Waking to the call of the loon in Canada, what could be better? Recordings of the loon do not do this bird any justice; it is an amazing sound made more fascinating as two loons are talking across the lake. The pink and orange light of dawn is reflected in the lake, with thin, lacey clouds adding a touch of extra beauty. A woodpecker rattles a nearby tree while songbirds undulate their whistles to the rising sun. I snapped a few photos before waking Mom to admire the lake. It is more beautiful now than it was the day before.
We lingered by the lake until breakfast. Mom had oatmeal, which she was sure was the best she’d ever had; while I opted for a cheese omelet and home fries, a good breakfast made all the better by the environs. Cabin number 9 at Lang Lake Resort is the note to future me to return here. Before leaving, we sat and watched a loon dipping below the surface of the lake to fish, not reappearing for minutes at a time.
Lang Lake was south of Espanola and after a short drive back up the dirt road, we rejoined road number 6, heading north to Espanola once more. A turn right on the 17, which is officially known as the Trans-Canada Highway, and we are on our way to Montreal or thereabouts.
Not too far west of Copper Cliff a quick stop was made for a man selling fresh wild blueberries roadside. The hand-picked wild blueberries are expensive. We are doubtful until the gentleman sitting inside the van offers us a sample. These are, without a doubt, the best blueberries we have ever tasted. We bought the small container to the far left in the photo for about $13 U.S.; the larger container near his foot was $115 Canadian or $100 U.S..
If you should ever find yourself in Canada in the middle of July and don’t know where to pick them yourself, stop at one of the many blueberry stands and try them. Be sure they are the wild, small berries, though. Yummy!
A foreign country with things outside the American experience is a refreshing blast of excitement. It’s been ten years since Caroline and I moved to the United States, and during that time, we’ve not been back to Europe, I’m getting a small hint of that European aesthetic as we drive along.
Near Verner, a sign catches my eye, forcing a U-turn. It’s advertising goat cheese. At a local farm from a husband and wife team, we pick up some of their garlic-herb goat cheese – yummy, again.
The town of Mattawa, which is part of the Algonquin Nation, has a trading post, but they don’t want our blueberries in exchange for furs; oh well. We still managed to leave with gifts for others back home. In Rolphton we are entering the Province of Quebec and buy bread and some other stuff, sweet guilt. Pembroke offers ice cream and butter, which we needed for the bread. Somewhere further down the road, we stopped next to a plot where an elderly guy was selling strawberries that we got to pick ourselves.
Things are starting to crumble, but my mom’s appetite is not one of them. The near-constant grazing still isn’t enough, and a sign advertising walleye was enough to have us pulling off for more food.
As we were approaching Quebec, my mother started grumbling about the signs in French.
I am being forced to hear about her utter and total dislike of all things French. It doesn’t matter if it’s French Canadians or the people of France; they are all simply horrible, arrogant people. I’m starting to grind my teeth as there is no talking reason with her. When my mom was a teenager, at one of her first jobs as a waitress, a French Canadian couple visiting Buffalo, New York, stiffed her for a tip, and since that moment, she has always hated French people of any kind.
I’m seething and starting to resent the person I’m in the car with. Her pettiness exploding like this for something that happened 40 years ago is beyond what I can accept, and I wish she’d simply shut up. She’s as relentless about sharing her disdain as she is about eating everything in sight. I’m reaching a breaking point where her childlike anger starts, triggering me to turn around and race back to Arizona. Fortunately, I know my anger needs to be pocketed. I only wish I’d known about this earlier so I could have avoided bringing her this far north.
I’m finished and just want to shut down. I start looking for a motel early so I can get off the road and find some time to talk with Caroline, vent with her, and have her calm me down. Motel Eddy in St. Andre D’Argenteuil on the Ottawa River is only $43, including a TV and small fridge. In our respective rooms, I’m able to escape her agitation that is verging on Tourette’s. We’d managed to ignore politics, religion, and race until this point in our trip, which are all known flashpoints in our relationship. She would be the first to point out that I’d obviously been overly influenced by my time growing up in the land of fruits and nuts, California. There are times that I nearly hate my mother; this is one of those.
