Comin’ into Los Angelees
Bringin’ in a couple of keys
Don’t touch my bags if you please,
Mr. Customs man
— Arlo Guthrie from “Comin’ Into Los Angeles”
WARNING: Gratuitous references to motorcycles and motorcycle riding (what, again?)
Early September, 1977 found your intrepid narrator and his two companions, five hours into that most exalted of motorcycle-related endeavors — The Bike Trip. The first half of the voyage would be spent, skirting the northern shores of Lake Superior, west to Thunder Bay. One at a time, we pulled up to the Customs booth at the end of the bridge into Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario. Mike and Crash went first and were quickly waved through.
The ginger-haired Customs lady greeted me, with a broad smile. “Welcome to Canada,” she chirped. After the usual “Where are you from?” and “Where are you going?” she finished with: “Are you carrying any firearms?”
Me: “No.”
Her: Any alcohol?”
Me: “Nope.”
Her: “Any . . . marijuana?”
Me: “Hahahahaha . . . marijuana? Hahahaha . . . no, uh-uh, nope.
Her: “OK then.
Me: “Who’d answer ‘yes’ to that?” I couldn’t help asking.
Her: “You’d be surprised,” she replied. “Some people say, “Just a little.”
Me: “That’s crazy,” I said, adding, “Well, not us. We don’t have ANY.”
She waved me through with a smile. O Canada . . .
A few miles down the road, we pulled into the parking lot of a Tim Horton’s. I dismounted, unscrewed the lens on my tail-light, removed the baggie and slipped it into my jacket pocket.
“Man, you were lucky back there,” Crash told me, shaking his head, “I wouldn’t have done it.”
“You guys will thank me in camp tonight,” I told him. “I was thinking about making YOU carry it and you don’t want to know where.”
We rode for a three hours, at a steady 65 mph, gliding down the sinuous two-lane ribbon of black-top that is Trans-Canada, Highway 17, then stopped in White River for Crash and Mike’s go-to road meal — pie and coffee.
In those days, White River was a dot on the map, roughly 50 miles west of Wawa, located on the intersection of Highways 17 and 631. It was originally set up in 1885, as a rail town on the Canadian Pacific Railway. In 1961, it was finally made accessible by car.
White River had two claims to fame. The first was that it had registered the coldest temperature in all of Canada . . . 72 below zero Fahrenheit. So proclaimed a sign on the edge of town, featuring a gargantuan thermostat. Sadly this is a myth. The coldest temperature in Canada was recorded in Snag, Yukon at minus 81 F on February third, 1947.
The second claim is true and I never knew about it until I began doing research for this column. As it turns out, White River is best known for being the home of Winnie the Pooh. I’m not kidding. In August 1914, a black bear cub was sold to Captain Harry Colebourn in White River, and Colebourn named it Winnipeg, Winnie for short, after his hometown of Winnipeg, Manitoba. Over the years, the bear became the basis for A.A. Milne’s loveable literary character. The town celebrates “Winnie’s Hometown Festival” every third week in August. Who knew? Apparently thousands of people, just not ME.
An hour and a half east of Thunder Bay, we stopped for dinner, in Nipigon where we underwent a celestial experience. We didn’t know it at the time that Crater Nipigon on Mars is named for this town. All we knew, as we sat waiting for our burgers and poutine at the Sunnyside Café, was that our waitress was . . . stunning. I don’t mean attractive like in an “I’m easy, boys,” gum-popping, cheap sort of way. She looked like . . . an angel. With a very short skirt.
She leaned low over a table to clean it, with the predictable results. Each of us groaned, audibly.
“You guys go on without me, Crash announced suddenly, his eyes glazing over. I’m going to look for a job here in Nipigon.”
Our “Angel of Nipigon.” We were young guys on a Bike Trip.
And so it went.
Don Negus is a Morning Sun columnist. Email: dhughnegus@gmail.com