Moose Hunting - Day 6

Having accomplished all my big goals in and around Maynooth (ma-Nooth, not May-nooth, I have learned), what do I do on my final day here?

Maynooth is the jumping off point for Algonquin Provincial Park, a mammoth green swatch of Ontario just to the northwest.  It is big enough to be a national park in the States.

Algonquin Provincial Park

When I got up this morning I didn't actually intend to go to Algonquin; I intended to go to Lake St. Peter (Lake Street Peter, according to the voice of GPS), Barry's Bay, and Combermere.  But after getting to LSP, paying for my every-park day pass, and seeing how much closer I was to Algonquin, I shifted my plans.  After all, I had been told that Algonquin was THE place for moose.

Most of you know of my obsession with moose.  The major unticked box on my bucket list is labelled "See a moose."  As a child, I loved Bullwinkle (and I still do).  Perhaps that is the source of the obsession.

So, off I go to Algonquin Provincial Park to find a moose.  The ranger at the park entrance told me to follow Route 60 for my best chances.  Route 60 (see the red line on the map) cuts across the park for 56 km east to west.  I kept my eyes peeled because I didn't want to run into one of the beasts.  I barely blinked for 56 km west and 56 km east again.  But ... no moose.

On the way back (east), I figured out why.  There are several signs along the highway that look like this:

Did you know that moose could read?

Most of these signs feature moose only.  Obviously, the moose read the signs and avoid the danger zones.  Obviously!

Not to be squashed with complete disappointment, I proceeded to Barry's Bay and Combermere.

Barry's Bay has Tim Horton's (signifying a metropolis > 3000 population, as nearly as I can tell) and I passed a lot full of tiny houses/pods for sale.  Some places here rent these to tourists.  Without plumbing.  To each his own.

This is a pod

In Combermere, I found a rustic little restaurant called the Bent Anchor, which sits right alongisde the Madawaska River.  The entire restaurant and bar are open air, including an open, shaded deck with picnic tables and a covered deck with tables and chairs.  It reminded me of places in Key West I've seen in movies, except here I needed a sweater.  Food was good, fresh, and reasonably priced, but I set off Canadian regulatory distress by ordering my burder too rare.

Dock at the Bent Anchor - boatside service?

My dinner view

Tomorrow I leave Maynooth and Boulter for Napanee and Adolphustown.  This makes me a little sad because I know I am unlikely to ever return.  Scheduling six days here was good planning.

Where Is Tom McCall When You Need Him? - Day 5

As I recall, my folks only spoke of spending time in two places in Ontario:  Boulter and Buckhorn.  Today I visited the latter.  I was especially eager because Buckhorn is a small town with a giant lake (two connected lakes, actually).

I can attest that my father would be horrified.  I was.  Buckhorn, the town, was teeming with vacationers.  And when I tried to access the lake, I was rebuffed again and again.  Despite a very detailed map (thank you, visitors centre), I could find no road that led to a public park or any other public access point.  I spent at least an hour and a half trying road after road, any road that appeared to go to water.  In every instance, the road led to a resort or some other form of private waterfront property, often very fancy private property.

Where is Tom McCall when you really need him?

For the non-Oregonians among you, Tom McCall was the visionary governor we revere for assuring that the entire Oregon coast is accessible to the public in perpetuity.  There may be fancy beach houses and resorts, but the public still has access.  Not so at Buckhorn Lake.

I managed only a couple of pictures, illegally.  So you know:  I did not get arrested for trespassing.

Buckhorn Lake

Buckhorn Lake

Saw this AFTER I took the photos

Finding My Roots, Literally - Day 4

950 Hass Road, Boulter, Ontario.  That's the current address.

Addresses in the 1950s were probably less formal in such a rural area.  The farm is 5.2 km from the main road, 4.0 km of it is unpaved dirt/gravel, even today.  I can't imagine what kind of road it might have been in the early 1950s when my parents came here.  As I drive these backroads, I continue to marvel at the kind of trip it must have been for them, to come here to vacation and fish.

Dorothy's house is gone due to a recent fire.  The structure was built of round logs over 100 years ago.  I learned this from Don Taylor, a gentleman whose father, who lived to 102, was born there.  Don gave me directions to the farm.  People like Don Taylor have been incredibly generous with their memories and time in response to my curiosity.

