CANADA ON THE RAILS, WESTWARD THRU ONTARIO

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CANADA ON THE RAILS, WESTWARD THRU ONTARIO

Thursday, September 22, at 10:00 PM Eastern Time, Penny and I ambled out of Union Station, Toronto, on a train taking us across our Native Land, mile by rolling mile, to Vancouver on the Pacific shore some 2700 miles away.

The cityscape was dim, sparing the environment and us un-necessary glare; instead, the metropolis burned a low, incandescent glow, as we slipped away from it and into sleep.

Now, we sit after breakfast next morning in the sky dome of our cross-Canada train as it eases its way into the quiet of the morning mist, through a land of rock face that yields gravel-stone tempered by lakes and gardened by nature with vegetation in autumn glory.

We are into early north Ontario, a vast land, various generations of wooded treasure on proud display in a riot of early fall colour worn by birches and poplars in hues of auburn and bronze and gold and orange and yellow, with tamaracks faithfully bearing shades of green, leaves in sprightly dance. And it is grounded, all of it, in bushes of burning red.

Picture hundreds of lakes, perhaps a thousand, softening the rugged terrain with languid motion, casting their rolling selves into varied shapes and forms, circular here, a crescent there, an ellipse further away, natural mirrors reflecting the majesty of the forests that surround them. And, as if sedated by the serene, we float in this locomotive bubble, mystic in its feel, through full flushes of striking colour and daunting displays from nature, all under a magnificent sky in the caring role of comforting canopy.

From night-cap last evening to brekkie this morning onto lunch this afternoon and pre-dinner drinks this evening, we have gone-by: Lake Simcoe, un-seen, behind forests and in spite of a revealing moon; the Muskokas of 2^nd homes for retreat and recent G20 fame; Parry Sound from whence came Bobby Orr, prince of ice hockey; Sudbury where astronauts trained for moonwalks; Capreol the junction at which Montreal and Toronto used to meet in the interest of consolidating cross-Canada trains, alas no longer; Gogama, born to service train engines; Peterbell, identified by a helpful train attendant, where a dear friend indulges in rafting and where our train paused to deliver parcels to a cabin in these wilds; and then, it was time to de-train, do my stretches and walk-around Hornepayne, a pulp and paper town of twelve hundred souls, some four hundred and thirty miles north west of where we had alighted our train.

The night-cap had done its job well. Breakfast, an early-morn treat, was of eggs lightly over, sausages delicately done, home fried potatoes julienned, with muffins at the side. Lunch, equally pleasing, opened with a teasing soup of veggies that flowed into a sandwich of turkey, with baked tomato and provolone on a firm and warm Panini; a creamy vanilla ice cream put the palate at ease. The tasting of wine and beer is in progress, accompanied by tasty morsels, as I scribble and we await our dinner seating, delicious prime rib of beef avec jus rosemary, I hear, from the early diners returning.

We shall spend tomorrow in the Prairies.


V.Ernest Ainsley,

23.09.11

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