, we had to be home in time for the party. Baby Girl wanted, nay needed, to dance.

I will try to explain pow-wow a bit, for those that have never been to one. First, it’s a celebration of native culture and traditions. We dress up in our own regalia and dance to our own music because we like it and it makes us proud. It’s our thing. Second, it’s a sort of competition for the really good dancers and musicians. Third, it’s a tourist attraction that brings money and people from off-reserve. Historically, a pow-wow was a sort of party cum meeting between different tribes, to exchange news and foster goodwill. Gifts were exchanged, with all sides trying to give the most extravagant presents.

At the centre of pow-wow are the drums. A ‘drum’ in native parlance is both the drum itself and also a band of drummers. The drummers sit in a circle around their drum to play and sing. At any pow-wow there will be a number of drums that sit under a tent or arbor set up in the middle of the dancing ground to give them shade. They need it because they play all day in turns.

Around the drum arbour is a large circle for dancing. The dancers move clockwise (generally) around the circle. Around the dancers is an outer circle of bleachers and space for spectators and participants to sit between songs.

Importantly, somewhere on the pow-wow grounds there will be a ceremonial fire. The fire is tended by the fire-keepers, 24 hours a day, as long as the pow-wow is on. The fire is not extinguished until the pow-wow is over. Any guest at the pow-wow is welcome to sit at the fire at any time. Our protocol is enter the fire circle (sometimes another arbor, or a tipi) and offer a bit of tobacco or other medicine to the fire. As the medicine burns, our prayers are carried up with the smoke. Remember to always move around the fire clockwise, and if someone is sitting close to the fire, to never pass between them and the fire.

Lastly, at modern pow-wows, there are vendors selling food, art, crafts, regalia, and materials for crafting. So, in that way, it’s like any other small town fair.

Pow-wow is centred around the music. The announcer calls on each drum to play a song, and tells the crowd what sort of dance it will be. Most of the time it’s an ‘inter-tribal’ song, meaning anyone that wants to can enter the circle and dance. Some people dance their hearts out, while others just  walk around the circle. Kids run and jump out something in between.

At competition pow-wows, the announcer will also call for competitive dancers to perform specific sorts of dances, like a jingle-dress dance, or men’s fancy dance. Judges will pick out the most accomplished for a cash award at the end of the song. Dancers will travel long distances to compete at pow-wows with large purses.

Our pow-wow is more friendly than competitive. While there are some awards for ‘pro’ dance categories, there seem to be more fun cash prizes like spot dances. In a spot dance, the arena director picks a spot on the circle. Everybody dances with the music, then freezes in place when the music stops. Whoever is closest to the spot picked by the judge wins the prize. It reminds me of musical chairs. I’m reasonably certain that it wasn’t a pre-contact activity, but it’s fun anyway.

Mama, the kids, and I arrived just in time on Friday night to enjoy the spectacle of a long fireworks show. I don’t think I’ve ever been there on opening night, as it were, so I can’t say if the fireworks are typical, but it was fun. Those Johnston Kids were settled into their bags by the time Alison joined us in the campground, having driven up late from Toronto. We were all tired, so nobody stayed up late.

The next day was hot and dry. The grand entrance at pow-wow wasn’t until noon, so after breakfast we grabbed our swim suits and headed down to the beach for a swim. When we were there a month and a half ago the water was chilly and all but unbearable. Now, after a warm summer, the water in the shallow bay was still brisk, but refreshing rather than numbing. We had a quick dip, then gathered our things and ran for the pow-wow. Grand Entrance!

