Steve's PhotoBlog

Silver Lake and the 7

2009-05-22T23:24:00.007-04:00

One photo project I keep adding to is an image record of Highway 7 from Ottawa to the Tweed turnoff. It's still officially part of the Trans-Canada Highway, though this designation is likely a forgotten formality since "the 401" and subsequently "the 416" were pushed through in the 1950's and '80's. I still prefer this old, two-lane route to Toronto and the south; it offers a rugged, sometimes pastoral drive through a largely untouched part of the Ontario hinterland. Plus in this age of "on-time delivery" there are far fewer big trucks on your tail. In some ways it seems like a land that time forgot; lots of scrubby Canadian Shield outcrops, abandoned motels, tiny towns, and shuttered diners. I've driven this road so many times that I know every twist and turn, what old barn comes into view over every hill, and what the light looks like at different times of the day, in different weather and different seasons. I've traveled along it for holidays and conferences, family visits and funerals. I've made it a mission to find at least one new perspective with every trip. So here are a couple of them, taken five years apart. One is of an ancient Oldsmobile, sleeping quietly as trees begin to engulf its frame while the early morning sun sparkles off the still gleaming rocket on its hood, as if still pointing to the future. How that future has changed since it was left here because of a blown engine or other calamity many years ago. The other one, taken late this April, is of an island in Silver Lake. The sun at about the same angle, reflecting in a very different way the timeless beauty of this old Ontario thoroughfare.

Beacon Whispers

2009-05-10T09:56:00.004-04:00

It's been a while since the last posting; they have been few and far between during this past long and dreary winter. The inspiration lay dormant under the slush and snow, and I looked forward to the spring sun and new discoveries. More often than not, I'm finding it's the chance diversions off the main road that yield the most interesting things. Every time I drive down Highway 7, I pass the tiny hamlet of Brooke, and the Old Brooke Road. On a whim, I put on the turn signal and pulled off. A kilometre or so revealed a remarkable exposition of "land art" in an otherwise typical field. A group of artists has erected something called "Fieldwork," which is described as an open-air "gallery" where artists can erect pieces that the public can discover when they take a similar left-turn on their journeys. A new installation is made each season, and on this sunny spring day, I was able to stand in the early-morning silence to ponder "Beacon whispers." An old tree has been assigned the formidable task of being the "beacon-tree," or "receiver/transmitter of personal gratitude." Flaky though it may sound, it's really kind of cool. Passersby are encouraged to reflect on something they are grateful for in their life, and add an object to the beacon to symbolize their gratitude. From the looks of it, people love it. The tree is festooned with everything from colourful ribbons to pendants, bits of jewellery, even pictures of cows and a plastic fish. I didn't have anything specific to add, so I thought I'd make a virtual addition, in the form of these pictures. The site is easy to find; take the Old Brooke Road just a few kilometres south of Perth on Highway 7. The group's website is www.fieldwork.blogsome.com.

The Norisle

2009-02-21T23:11:00.005-05:00

A couple of years ago, during a trip to the Soo, I took some photos of the venerable Great Lakes steamer Norgoma (see earlier post below.) She was one of a trio of ferries that during my youth served communities in the north. The smaller Normac made daily crossings between Blind River and Meldrum Bay on Manitoulin Island, and one summer I worked for my dad selling copies of the Sudbury Star to passengers during her crossings. The third ship was the Norisle, sister ship to the Norgoma. These two plied the busy Tobermory-South Baymouth route, until they were retired in the mid 1970's. I've held a fascination with these three little ships to this day, so it was a joy this past summer when during a drive through Manitoulin Island, I stumbled upon the Norisle, docked in the tiny village of Manitouwaning since 1975. When I stopped by and snapped these photos, it looked like she'd definitely seen better years. To call the place where she's docked off the beaten path is a bit of an understatement, but as I've discovered in my years of experience in the north as both a resident and a visitor, never count out the power of dreams. Tonight as I was poking around the web, I came across www.norisle.com; the site of the "Friends of the Norisle." This enterprising group has come up with a wonderful idea, which I suspect will be a big hit if they can secure the necessary funding. They want to tap into the growing market for so-called heritage cruising; whereby old ships like the Norisle are refurbished to their former glory to again ply the waters they once served. Please visit their site, and watch the video which contains some wonderful, timeless photos of this old Great Lakes lady. I myself was quite happy with seeing her slowly aging with dignity, as the gulls called from the nearby pilings and the afternoon wind whistled through her mast, but it would be great to stand and watch as she pulled away from the dock once again.

