I’m on the run from Barrie, in my blacked-out Bonnie & Clyde Chevy, following the herd along the freeway to Midland – another Ontario lakeside refuge, tailor-made for hideouts.
In downtown, monumental murals on walls and bakeries selling butter tarts, with hearts. I have no idea what hearts are. Maybe I should have asked.
My tart disappears on the pier, or more accurately metamorphoses into a pack of rowdy flies which won’t leave me be; they think I have a heart.
Over the water is the old mill, where a giant peace treaty is underway with the exchanging of knick-knacks and many made-up stories which are presented as gospel / fact / truth on both sides.
Consumed by my own ongoing struggle for legitimacy, I retreat backwards to Collingwood, by the Blue Mountains, which as I understand it are only blue if you’re as high as a kite.
There are too many people here, all on tour from themselves. And the waterside walkway is crowded alright: dogs, ducks, swans – all the difficult ones.
An amphitheatre, the posed photos, a drive-thru, the new apartments, a flooded plot of land.
And downtown here is a middle-class credit card blast. With murals, with marble, expensive bespoke furniture; everything you could never need.
On the walk back to the getwaway car, I make sure to excuse myself from the labrynth, from going around in circles with the comatose. I pick up a map for this, and even a word from a bystander telling me where to go.
Into the wetlands is where, floating above a boardwalk that was built last week, and not to budget.
Blackbirds with red-splashed wings dive around and yelp at the presence of non-birds. They’re trying to tell us something – like get the hell off of my territory.
The Georgian Bay Coastal Route is by the water, with little view of actual water. I may seek out a refund plus compensation for this.
For a breather, Grandma Lambe supplies a tasty tart or two, roadside, out the back of a Subaru.
Suitably refreshed, I’m good to go – in and out of Owen Sound, to the motel at the top of the steep hill, where I’m going out of my way to chase waterfalls.
Three hours later, having still not seen one, I figure they’re moving away from me, deliberately.
To get to not see them, I see instead many car dealerships, followed by a garden centre and a hiking sign pointing towards a ladder.
I climb up it and onto the Niagara Escarpment, through naked trees and along narrow ravines, by sheer drops and implausible rocks.
All the time I’m walking through an all-knowing history, with traffic noise rising above it all to float with the gliding eagles.
Glimpses of water, houses, civilisation. Eventually the forest spits me out onto an arrow-straight road, alone.
Even the constant rumble-and-hum of the traffic has abandoned me now, and I wonder if I’ve inadvertently stumbled into the opening scene of a David Lynch film.
With a determined stare, I plead with my surroundings for a waterfall. I was promised a goddamn waterfall! Give me a goddamn waterfall!
White markers on telegraph poles, going on for miles and miles, through peaks and troughs, miles and miles, peaks and troughs.
At 7pm, I’m spinning around. I give up.
On a return through the very same forest I came through, scattered clothes hanging on trees which weren’t there before. This is some spooky business.
By the cliffs, the wind whips itself up into repetitive whispers: “Don’t jump, don’t jump”.
I’m now on the winding trail to a car park, which also does not exist on any map.
Along the street to the steepest path I’ve seen today, the steepest path I’ve possibly ever seen, and finally around the bend and into downtown for a few ponderous circuits, trying to fathom out what the hell just happened there in the last few hours …
And this is some town, Owen Sound. Booze and prostitution ban lifted, glasses smashing down onto sidewalks from questionable hotels. Rowdy revellers escaping the Roxy with the fixtures and fittings – some under ten.
On the curtain call, a sign appears. Midway Station, two blocks away. Two blocks which hide, around corners.
On arrival, I seat myself in the waiting room. There doesn’t seem to be a train line, I can’t buy a ticket, so instead I buy a ridiculously strong Rye IPA.
A friendly person appears with a Big Smile and serves me up a fresh-made burger, with real potatoes ploughed from the fryer, in the kitchen.
To my left, peacocking – which I do my level best to ignore.
Straight ahead, tall yarns from boozed-up locals, yapping on about speeding away from downtown at 160 clicks, making Collingwood in twenty. I might try that tomorrow.
Outside, a ship of lights, which has forgotten to get in the water.
I travel upstairs to the motel along the unlit path, where sleep is waiting for me on the other side of a door.
An Outside World 