The Grand Entrance is a sort of parade of dignitaries that begins the celebration each day. Ours was led by a trio of elders and veterans, but in the next rank of the parade were representatives of the police, RCMP, and military. Following them were flags of the community, province and country, then more elders, and finally the dancers in regalia. I ground my teeth a bit watching the parade because I vehemently disagree with giving the various paramilitary organizations a position of privilege near the head of the parade. Of course we should honour our elders and veterans. They went through a lot and we understand and appreciate that. We respect and honour our elders for their individual achievements and sacrifices, however. We should not in any way be honouring the enforcement arms of Canadian government policy. We demean ourselves when we ask our own people to walk behind them. It’s as if we’re thanking them for the generations of abuse they committed and abetted. On the other hand, I think it would be rude to invite them to participate and then make them walk last, so the solution is to not invite them at all.

I understand that one of the primary purposes of pow-wow is to make and keep peace, but I think we are being far too noble in deference to people who have not shown any nobility at all.

I grumbled, but we had fun anyway, once that nonsense was over with. Despite the heat, we browsed, and snacked, and danced. Those Johnston Kids are still finding their feet, but it was great to see them unfetter themselves to whirl about the circle. That is exactly the way to start. They will learn more steps as time passes, and hear more of the rhythms of the music. Baby Girl had an ethereal, skipping, spinning style. She was the whirlwind. Short Pants asked for a rabbit skin, which he gripped and shook as he hopped mostly one-footed around the arena. He was the hare.

After a couple of hours we took a break to go visit my mother, sister, and nieces. The kids call my mother Nokomis, which is Ojibwa for grandmother. I am proud of her because she still speaks Ojibwa and Cree, although I don’t really know much myself. I will learn more in the next few years. I’m in study mode. I don’t recall ever hearing my own grandmother speak a word of Ojibwa, even though she must have known it as well. To be honest, there wasn’t much Indian left on the surface of her. I think she left a lot of it in the residential school she attended as a child. That trickles down to me and my own children because that was an important source of cultural teaching that was lost. This is the sort of generational damage that is referred to when assessing the harm done by the residential school system.

One of the most popular summer activities at Cape is swimming off the government dock. When I was a boy, the large L-shaped dock was all one solid piece of concrete. Fishing boats docked on the protected inner side, or were pulled up on the shores nearby. Vehicles would drive right onto the dock to take away the unloaded catch. From a perch on the side of the dock, you could always see many large fish swimming in the clear water beneath the boats, and crayfish as large as your hand scuttling across the bottom. There were always numberless leopard frogs croaking among the rocks, so that a walk along the shore was preceded by a startled wave of amphibians jumping into the water. The Bay seemed more alive then.

Now, the big fish aren’t seen anywhere near the shore, and the fishing boats are all but gone as well. Crayfish are harder to spot and are finger-sized at best. I saw one frog all weekend. There are gobys in abundance though. A goby is a small fish with a gargoyle mouth and round fins, that usually sits on the bottom motionless until disturbed. They’re hard to spot at first, but once you do, you see them everywhere. It’s an invasive species, and a troublesome one because it’s a voracious bottom feeder, eating the eggs and fry of native species.

On the surface, the water looks amazing, green and crystalline. We joined the small crowd of people already throwing themselves into it from the end of the dock. The dock is falling apart now, with half of it fenced off to prevent people from falling into the massive holes in the concrete. We picked our way over the broken remains to the deep end. Short Pants and I didn’t hesitate on the edge as most do. With a nod to the wind, we cast ourselves into the air and took the 2 metre plunge into the beautiful cool water. Mama and Alison followed shortly after. Baby Girl was still fussing about on the edge by the time we had made it back up, so I talked her into jumping with a small push to the back. I think I communicate well with my hands.

We’ve been resting up at home for almost 48 hours now, and it’s killing me. I’ve been going non-stop, catching up on the things that I’ve been ignoring for the past 6 weeks. Foremost, school is coming up and I have to sort out a) what I’m going to study at Osgoode this year, and b) how I’m going to pay for a).

We also have to prepare for the final third of the summer road trip. We’ve logged 14 840 kilometres so far, and I’m pretty sure we have another 5000 in us. The circumference of the earth is about 40 000 kilometres, so we should end up pretty close to half way around he world!