High voltage

2009-02-20T23:39:00.005-05:00

I've come to believe that there's something up there; that there's really some invisible, living thing in those wires strung from the steel matrix of towers behind the building where I work. My office window looks out on the spindly corridor of high tension lines that march to the horizon from my keyboard vantage point. When I step outside the building door, I can sense their presence. I can tell the humidity in the air by the sound of their endless stream of electrons; the more damp, the more sizzle. Today it was a typical mid-February afternoon; somewhat overcast, with a slight mist and a few flakes of wet snow. The power-lines were talking to me loudly today, the audible buzz punctuated by an occasional crackle, as tens of thousands of volts streaked at light speed overhead to feed the ever growing metropolis around me. If you live in Ottawa, and you are reading this, the flicker of your monitor screen is fed by the river of electricity that runs behind my office. Even on dry days in the summer, when I take my lunchtime walk through the field created by their massive right of way, there's a slight hiss in the air one can hear over the white noise of traffic from the busy nearby Conroy Road. It fades when the fire trucks from Station 31 roar by with sirens blazing responding to a call, but nonetheless, it's always there. I suppose I should worry about things like electromagnetic radiation, but when I get back to the office and log on to check the sorry state of my RRSP's I'm perversely comforted by the sight of those towers and the lines that bring continuity to my post-modern life. Barring any unforeseen circumstances, these sentinels of the power grid promise to keep me in the "normal", and the buzz I hear overhead as I head to my car at the end of the day tell of the warm lights of home, which sounds like a good thing.

Two hearts

2009-02-14T22:02:00.008-05:00

It's Valentine's Day, the Hallmark-iest of all Hallmark holidays. Friday afternoon, as I stopped into the drug store to buy toothpaste, the card aisle was filled with scruffy looking fellows buying over-sized eight dollar cards iced with fake glitter and lined with verses of cheesy sentiment. Ok, so after picking up the toothpaste, I was there too. But at least I told myself I was going to get a blank card that I could fill with my own heartfelt words; something that conveyed my true feelings to the woman I've lived with for over thirty years. Of course by now, if she doesn't know what they are, I'm really in big trouble. At the end of the day though it's a nice little gesture, this symbolic acknowledgment of affection, be it real or imagined. Whether it's a card, chocolates, dinner and a movie or even a gift from some store whose name ends with xxx, what's there to get all superior about? The world is scary, and times are hard. So I say if this day, at the mid point of the depths of winter is an opportunity for even the most hardened cynics to stand with the other guys and look for the perfect card in hopes of a smile and a kiss, what could possibly be wrong with that? Two hearts in the snow here, by the way, made by the tires of someone in the parking lot at Kitchissippi lookout. One of Ottawa's more famous make-out spots.