I took a few pictures.  But only a few, because I was savagely attacked by an air force of flies (black flies?) that quickly forced me back into my car.

The Farm Today

Forest Across the Road

New House on the Property

Hass Road Today

On the drive back, I had time to contemplate.  What would my life have been like had I grown up here?

In some ways, Boulter is strikingly similar to Elizabeth, where I did grow up.  The hills are everywhere, but not too high. My West Virginia hills were clustered more tightly though.  The roads are narrow and curvy, many unlined, and all of them used to be unpaved.  It is several miles to the nearest grocery store even today.  Over time, the small, rural schools have been consolidated so that it is now miles to the nearest schools.

I have heard stories about people dropping by to visit with Dorothy and share a cup of coffee.  That too is familiar to me.  When you live isolated, visits are welcome, unscheduled, informal affairs.  One major difference is proximity to water.  I grew up next to a river that had a profound effect on my life.  Despite all the lakes and rivers in and around Boulter, Hass Road itself is dry, although the Madawaska River appears to be a couple of miles away (perhaps a mile as the crow flies through a forest).

Those are the obvious similaries and differences.  It is impossible to know how my life would have turned out otherwise.  I can't imagine that being Canadian could have been a bad thing.  But I also can't imagine how different the opportunities that shaped my life (e.g., education, mentors) and their outcomes would have been.  Clearly, we are all the product of nature and nurture, and I can claim no difference in this regard.  But I am sincerely grateful for the opportunities afforded by this trip to explore the nature portion of the equation.

 

Foster Lake, a Peaceful Place to Contemplate My Roots

Cemeteries and Butter Tarts - Day 3

I awoke this morning to blessed rain, a thunderstorm, and much cooler temperatures.  Of course, I had left my rain jacket in the car.  Planning.

Breakfast was a little off.  Ham and eggs sounds like pretty standard fare, but this ham was more like Spam, obviously pressed, very salty.  Another culture thing?

My post breakfast goal was to find that missing cemetery.  Three maps plus GPS coordinates and I still had to stop and ask a human being at the township office where the bloomin' cemetery was hiding.  Fortunately, I was able to find the township office with its requisite human.  And I got to meet the official Carlow Township cat.  Very friendly little fellow, albeit a bit damp.  The cemetery?  Oh, just down the road.  Eureka!

I walked the entire cemetery (very wet, but the rain had stopped and the sun hadn't yet appeared) and took lots of pictures.  My head is now quite lumpy from some little bugs that seemed to like my hair.  No bites anywhere else.  Go figure.

This cemetery has its own personal church, or vice versa.  I'm always puzzled why churches are so often locked up.  Isn't a church exactly the kind of place that should be freely available?  After traipsing through the cemetery, I tried the church door and, to my surprise, it was open.  Inside was a quaint little sanctuary adorned with simple stained glass windows.  As churches go, really nice.

On my way back to Maynooth, I decided a celebration was in order.  Butter tarts.  They are sold singly and by the half dozen.  Most folks seem to go for the half dozen.  After I bought and ate my one, I understood the need for a half dozen.  A butter tart, if you've never had one, is about the size of a small muffin.  In fact, it is baked in a muffin paper.  But it's a tart, think tiny pie.  The crust is a cross between flaky pastry and shortbread, less dense than shortbread, more dense and thicker than pastry.  Really yummy.  The filling -- oh, the fillings:  fruits and creams (like pie fillings), cranberry, maple walnut, pecan, plain, to name a few.  There must have been at least a dozen different flavors.  After much deliberation, I tried pecan, which was far superior to any pecan pie I have ever had.  The filling was silky smooth, warm and creamy and, of course, all the pecans had floated to the top.  The butter tart certainly made up for the breakfast spam.

I also learned why the moose are chained to the porch:  to keep them from being stolen.  Even here.  I. am. crushed.

It's a Culture Thing - Day 2

Today was find-the-cemetery day.  Except I couldn't find it.  I had directions.  I even had GPS coordinates.  The GPS coordinates took me directly to the house of an elderly gentleman who tried to be helpful.  "No, no cemetery here; try up the road just past where X used to be."  I tried "up the road" to no avail, and since I also had no cell service for additional searching, I finally had to give up.

