The grey clouds lifted intermittently in order for us to catch glimpses of the great river again. What a beast the St. Lawrence is. Wide, dark, deep and powerful. It must've been terrifying for Cartier and whoever else was among the first to sail here, not knowing if they were at sea, or being swallowed up by an unknown immensity. It turned out to be the latter, for sure. I remember reading somewhere that, if you want to understand the main difference between the colonial histories of Canada and the US, you had to understand that the US had an actual "seaboard", a set coastline that you could follow fairly easily and chart with some accuracy. Canada has no actual seaboard: instead, the sailor of old would stumble on some land, say Newfoundland or Nova Scotia, for a while and then lose it as he sailed into the Gulf of St. Lawrence and then into the river itself. In those days, legends of being consumed by some monster or falling off some type of "edge" would've played havoc with their imaginations. At least until further upriver, where both shores finally became visible.
Onwards, ever onwards we drove. After 3 hours, we approached Montreal and then things started to go weird, or, as the Newfies would say, "the arse fell out of 'er." Our GPS insisted on a course that seemed to take us into the city. Lou voiced great concerns about this: she had the roadmap in front of her and said that wasn't what we did on the way out. I agreed, but GPS kept us going its way. Lou and I agreed that we should trust in the technology and we followed it … into a tunnel that took us into the heart of the portlands of the city, with no autoroute signs to corroborate where, exactly, we were or where we should go. We had to navigate on our own. My frustration with GPS reached a profane crescendo, and I ripped the power cord out of it and shut it down. What followed was a highly charged effort to keep going west, through old industrial wastelands and narrow streets populated by large semis and delivery trucks. My instincts got us to a place where an autoroute sign finally appeared and we were able to get onto autoroute 20 … the milk-run out of Montreal everybody detests. And we had bursting bladders. So slow was our passage, but we made it out alive and relieved ( Lou in a restaurant washroom, me behind some bushes ).
And then, familiar Ontario and the 401. Another 5 weary hours with many stops. My head was ready to explode. As we got closer to home, the sun broke through the clouds and we had a pleasant last 2 hours in golden sunshine. Up the 404 and the much anticipated Newmarket signs. Home, at last! A cold beer, gathering up all the mail, quick phone call to Mom, checking for signs of any damage or harm and finding none. Ah …. our own bed.
What lies beyond exhaustion? I don't know, I'm too tired to answer that question.
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