Robert Hyndman at Christmas

2008-12-28T00:02:00.004-05:00

There was a nice article in the Ottawa Citizen today about my father-in-law Robert Hyndman. It was part of a series that followed up those who in the past had been subjects of the master Ottawa portrait photographer Yusuf Karsh. In Robert's case he had been photographed in his air force uniform, as a young Spitfire pilot during the Second World War. The portrait was taken in 1941, when the top brass and those in Ottawa were discovering that as well as being able to chase Messerschmitts, Robert could paint. He became one of Canada's officially commissioned war artists, and his post-war career established him as one of this country's finest portrait painters and landscape artists. As fate would have it, I married his daughter. So, for the past thirty-odd years he has been an honoured guest at our Christmas table. He's 93 now, so needless to say, he's become the heart and soul of our small family gathering. Every year there's a scotch or two, lots of laughs and warm chat, and if I'm lucky a critique of how I'm doing with my composition technique. This year he gave me a small painting he had done, based on a photo I had made during one late fall drive down Highway seven of a small farm near Kaladar. Whereas I managed to capture a visual record of the scene, Robert's brush stokes brought the field to life in the warm autumn breeze. His venerable barn sagged with the mark of dozens of winters, and the craggy old fence-posts he painted marked the passing of an age in rural Ontario. He is pictured here, as he relaxed and studied a book about his inspiration, (some of whom taught him as a young artist), Canada's Group of Seven.

Eversley Presbyterian church

2008-10-25T23:41:00.002-04:00

Surrounding it is encroaching suburbia and big box world. It's a stone's throw from the ballooning mega-burbs of Aurora and Richmond Hill. It sits beside the northern reaches of Dufferin Street; once a quiet country road but now a four lane "arterial" into the ever expanding reaches of the megalopolis Toronto. I had a hard time finding the Eversley Presbyterian church because first of all the village of Eversley is no longer marked, and once I spotted it there was no real place to pull over for fear the cement truck on my tail would not share my interest in vanishing Ontario heritage. So I found a parking lot a bit up the road and hiked back along the gravel shoulder. The Eversley Presbyterian church holds no services of worship; it closed in 1958. However the small stone building erected in 1838, its tree-shaded grounds, and small graveyard are well maintained and can be rented out for weddings and the like. In fact, it owes its continued existence because Lady Eaton of the department store fame bought it in 1960 and assured it would be preserved. It's a remarkable little oasis, mirroring both the past and the present. To the east, the burbs approach. To the west, it's much the same as it was when pioneer builders dug stones from the earth to erect its solid walls. I walked around a bit in the early warmth of the October morning, read the inscriptions on the headstones, and peered in through dusty windows to its simple sanctuary. A red squirrel had somehow found its way inside, and sat sunning itself on a southern windowsill, as the granite inscription of a former parishioner's last resting place reflected in the glass.

AM radio, Brook Benton, and Frog World

2008-10-24T22:24:00.008-04:00

On a recent weekend trip down Highway 15, just north of Smiths Falls, we stopped at Gemmell's Garden Centre. Margot assured me it was an absolutely excellent place to buy bulbs, perennials and gee-gaws for her wonderful garden, now sliding into late October torpor. What I usually do on these flower market side-trips is sit in the car, and play with the scan button on the radio to see what I can find. I always go to the AM band first. It's probably a holdover from my childhood years, when I would lie in bed late at night with the earphone and marvel at the distant signals my little Grundig would pull in through the ether. Fort Wayne. Chicago. Gary. I marveled at how snuggled into my bed, in my little postwar bungalow in my northern Ontario mining town, I could hear distant voices from big cities across the continent and the night. There was something so primal about hearing Brook Benton's Rainy Night in Georgia in my small room, beamed from a 100,000 watt tower in a cornfield in rural Indiana. So there I sat in the parking lot, feeling a bit bummed. For as I searched the dial beyond the local stations, on the AM band there was nothing beyond a couple of typical right-wing talk signals coming from across the nearby US border. Everything else was static. So I got out and walked around, and as Margot puttered among the plant pots, I discovered a tiny, bustling little microcosm of life. Just off the parking lot, in earshot of the busy highway with the signature CPR train horns just off in the distance was a pond. A pond full of frogs. I thought of Freeman Patterson, who always teaches that beauty is everywhere. I ran back to grab the camera and shot a whole bunch of pictures as these serene, wonderfully green subjects enjoyed their surroundings in the warm, late September afternoon. This has absolutely no connection with great American AM radio in the seventies, perhaps the greatest radio of all time, except it started that achingly beautiful Brook Benton song playing again in my head, as it is now as I type. Go figure.