I went to Bancroft, home of "97.7 Moose FM," instead.  I kid you not.  It's the only radio station I can find, and they never give the call letters, just "Moose FM."  Bancroft is a bustling metropolis of about 3,000 souls.  It gives the impression of being a real town.  I found the teeny-tiny Bancroft library to see if they had a bigger local history collection than the Maynooth library (smaller town, bigger library).  I found a geographical reference to my lost cemetery.  But where could one find the translator from "Lot 20, Concession 5" to a navigable location?

The librarian was helpful but easily stumped; then, other patrons got involved.  Nothing like a mystified American to get Canadian charity flowing.  One patron looked up the cemetery (complete with a very detailed map) via a local funeral home website.  Another patron (a substitute mail carrier) suggested I talk with the Boulter postal chief who "knows everything" about the area she serves.  Tomorrow, I try again.

Next stop:  The Bancroft Times, the biggest local newspaper, to search for missing obituaries.  In addition to putting out a weekly newspaper, the oldest in Bancroft, the Times appears to be Bancroft's version of Kinko's -- retail office supplies and full-service copying.  I requested obituaries for three deaths.  It was as if they get such requests every day.  They pulled the papers (real newspapers, two years in neatly bound volumes, the other year a stack of newspapers sandwiched between sheets of cardboard).  Then, I was invited into the back room so that I could have a go at finding my obituaries.  I found two out of three.  Since I could scan them with an app on my tablet, no charge.  Incredibly generous.

More cultural stuff:

I'm learning that this area is much like Oregon in that logging was its main industry, historically.

It is really hot here.  Nowhere named Canada should be this hot, even in July.  If I knew how to translate centigrade to farenheit I would know how hot it is.  But I don't.  Maybe it's better that way.  I'm not going to look it up.  I know water boils at 100 C and freezes at 0 C.  That's sufficient.  I'm certain we haven't exceeded boiling yet.

After my unrewarding cemetery hunt and my very rewarding obituary hunt, I realized that dehydration might be setting in.  Off to Tim Horton's (a Bancroft hot spot) for iced tea.  And they tried to hand me a bottle.  The same thing happened at dinner on Day 1.  Order iced tea; a bottle appears.  I don't drink icky, flavored iced tea.  Today I decided to negotiate:

• Me:  You have steeped tea on your menu board
• TH server:  Yes, but it's hot tea
• Me:  Please take the biggest cup you have, fill it with ice, and pour tea on the ice
• TH server:  Okay!

Problem solved.  I have imported a little American culture of which we can be proud.

My hostel has a shop next door that purports to sell lattes and butter tarts (a local delicacy, apparently).  Outside, it has a collection of carved bears (just like Oregon) and carved moose (not like Oregon at all).  Here they are (click on the pictures to enlarge):

One moose, extra-large

Two welcoming moose, restrained (have they been bad?)

Really?

I found the belly buttons on the restrained pair to be especially humorous.  The hours, not so much.

Finally, here is my view from dinner tonight.  I enjoyed it from air conditioned comfort.  My only problem was that the malt vinegar, which was presented in a spray bottle, spritzed my Kindle on each application to the fish.

Bancroft @ For the Halibut Fish and Chips

Ottawa to Maynooth - Day 1

I like red-eye flights because I typically fall asleep before the plane leaves the ground.  Not this time.  No sleep between Portland and Chicago (the long leg), and only a brief nap between Chicago and Ottawa.  Fortunately, Tim Horton makes really good, strong (redundant, I know) coffee.  One X-large and an extraordinary donut kept me going for the entire day.

So, what's it like here?  GPS worked great, every kilometer.  During my last trip to Canada (1980s), I recall miles and kilometers.  (I also recall doing conversions in my head to pass the time while driving.)  No conversions today.  Since a kilometer is shorter than a mile, I'm convinced the metric system made a long drive shorter.  Another reason for the U.S. to try it.  I also marveled at the cost (and benefits) of having every sign in two languages.  Another lesson for the U.S. -- it can be done.

Ottawa has a surprisingly small airport, and getting around and out was a breeze.  Customs?  No waiting.  Car rental?  No line.  In short order I had left urbanity behind and was ... in the middle of nowhere.  I'm not used to so many interchanges without a single service in sight.  Even my coffee stop involved leaving the highway behind and going on an off-road adventure, confusing the GPS lady in the process.

