Thunder Bay all the Way

Hey,

We're in Thunder Bay, ON right now. Apparently it's about half-way through the country. Seems hard to believe. We were picked up last night outside of Wabigoon and switched shifts driving. The ride, Dale, offered to let us sleep in his garage, and treated us to breakfast a few minutes ago. Access to computers are rare along the road, but our time is relatively short so I'll only type a portion of my journal.

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We left Nelson following a night of drinking malt-liquor by the lake. Free day-old buns were aquired at a salvation army, and peanut butter was soon to follow. The combination of the two was later dubbed a 'roadwich': A hard-times sandwich for those with shallow pockets and deep souls. A difficult trek greeted us immediately. We hiked up nine blocks of Nelson's terraced streets in the mid-day sun, and migrated to the shoulder of the highway to start thumbing. Two hours of work failed to land us a ride. Another hitcher appeared around the bend and approached with a smile. "How are you guys for water? Want some sandwiches?" The majority of other transients we've encountered have responded in a similar manner; The unwritten rules of the road seem to be well entrenched. The kindness of society's downtrodden never ceases to amaze me. We wished her the best, and she headed a few hundred meters down the highway to start thumbing.

We eventually caught a ride with a local to a spot just outside of Wymer - A halfway town between halfway towns. Ten minutes later we caught another lucky break, and entered Salmo.

Salmo took an exceptionally large amount of time to catch-out of. Four hours of hitching put the sun well behind the tree lined highway, giving us ample room to thumb in the resulting shadow. The conditions were more than hospitable to the tar-boiling oven of Christina Lake, but boring none the less.

After four hours a beautiful girl named Danni pulled over in a VW Jack Rabbit. We used every square-foot of the car to fit our bags in and took off. She was a hair-dresser in Nelson two days of the week, and was on the return-trip to her home in Creston. After talking about music for an hour, she dropped us off on the far edge of town near a campground.

A small music festival was occuring within the campground, which increased the already rotund fee to a whopping $50.00. In lue of paying, we hiked over a bridge to a railway trestle and found a suitable location to squat for the night.

We were awoken by a conservation officer the next morning. Instant panic set in. Luckily, he was a nice guy, and left soon after.

The following morning we caught a quick ride twenty kilometers down the highway with a French Canadian berry picker. According to locals, the migration of workers to the orchards is an annual event.

Still waiting for the "golden ride", we tossed out our thumbs again and were rewarded with another French Canadian driving to Ft. Macmurray to work on the oil sands. His personality initially seemed slightly obtuse and dissonant, but we quickly locked into syncopation on a variety of topics; The art of small talk was lost to him. Despite this, he was an exceptionally nice guy. Conversations varied between cultural differences of French and English Canadians, an the surrounding geography.

After dropping us on the far side of Calgary, we made some roadwiches by a cemetary and hiked to Chestermere, still riding the euphoria of our last journey.

Preperations were in order.
"Yeah, let's grab some beer."
Our priorities were second to none.

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That seems like a good spot to leave-off for now. The next entry involves domestic violence and hash production.

-Tom