Spruce Beach, Elliot Lake

2008-10-04T00:24:00.006-04:00

It's long gone fall now, and the summer memories are being gradually compartmentalized like file cards in a library as the shadows lengthen. This is the place where I spent my summers, during my so-called coming of age in a small northern Ontario mining town. I briefly passed through again this year, and after I'd done the drive-by of houses I'd lived in, I stopped and sat for an hour on Spruce Beach, in the unseasonably cool misty dampness of a threatening July afternoon. As a teenager, countless afternoons rolled by lying on the sand, swimming out to the island visible to the right of this picture, and just hanging out with the hometown gang now scattered to the wind. There are traces that we leave behind in subtle ways, in all the places that we have at one time or another called home. They are not necessarily obvious to us, though we may search for them when we return years later, as I did this past summer. There wasn't a soul on Spruce Beach that afternoon, yet as I sat on the picnic table and gazed out onto the lake, every summer came back to me, in a kind of silent newsreel as a thunderstorm started to rumble over the distant hills, and sent me on my way again.

That was summer

2008-09-26T22:41:00.004-04:00

There is a lot to love about these days of early fall. Take your pick. Perhaps it's the gauzy evenings of unseasonable warmth, as the huge red sun sets to a chorus of crickets, revived from the snap of an early frost which dropped like a phantom on the rooftops during the past week. In the morning now, everything is covered with a misty dew. Spider webs which hang between the car antenna and the cedar bush beside the driveway are jeweled in the weak sunshine. I like the drive to work; still in short sleeves, window down with the heater on. These times of transition also serve as a bittersweet prism to yet another summer now gone. Though it's generally been a somewhat cool and damp affair here in eastern Ontario, like every summer it has been marked by memorable days, good books and gentle afternoons in the backyard under the oak tree shade. The stark, brutal light of a July noon gave way to the slanting shadows of the August sunrise. Tonight the warm south breeze through the window sends the whisper of traffic sounds from the nearby freeway. At this time of year that usually means weather is on the way, and with it the unwelcome transition to cold rain and sweaters. Margot even brought up the subject of snow-tires last night. "The dealer has a special offer!" she said while the weather dork on the box said the warm spell wouldn't last. So as I rifle though the files to find the definitive "summer of '08" picture, there is one that jumps out. Thomas goes to the beach. A picnic in the park; with egg salad sandwiches, cool drinks, a warm wind off Britannia Bay, a big blue bucket and many, many sandcastles to build.

Cobalt's boomtown ruins

2008-08-16T21:52:00.003-04:00

Some of Ontario's most original and genuine boomtown architecture lives in the tiny town of Cobalt, just east of Highway 11 near New Liskeard. Rich in mining history, with rickety old mine buildings and a frontier-like downtown, it is a must see spot for photographers. The website ww.northernontario.org tells its fascinating tale; "Legend has it that a blacksmith threw his hammer at a fox one day back in 1903 and accidentally uncovered what become the world's richest vein of silver...almost overnight this area was transformed. Vast tracks of timber disappeared to be replaced by mining headframes. Between 1908 and 1910 the name of Cobalt was known worldwide. It was booming so rapidly there was no time for planning, houses and buildings went up where they would fit. The population soared to 10,000 in the blink of an eye. Then, almost overnight in 1929, the stock market crash destroyed the silver market and Cobalt became a ghost town." The remnants of many of the old mines dot the surrounding hillsides. Spindly headframes loom above the surrounding bush, and evidence of the town's historic past live even within its craggy downtown streets. An old rusty mine building guards the entrance to town, gaping pits surrounded by wire fences dot residential neighbourhoods, and how many restaurants in a downtown setting can boast a mineshaft behind the kitchen? On the main intersection sits a former store that now houses a place to grab a snack; locals gather at "Cornmeals" to yak about the weather and whatever else passes the time. Back in the boomtown years, a grocery was built around the headframe of an old mine shaft. Cool air from below kept the meat and vegetables cool. Such is the nature of this frozen in time, wonderfully strange little place called Cobalt.