We haven’t decided if we’ll go east to the Maritimes, or south to Florida. The pull of the ocean is strong – it’s a question of the temperature of said ocean. We will likely go east because doting grandparents are waiting. Had better be waiting. It’ll be awkward if we pull in while they’re hosting a kegger for the neighbourhood.

The trailer needs some work before it’s ready to go back on the road though. I’ve replaced both wheels so far, obviously because one was in shreds and the other was so bald it looked like a racing slick. I also installed a new jack. The old jack stopped working about 10 days ago when the magic metal shavings fell out the bottom. Since then, I’ve had to lift the trailer off the hitch and maneuver it into position myself. So if you were wondering, it’s fricking heavy. When we weren’t going to use the car until leaving camp, I would save myself the trouble and just leave the trailer hitched.

There’s also a leak in a propane line somewhere underneath, and an electrical socket at the front – for when we have electrical service – isn’t working anymore. I would rather not explode into a ball of flame when cooking dinner, or set us all on fire by charging our batteries overnight, so those have to be resolved. The tarp needs repairs for small tears around the skirt and one of the cords for securing it down should also be replaced. Oh, a handful of screws have rattled out of place and require replacing. She’s beat up, but she’ll roll.

The car is in slightly better shape. The windshield and cloud roof are cracked from road rocks, the rear wiper gears are stripped so the back window is always dirty, the rear shock springs are like jelly, the trunk door sometimes latches, and the underpanel is coming apart. She rolls though. It’s a turbo.

I’ve also been getting caught up on photos. I’ve add imagery to posts up until about 2 weeks ago. Check back over the next couple of days and I’ll fill in the rest.

It seems that cross-country road trips are all the rage these days. If you haven’t gone yet, I encourage you to plan one!

I saw this article in the Globe and Mail on the long weekend: Plot a road-trip to Canada’s best child friendly historic sites, by John Lee. We’ve been to a number of those and I agree, most of them are pretty fun! However, I thought he missed an opportunity to include some aboriginal historical sites – including a few we were lucky enough to visit. Below is the email I sent to him (along with a shameless plug for our site). I haven’t gotten a reply yet, but I’ll definitely post it if I do. If you have any sites you’d recommend, add them in the comments. Those Johnston Kids will be heading east (though Holly is petitioning hard for Florida – “It’s 34 degrees in Orlando!”) and I’m sure they’d appreciate the suggestions.

Hi John– I just read your article on fun, kid-friendly historical sites in Canada (http://www.theglobeandmail.com/life/travel/activities-and-interests/what-are-some-fun-historical-sites-for-kids-in-canada/article25783340/). My husband and kids (7 & 9) are on a cross-country road trip, as we speak. They left from Toronto on June 29 and are currently in Banff, working their way back from Vancouver Island. The goal was to see the country, hang out with their dad and maybe have a few exciting adventures. We wanted them to feel it was as much their vacation as ours (I was only able to join for the Saskatoon – Vancouver leg) and they are keeping a blog of their adventures at http://thosejohnstonkids.ca/.

As it happens, we’ve been to a number of the sites mentioned and, while it’s nowhere near an exhaustive list, it provides a good exploration of Canada’s history. However, notably absent is anything of import around native history which is, I believe, a gross oversight. Sure you’ll find some mention of natives as an aside at many historical sites or in relation to trading at historic HBC outposts, but it does not cover the historical fact that there were people here before colonists arrived. My husband, who is Anishnaabe, takes great pains to explain to our children that the Europeans who colonized Canada were not “pioneers” as pioneers implies they were the first people here. Canada, and indeed North America, was populated long before the Europeans arrived and many parts of Canada are still unceded – meaning the land has never been surrendered – including the majority of BC. While many would say this is a small point on which to base an argument, I firmly believe that the words we use to define a people and an experience shape how we see it. Any journalist, politician or writer would tell you the same. Continually referring to colonists as “pioneers” changes how we see them – and ourselves. I would much rather say I was the descendant of pioneers, which implies adventure and hard work. Pioneers were the first to settle Canada. Contrast that with colonist and its less flattering definition of being the one  to appropriate land not belonging to them; to exploit other cultures; to settle in order to gain political control. I can see why many sites prefer to call themselves “pioneer villages” – but it is changing our history. To fully integrate and create a cohesive society, you need to acknowledge the truth of what happened and then you can move forward. Refusing to acknowledge our treatment of the culture that was here before we arrived supports the continuing systemic racism within Canada.

