3 July 2006
When it Comes to Canada, Kids Are on Track
Rossport Ontario - It takes a lot to impress the generation
raised on MSN and Disney special effects. But a freight train thundering past the foot of the bed will do it.
On the north shore of Lake Superior, in a haven of Canadiana called Rossport, tiny cabins face the sparkling waters. And in between, a
stone's throw away, the railway tracks that long, long ago were stubbornly pounded onto the Canadian Shield.
A crop of kids and too many years of sleep deprivation have left us with little patience for being woken up. But on this magical July
evening, we were happy to pay for the privilege.
Can't you hear the whistle blowing,
Rise up so early in the morn!
Oh yeah, and half-a-dozen times overnight. Is there any choice, once the beds start to shimmy and the windows rattle? You
simply can't resist leaping up to peer through the screen door into the inky sky, listen to the clackety-clack and feel the
wind brush your cheeks as the mighty beast chugs by.
There's not much sleep to be had here, but you can't get any closer to the national dream.
At breakfast, the hotel guests, a potpourri of middle-aged bikers with tattoos and gleaming Harleys, a couple of families
and a sprinkling of empty-nesters, compare notes over high stacks of pancakes and - of course - Canadian maple syrup.
"Mum, that girl from Ottawa? She slept through every single train!"
Later, the innkeeper with the twinkle in his eye - who years ago sailed across the roiling Great Lake waters from Michigan and never
went back - takes the boys down to the tracks. Shows them how to tape their pennies to the rails. Tells them about the railway guy who
sometimes hides in the woods with his radar gun to catch speeding trains.
Hear that faraway whistle? That means the next one is six minutes away.
Kids these days. All short attention spans and instant gratification. But beside the iron road that runs from sea to sea, they sit
patiently. Waiting. Listening. Feeling the rumble build beneath their feet. Off in the distance I think I can I think I can I think I
can. And then! The glint of sun on metal. Around the bend it shrieks. You can be ready, but it never fails to make you jump.
Little boys wave until the last car is a speck on the horizon.
What is it about children and trains? Brio. Electric train sets. Thomas the Tank Engine and Gordon and Percy.
But nothing, nothing, captivates like the real thing.
Around the north shore, the trains are never far away, following us through Marathon, Terrace Bay, Schreiber. Even if they aren't in
sight, you can always hear them. They snake their way around rocky cliffs at Neys Provincial Park, high above the beaches soft as baby
powder and littered with sun-bleached driftwood piled up like so many dinosaur bones.
"Look, there's another one!"
The record was 109 cars, at the Lakehead. The 10-year-old counted. That's a lot of logs and wheat and auto parts. A lot of
spikes and railway ties, teardrops and toil.
This is summer holidays. No history lessons, puh-leeze. But - how old did you say those train tracks are? Who swung all
those hammers? It took them how long?
Driving down the highway, they want to hear that song again. You know, the one about a time when the green dark forest was too silent
to be real.
Back home in Toronto, we only see subways. Not so many big skies and open spaces. But there on the dressers sit the discs of smooth
shiny copper.
Look closely and you can just make out the barest outline of a maple leaf.
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