Swastika station

2008-08-09T23:22:00.006-04:00

In all of Ontario, there is only one town that has news stories written about how its residents are forced to continually defend its name. I mean, just imagine if Torontonians had to deal with the image problem that Swastika has. A tiny railway town near Kirkland Lake, it has been the subject of debate since the symbol it is named after was co-opted by the most brutal totalitarian regime in history. Yet its residents have over decades fiercely resisted efforts to change the name. So how did this place get such a moniker? In 1907 prospectors staked out the Swastika gold mine, apparently using the old Sanskrit symbol of good luck as their emblem. In 1908, the nearby town was incorporated as Swastika. But there was trouble ahead for the little community. Bruce Ricketts writes on the excellent website www.mysteriesofcanada.com "In 1935, the rise of Nazism in Germany created a major problem for the few hundred people of Swastika. As war loomed and then exploded in Europe the Ontario government decided that German sounding names should not exist in Ontario, regardless of the origins of the names or the peoples of the towns or area. Berlin, Ontario was changed to Kitchener and Swastika was changed to Winston. While the name change stuck in Kitchener, the townsfolk of Swastika were not amused. They tore down the Winston sign and replaced it with a restored Swastika sign and another sign which read, 'To hell with Hitler, we came up with our name first.'" That fierce screw you" attitude remains to this day, as a full page article in a recent edition of The National Post attested. I just had to find a suitable picture of this unique place, for all that came up when I did an image search was the sign at the edge of town, the infamous symbol, and some bizarre pictures of Santa Claus. It was raining hard as I drove through. I pulled up to the old ONR station platform, rolled down the passenger window, and took a this shot of the whistlestop that bears the infamous name.

The last picture show

2008-08-04T10:35:00.001-04:00

The drive-ins are all but gone. Now the curtain is falling for the final time on most stand-alone movie houses across Ontario. They tore down the Palace theatre in my hometown of Blind River a few years ago. The Algoma in the Soo is gone, as is the Empire in Sudbury, the Capitol in Woodstock (pictured here) and closer to home today, the Nelson, Rideau, Towne, Elmdale, Rialto, and Somerset here in Ottawa. In the larger centres, they've been killed off by the suburban megaplexes. It's been home theatre and the DVD in small towns. A "night out at the pictures" as my dad referred to it is fading into the mist of history as is film itself in the digital age. While the Saturday matinee was part of my childhood ritual, going to the movies for the joy of just seeing a flick just doesn't apparently have the appeal it once did, unless there's the full-on sensory assault of surround sound and 24 screens showing the latest crop of comic book remakes. A few still hang on. The Lake in Elliot Lake is still going, and when I passed through Kirkland Lake I was pleased to see that the LaSalle, tattered around the edges though it may be, is still open for business. And I hear they now have nachos.

The Temagami tower

2008-08-02T23:13:00.004-04:00

So like, how pathetic is this? Six short rungs up a ladder to the top and I just couldn't do it. The last time I was through the breathtakingly rugged Temagami region of northern Ontario, about eight years ago, I paid a visit to the fire tower. It is one of last standing remnants of what was once a string of dozens of such towers across the north. Like lighthouse keepers in maritime regions, tower-men climbed these sentinels of the bush each day, watching out for forest fires that regularly tore through the seemingly endless stands of white pine and spruce. They say it was a lonely job, but that first time I visited the Temagami tower I sensed what a bracing and somewhat zen-like profession it must have been; alone in the sky, with the northern wind moaning through the spindly tower legs as the horizon was carefully scanned for signs of danger. The towers have been pretty much replaced now by spotter aircraft and satellites. They have maintained the Temagami tower, and have built sturdy steps inside the lattice of steel rising to the little cabin at the top. Anyone can climb it. Last time I made it halfway up before things started to tense up, so to speak. I put it down to the fact that it was April, and the steps were wet from an earlier rain. This time I was determined to make it to the top. The first half was a snap. Then the stairs got smaller. The tower narrowed while the wind, a mere breeze at the base, started to feel like a full force gale. Three times I paused, took a breath, and pressed on. Until I got to the ladder. I looked up, the clouds seemed to be moving faster and MY GOD that's a long way down. So I wimped out, reasoned that the view wouldn't be any better ten feet higher, held on to the railing as it swayed noticeably in the wind, snapped a few shots as my breath was taken away by the sight of a carpet of green that stretched to the horizon in all directions. I gingerly made my way down with the vow to take those final six steps next trip.