A rather heavy response to a simple, light article on the fun travel opportunities in Canada, I know. But important to encouraging conversation on our history and evolution as a country.  

To round out your list, I would add these attractions to your list of places to visit that will help create a truly Canadian experience:

• Xatsull Heritage Village– just south of Quesnel, the Xatsull Heritage Village provides a window into the spiritual, cultural and traditional way of life of the Xatsull people.
• Tuckkwiowhum Village – experience a Nlaka’pamux village before the arrival of European culture.
• Wanuskewin Heritage Park– located above Opimihaw Creek and the south Saskatchewan River near Saskatoon, Wanuskewin contains some of the most exciting archaeological finds in North America and provides a record of cultural development over the last 6000 years.
• Memorial for Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women – The Forks, Winnipeg.
• Woodland Cultural Centre– Located in Brantford Ontario, you can arrange a tour of the last residential school in Ontario. This is a heavy – but important – one. Part of denying our history is refusing to see it. You may not consider this one  kid friendly, but keep in mind, this is where we sent native children.

 Sincerely, Stephanie MacDonald, Toronto, Ontario

I quite liked the Agawa Bay Campground of Lake Superior Provincial Park. We woke there on the 10th, feeling refreshed and calm. Something about sleeping near the water is good for the spirit. Those Johnston Kids also had two motivations to start their day: the Canadian Bushplane Heritage Centre in Sault Ste. Marie, and potentially a long drive home. Home. Baby Girl started her entreaties early, to make sure that I knew it was important to her to get home ASAP.

I don’t blame her. I wouldn’t have made it out to the west coast and back in only 6 weeks without Those Johnston Kids. I would have stayed longer in places I liked, like Agawa Bay. I could have easily camped there for a week, in part because it’s like a freshwater version of the BC coast. On that morning, the water was as flat and calm as I’ve ever seen Superior. I really wanted to rent a canoe and go for a paddle, but the kids overruled me in favour of the bushplane museum.

We stowed our gear and got underway. The campground, I noted as we pulled out, seems to serve kayakers as the largest demographic. A great number of sites had trailers of boats parked nearby, along with paddles carefully stacked, and PFDs hanging to dry. I sighed mightily and took to the highway.

Sault was a little more than an hour down the road, so we were the first tourists through the Centre’s door that morning. It is entirely what the Royal Aviation Museum in Winnipeg is not: interactive and interesting. The RAM barely let you look inside a few planes, but at the Bushplane Centre several aircraft are open for you to climb inside and feel how horribly uncomfortable and claustrophobic flying really is. They also have 2 short films that are included with the price of admission, and a fairly well-designed children’s area with many hands-on stations. We ran through RAM in 30 minutes and Those Johnston Kids were bored for the most part, but we spent 2 hours in the Bushplane Centre and they were engaged the whole time. They had the cutest shirts in the gift shop that said “Bush pilot in training”. I couldn’t find my size. Pity. I would have loved to wear that to law school.

We didn’t reach consensus on whether we would try to make it all the way home from Sault that day. The run to Toronto would take about 8 hours if everything went well, but we could also camp at the halfway point, in Killarney, and go home in the morning. We decided to go as far as Killarney and see how we felt about another 4 hours in the car from there.

The drive was long, but we had some new tunes that I had loaded up for the stereo, and the weather was comfortable. When we made it to the Killarney turn-off, we resolved to continue all the way home and sleep in our own beds. Our moods were buoyant at the thought of Mama, pets, and familiar beds. We were 2 hours from home, just south of Parry Sound, when disaster struck.