And highway soon gives way to provincial roads (2 lanes) and county roads (less smooth 2 lanes).  Lots of green; lots of wildflowers.  The cuts made through the rock to build the roads reminded me of West Virginia.  Other natural roadside rock formations had the look of stacked stone walls.

And then, enter the Hastings Highlands!  These highlands are not western states' high. Instead, with a wondrous familiarity, they are West Virginia high.  No wonder my Dad loved this place so.

No roadside services plus one X-large coffee soon add up to "where the hell am I supposed to pee." Huge, gorgeous Gorman Lake turned into an unexpectedly pleasant find.  (No, I wasn't thinking of peeing in the lake.  It appears to be quite protected -- there was a sign prohibiting soap.)  The lake was accessible from the road, the outhouses a welcome bonus and superior to the bushes I was anticipating.

Gorman Lake

A very welcome find

I arrived in Maynooth too early to check into my hostel.  The public library, which lives just across the streeet, lured me in for my first opportunity for local research (and air conditioning and WiFi).  At first, the delightful young library worker (she reminded me of Zoey from Nurse Jackie) thought they had nothing in their collection to help me.  Then, she started to produce: the names of Bancroft newspapers to visit, several local histories compiled and and published in book form, and a referral to the Mayor, who is somewhat of a local historian herself.  I got my own special table for reviewing the reference materials.  Before I could start being anxious about calling the Mayor, she visited me at the library.  I'll never know if she was just passing through or if "Zoey" called her.  Now the Mayor of Maynooth is helping me locate the site of Dorothy's home in Boulter!  Nice people.

The Arlington hostel is just right for the price.  My big room is third floor, funky purple walls, queen bed, big couch, three windows that open, and a fan.

Today's only regret is that I murdered a slow-moving bird on my way to dinner.  Dinner, on the other hand, was yummy.  Kim, I found us a new source for liver and onions!

Final note:  Everyone seems to ignore the posted speed limits.  And not a Mountie in sight.  Is it a local thing?  I feel culturally inept in this regard.

Bills of Attainder

It has been a long time since I studied bills of attainder and ex post facto laws.  Both are prohibited by the U.S. Constitution.

Ex post facto is the easier one to recall:  "ex post" (after), meaning that an act was legal when it was committed but then is made illegal by the law passed afterward.

Bills of attainder are a little more complicated.  First, a bill of attainder is an act of a Legislature, not a Court.  Second, the bill of attainder circumvents all civil rights, including the right to a trial, against self incrimination, and so forth.  Third, it permits seizure of property without due process.  Fourth, because it is a legislative act, there is no appeal process.

Of course, my current interest in this topic arises from my investigations about the treatment of Loyalists during the American Revolution.  But, once again, the past and the present collide.

Interestingly, Thomas Jefferson, in one more display of hypocrisy, is on record as favoring the use of a bill of attainder in Virginia.  Alexander Hamilton, on the other hand, argued vigorously against them.

During the American Revolution, the New York State Constitution permitted bills of attainder, and they were used to label individuals guilty of treason and to seize their property.  Some of my ancestors lost their property through such actions.  New York was not the only state to do this.

Why should this matter now?  After all, the Constitutional prohibition has been in place since its initial adoption.

The short answer is that Constitutional protections are absolute in theory, but often not in practical terms.  Japanese Americans were attainted -- deprived of civil liberties and property -- during World War II, in spite of a Constitution that was written to protect them.  And the bill of attainder was only a fraction of the violations of civil liberties that those citizens endured.

The other answer is that we -- as a people and our elected reprsentatives -- do not learn or remember these lessons well.  Since 9/11/2001, we have been on a slipperty slope concerning when civil liberties may be nullified in the interests of national security.  We have seen that, in times of crisis, the passions of the majority lose perspective (just think of the Patriot Act) and the Constitution is trampled.

Let us, therefore, remember and heed Alexander Hamilton:

"Nothing is more common than for a free people, in times of heat and violence, to gratify momentary passions, by letting into the government, principles and precedents which afterwards prove fatal to themselves."

Sources:

http://www.history.org/foundation/journal/Spring02/attainder.cfm

http://online.sfsu.edu/jaintern/rightsviolated.html