Latchford, the bridges, and the war hero

2008-08-01T22:48:00.010-04:00

By God I love northern Ontario, but sometimes they just can't see the wood for the trees. I've surmised in my travels through the north, that the smaller the town, the cornier the slogan. Take Latchford, population 300. It sits about 100 km. north of North Bay, near Temagami. A sign just outside of the village proclaims that it is "the best little town by a dam site." You see, it's a very little town, and well, there's this dam on the river. Though I have no way of knowing whether there are any other little towns by dam sites that are disputing this claim, it seems like a tidy enough place so who's to say? As if the slogan wasn't enough to entice the fishermen and moose hunters to slow down and stay awhile well, someone has decided that the best damn town near...I mean the best little town near...needs a tourist attraction. So, a group of enterprising locals have built the "world's shortest covered bridge." Painted red, it crosses a little creek beside the town park. A real draw for the tourists, no doubt they thought. All of this despite the fact that Latchford is also home to the most graceful and beautiful highway bridge in northern Ontario. It is named after one of Latchford's native sons, a true hero in the annals of Canadian history. Sgt. Aubrey Cosens, during the dying years of WW2 in Germany helped secure a strategic road. It's a classic tale of wartime heroism. Supported by a tank, he led an attack against three enemy strong-points, which he captured single handed. He was later killed by a sniper. For his gallantry, he was awarded the Victoria Cross, Canada's highest military honour. So if you're ever up that way on Highway 11, by all means pull off and see the covered bridge, tiny as it is. Check out the dam site, of course. But pause for few moments in the little memorial park beside the fast flowing Montreal River as I did, and remember this small town Ontario lad's sacrifice. A little garter snake eyed me suspiciously as I snapped some photos of morning sun on the Sgt. Aubrey Cosens Bridge. The real main attraction in Latchford and, as it turns out, right by the dam site.

The simple grave of Sir John A.

2008-06-27T23:17:00.006-04:00

Last week when I was in Kingston I visited the grave of Sir John A. Macdonald, Canada's first prime minister and arguably our country's most recognizable historical figure. He is buried in a simple grave, part of a family plot in the lovely Cataraqui cemetery just on the outskirts of the city. I felt I was in a sacred place. However walking around the somewhat weedy plot, surrounded by an old, rather rickety iron fence I was reminded of how little we seem to value the national heritage of our country, and how few heroes we manage to celebrate. The sheer humbleness of this grave site speaks so much about our lack of self confidence as a nation. I acknowledge that it appears to be maintained by someone; the fence is painted and the little government plaques are shiny. The Maple Leaf flying nearby is crisp and new. There is however, nothing to distinguish it from hundreds of other historical sites of varying significance across Canada. It's marked from the road by a generic blue sign, and if you happen to approach from the north you have to search for the unmarked entrance to the cemetery and pull a hard left to cross the busy Sydenham road. Once inside, there is little to signify where the grave is and when you find it the experience is somewhat underwhelming. I mentioned this to someone, noting the contrast between how Canadians mark the last resting places of our national founders, and how Americans do. They said "well, we're not like Americans." In this case, I think our southern neighbours get it right, and we don't. Nearby Sir John A.'s grave is that of Sir Alexander Campbell, another Father of Confederation. His grave is marked by a rusty steel sign. Articles have been written in Canadian newspapers about how the graves of Canada's former prime ministers have been neglected, due to lack of interest, shortage of government funding or both. I think it's a travesty. The government erected sign notes that our first prime minister wanted a "simple cross" to mark his resting place, which our fiscally responsible governments have been happy to sort of maintain. Sir John Alexander Macdonald could not know however, on the eve of his death in 1891, just how important he would become to the soul of our nation. We need more than this. After I had finished grumbling, I had a chuckle, for as I walked back to the car a train horn echoed off the rolling landscape as a long CNR freight thundered over a nearby crossing. I like to think that Prime Minister Macdonald, one of Canada's founders and father of the national dream of a railway linking sea to sea, at least can rest in earshot of knowing that the trains are still running on time.