We had just stopped for fresh tea and snacks and were back on the highway. Suddenly, the trailer began to sway wildly from side to side, rattling the car and forcing me to wrestle the wheel. I could feel grinding vibrating through the trailer hitch, and in the mirrors I could see scraps of shredded rubber decorating the road behind us. We had had a tire blowout on the trailer. I stopped as soon and safely as I could and pulled off the highway as much as possible. We were still uncomfortably close to traffic as there was a long guard rail alongside the shoulder. A quick inspection showed that one tire had blown, and the other was starting to delaminate, although it still held air.

I, cynical by nature, immediately suspected sabotage at the rest stop. The bad guys give you a flat so you’ll leave the trailer behind and go in search of help, then they come and scoop it up after you’re gone. It’s an old scam, also used by bike thieves in Toronto.

Luckily, we had a spare for the trailer. Unluckily, it used a brobdingnagian bolt size that did not fit our tire iron, or the largest socket in our socket wrench. I had never checked the size, because it just looks like a regular wheel nut. Lesson learned. After 6 weeks of non-stop travel, we were dead in the water only 2 hours from home.

Luckily, we had CAA coverage. After satisfying my manly conscience that there was nothing I could do to actually fix this problem on my own, I called the association and asked for help. Imagine my surprise when they said no.  You see, I have a basic CAA membership, which is what most people have, I imagine, unless those branded car air fresheners, or the upgraded bumper stickers, or the branded cheaply made car bag is important to you. Because my problem was with a trailer, and not my car, it was not covered. I needed the RV membership. I protested that I hadn’t even known there was such a thing, and that I would have surely purchased it because the whole point was to travel with a trailer.

Not to worry, they told me, you can upgrade to the RV membership. It will just take 24 hours to activate. Because my problem was that I only had a basic membership, and not basic plus or some damn thing, that would allow me to upgrade without delay. I was aghast. “You’re kidding, right?” I growled. “I have two young children and we’re on a highway in the middle of nowhere. Do you have any useful suggestions?” They offered to send a service vehicle, but I would have to pay for it. Well, okay then.

I was transferred to another woman who identified herself as Constable … something. OPP I figured.  She said that they would send a service vehicle out. I felt secure that our predicament had been noticed by responsible people and help was on the way. Those Johnston Kids and I dug out some lights, listened to music, and played video games on our handhelds while we waited. It was after dark before the orange flashing lights landed behind us, signalling the arrival of our rescuer.

The mouth-breather that stepped out of the truck barely grunted at me before digging out a socket set – bigger than mine I realized, to my embarrassment. While he pulled off the ragged wheel, I glanced at his truck and saw the name on the door: Constable Towing. These people weren’t connected to the OPP at all, they were just highway scavengers, preying upon those in straits. No more than 3 minutes later, the spare was in place. It hadn’t seen daylight in a while and was all but flat itself, the flaccid rubber folded up under the rim. The idiot looked at the obviously useless wheel and demanded $100 cash. I said, without checking, that I didn’t have that much cash in my wallet, and that I would pay by credit card. $140 then, he insisted, to ‘cover his mileage’. He took his payment and left, without offering to inflate the flat wheel. I had to jack the trailer up myself, and inflate it with a small emergency pump. It was about 10 PM, and we had lost 2 hours before we were mobile again.

Sort of. While the spare wheel was fine, the remaining original wheel was badly damaged. It was in danger of imminent failure so I couldn’t risk bringing it back up to highway speed. At best I was willing to push it to 60 km/hr and cross my fingers. 60 km/hr from Parry Sound to Toronto. 3 long, tedious, limping hours, with the emergency flashers on the entire way and annoyed truckers flashing their high beams into my brain. Then another hour across the city to home, while I feared every bit of cracked pavement or manhole cover was going to spell the end of our wounded wheel.

