Christmas Letter 2012.
On occasion Carrie Rose turns into a washing machine and cleans our clock. Mostly she is well behaved. We trust our life to her each time we head across a great lake. It is hard to describe the feelings that lead up to leaving. As I write this I can see us from above, gliding out between the red and green towers like the stories from those fortunate souls that are brought back from certain death to describe their out of body experience, hovering over themselves in the real world.
To throw off the lines from a comfortable scenic mooring in Montrose Harbor and steam north with the thought, however far in the back of the mind, that we may not return requires, well letting go of an entrenched lifestyle. It was not until the first of August while still anchored in Canada’s North Channel that we decided not to travel the 500 miles back to home base.
We both sighed with relief. We could now relax for a few weeks and leisurely make our way to Mackinaw City, MI where Carrie Rose now sits nestled in a pristine shed deep in a pine forest. Our fellow cruisers had left us behind to attend to their grand children and relatives weddings. We wandered back through familiar territory that now with time we were able to explore.
Beardrop Harbor was ours alone for a morning and early afternoon. We floated at anchor and soaked in the silence. We motored in Rosie, the tiny wooden dinghy, past sculptural rock formations, beaver homes, water lily shorelines, and shallow rock strewn passages. We climbed ancient rock formation carved flat by glaciers. Looked out across at Whaleback Island which lent its name to the channel it dominants.
After several days of swaying in the wind and waves, with the weather window quickly closing in on us we left for points east, a little later in the morning than usual. We traveled fifty miles through a building chop with a simultaneous following wave until our destination was in sight. We crossed into the lee of a headland and somewhat raucously made our way into the marina at Thessalon, Ontario.
Thessalon was our first entry into Canada some six weeks before. When cruising we seldom venture too deep into the towns we visit. The grocery and hardware stores get frequented, as does the laundromat. In Canada the government controlled liquor stores are scoped out in hopes of finding a less than incipient wine. Alas, a fruitless task. Better to be a beer drinker in these small communities.
But this time we had time and so with the bikes unfolded, cleaned of spider webs and oiled, we explored the town. What appeared a dissolute town was actually a vibrant, thriving community. The best sunset of the summer that refused to disappear lead to a summer fest and, with all of Canada’s thousand of square miles of wilderness, the most congested camp ground/trailer/RV park I have ever seen. I suppose when you spend the winter in the dark and cold, the summer is no time to seek solitude.
Canadians truly seem to enjoy each other’s company. They revel in it. They are helpful beyond the call of duty. For a big city boy like me, who continues to lock the boat no matter how deep in the wilderness, their fellowship is hard to accept. I breathe deep and hold my sarcastic tongue. I am a better man for it. If Canada was further south I might even think of moving there.
South of Thessalon about ten miles we crossed the border into the USA. I went forward and took the Canadian flag down. We snaked our way towards the low dark green sheds of Drummond Island Yacht Haven to meet up with customs and declare that we had nothing to declare except for a summer full of fond memories, even if a few required being rung through the rinse cycle.
Happy New Year!
Charlotte & Dean