I will spare you further suspense. We made it home around 2 AM and slept in our own beds.

We’re here until the weekend, then who knows whither?

Those Johnston Kids were up at the crack of 9 on the 9th, although Baby Girl had to be hauled from her sleeping bag by main force. Her teen years will be a trial for everybody, I fear. All in a rush, we made use of the Kult Of America’s very clean shower facilities, scarfed down breakfast, and packed up the trailer. What was the rush? Mini-golf!

We hadn’t actually finished the 18 holes the night before, so the kids wanted another swing at the tee. Or Mulligan, or whatever it is golfers say. I am not a golfer. I have sworn not to take up the game until i an too numb to feel it, apologies to my father-in-law. Even in broad daylight, the course was challenging. Several of the holes were impossibly uphill. If the shot wasn’t a hole in 1, the ball would pleasantly roll right back down to stop at your feet or further back. It was maddening, but we finished. We determined that Short Pants was the winner because he had the highest score.

Well, after that it was just a road trip. The home-hungry kids, following significant lobbying by Baby Girl, decided that another longish drive would be best. We skipped a planned campsite on the Lake Superior north shore to go right on to the next camp in the itinerary. The day was overcast and quite cool, down to 12 degrees fire a while. The mix of air temperatures led to a real pea soup fog from Schreiber to Marathon. I thought it was neat, but there were many cautious drivers poking along the highway.

I saw another bear, shortly after we passed into Lake Superior Provincial Park. I saw it well in advance and called out to the kids. Baby Girl saw it and fumbled for a camera, but I don’t think Short Pants caught a glimpse. That’s one of the limitations of sitting in the back seat. There is lots of room, but visibility sucks.

We thought we might get as far as Sault, but as eager as I am for the comforts of home too, I am also reluctant to leave the wood and stone that is so familiar to me. I made an executive decision that we would stay in Lake Superior Park and enjoy it. This time through the Park, we found the Agawa Bay campground we had missed on our way west, and secured a site. Coincidentally, the gate officer lives a block away from us in Scarborough. He said it was rare to see anybody from home all the way up here, and there had even been one other reservation earlier in the summer from someone on our street, but they hadn’t checked in. Yeah, that is weird, I agreed.

The campground was great. It’s on a long, narrow strip between the highway and the gravely shore of Lake Superior. There are many big trees dividing up the campsites so it didn’t feel cramped. Naturally, as soon as we were set up, the kids ran for the beach, hang the clouds and spotty rain. We picked cool stones for a while and then one thing led to another and pretty soon bathing suits were involved. I warned them that Superior never warms up, but they’ve swum in glacial ponds in the Rockies and were unperturbed. I sat on the beach and watched in amazement as they rolled and sprayed in the surf. I could practically see my breath, but they just cackled at each other and ran in and out of the water. I don’t know where they get it. My people come from a desert country.

We had our first campfire in weeks! We cooked hot dogs to add to our dinner, and then sat around the fire afterwards, just enjoying the smell. There were a few biting insects, but the smoke from the fire kept them completely at bay. The day only demanded roasted marshmallows to be declared complete, which we took care of in short order.

Those Johnston Kids must have been tired because there wasn’t a word of complaint when I suggested we brush our teeth and tuck in. Traffic on the nearby highway was sparse and we were all lulled to sleep by the waves breaking on the shore just metres away.

It rained off and on throughout the night. It sounds romantic, listening to the patter of raindrops on the roof, but in real life it’s cacophonous. It’s not the muffled tapping of water on a wooden roof. The roof of the trailer is sheet metal so rain sounds like shovelfuls of gravel. With every new aggregate shower I stirred from sleep. It was a long night. I was tired when I finally rose on the 7th, at about 6:30 AM, and my crew was hours from rousing.

I had to go check in with the park office first thing anyway, as they didn’t have a self-registration. In most parks, when you arrive after hours, you can fill out a registration form yourself and drop your payment in a collection box. Not so at Rushing River. You can come in after hours but you have to sort it with the office as soon as they open.

As it turned out, the site we had shoehorned ourselves into, with an amazing display of backing up with a trailer in the dark, was reserved by someone else. In fact, they were supposed to be on it already, but had obviously run afoul of Friday night delays and not made it out. They could show up any minute, so we had to vacate in a hurry. I rushed back to the site and shanghaied Those Johnston Kids into immediately packing up. Breakfast would be sandwiches on the road.

Rushing River is a pretty campground though, and I entertained the thought of hanging about to go for a paddle. They didn’t have any onsite canoe rental though, and the rain was starting up again. I was reminded of a Calvin and Hobbes comic that the kids had showed me, where Calvin is on a camping trip with his dad. It’s pouring rain and dad is out in a canoe fishing, while Calvin and Hobbes question his sanity from the tent. I’m not sure why the kids thought they should show me that one. I think I remind them of Hobbes.

I like to say that the problem with rain in the wilderness isn’t that you’re getting wet, it’s that you’re trying to stay dry. Once you just accept being wet, no problem. I realise though, that it’s not so easy to be sanguine about exposure when you’re gypsies like us. We have no easy way to get dry again. When we get wet, the best we can do is reduce it to damp. We have to wait for it to stop raining before we can really dry out again. It makes me less inclined to play in the rain, even though I love being wet.

Even so, I feel a little guilty about just leaving without trying harder to find an activity. It feels like we’re being lazy. My guilt disappeared about as quick as the downpour started as we pulled out of the campground. Oh well, we tried. Who wants a Timbit?

We meant to stop after a few hours drive, at a campground neither you nor I have ever heard of, but the kids voted for a longer drive all the way to Thunder Bay. We have been on the trail for 6 weeks now, and they can smell the  barn. Baby Girl is jonesing for Mama and her pets in the worst way. Short Pants is also pleased at the prospect of a bit of homestay, but doesn’t mind pacing out the travel. He’s agreed to longer daily drives – geez, Canada is big – but mostly I believe he’s acquiesced for BG’s sake.

The rain eventually stopped as we drew near to Lake Superior, leaving us with an overcast sky and comfortable temperatures. We opened the sun roof, which I never do when it is actually sunny. It’s more of a cloud roof.

We ended up in the Thunder Bay KOA again and I can confirm that I wasn’t mistaken when we were here a month ago. There is a strange cultish atmosphere about the place. It’s family run, and it looks like the entire extended family is involved, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, a couple of grandparents, and maybe a dog. Everybody is both friendly and not friendly at the same time. There’s a biting sense of forced jollity. Those Johnston Kids were unaware and frequently remarked that they liked this campground. Maybe I am just old and grumpy.

We rushed through setting up camp because the KOA has a swimming pool. If they didn’t get to go swimming right now, they just wouldn’t be responsible for their own crazies. That meant that I had to go as well because in the nice/not nice campground, kids aren’t allowed in the pool without their responsible adult. They went swimming for an hour and a half while I waited on a deck chair with my laptop for WiFi that really wasn’t there. I mean, there was enough bandwidth to make me think it might work, but not quite enough to actually work. There is a metaphor for a bad date there.

I made salmon curry for dinner while the kids went to the playground. While they were there, they also went for a hayride around the campground, organised for the camp children by the staff. They sang songs and bonded in their lifestyle. Just like a cult.

Dinner was good. Normally, our protocol is to clean up right after dinner, but we left the dishes for later. It was getting late in the evening and we wanted to play mini-golf before the light failed entirely. We were practically playing in the dark anyway, not that it made much difference. The course was frustratingly hard and we all gave up on several holes. I seriously doubt hole 11 was a par 3.

As a wise man said, when you can no longer see your balls, it’s time to quit. We stumbled back to our trailer in the dark. I watched Those Johnston Kids take a very, very long time cleaning the dinner dishes, and then it was bedtime.