To the Future

2008-06-13T23:28:00.004-04:00

I'm a big believer in family snapshots. The time we are living in is the most "captured" age in history, for there have never been more pictures taken, of more people, for others to see. These digital images; these "family snapshots" are adding to a new narrative of our time. So here is a small contribution to the cacophony of family images now crowding the net. It is very traditional, and chances are if you are checking in from Germany, Russia, or from up the block this picture will mean about as much as all those shots of "friends" you see on Facebook everyday. But it means a lot to me, and since this is my blog I am posting it. In the tradition of family albums that now collect dust in the digital age, it's a happy instant in time in the history of the family I call mine. My grandson Thomas (pictured here with his mom and dad Jeremy and Amanda) has this wonderful, almost mystical expression he's developed since he's become aware of himself. Basically, he points at stuff. We can be in a restaurant and he'll raise his little arm and point at a picture of Elvis (see previous post). He'll be in his stroller and all of a sudden point to the sky. Margot and I like to think that he's pointing to something real; some pure, sweet, unfiltered world that only he and other children can see. It's as if he says "To the future!" Here however, there was nothing philosophical or profound. Heck he wasn't even pointing at anything. Just giggling and sharing a warm spring afternoon on the front step with mum and dad. A vision of the future I like.

Brickworks and Badlands

2008-06-06T22:46:00.003-04:00

It's been described as Ontario's "painted desert," and it's a much photographed treasure that lies just beyond the sprawling suburban reaches of Toronto. In fact from high points in the surrounding hills, one can see the towers of the ever expanding megalopolis on the horizon. Yet here in the forested valleys of the Niagara Escarpment shadow, there is a small glimpse of 450 million years of geological history, that will in all likelihood still be there tens of thousands of years after the last condos and highway flyovers have turned to dust. Alberta is where one usually thinks of "badlands," where wind and centuries of dry weather have revealed the famous barren areas around Drumheller. This area, near the village of Cheltenham in Ontario north of Toronto contains a large deposit of Medina shale, which sat undiscovered beneath the lush vegetation of the area until settlers began to till the land in the late eighteenth century. In one particular area of hills & gullies, they likely dug too deep. Grazing cattle and rain exposed more of the hillsides, and the red soil beneath became exposed. Too arid to support plant life, it remained as wild red gulches of hardened mud in the midst of the Ontario forest. Those original settlers knew the value of this red soil however, and nearby set up a large brick factory that supplied much of the key construction material that became turn of the century Toronto. In fact, tour the residential areas of much of old Southern Ontario, and you will likely see houses built from bricks made at the Cheltenham brickworks. Walk the hardened soil of the badlands, and you will sense the
timeless pull of a ladder stretching back millions of years.

The Atomic Drive In

2008-05-20T20:38:00.008-04:00

Drive-in movie theatres are rapidly disappearing from the North American landscape. Only a few continue to exist in Canada, and it's largely nostalgia for a vanishing age that keeps them going. In years to come, anthropologists will likely look back at them as short lived representations of the post World War II era, when Hollywood, suburbia and love of the automobile combined to create a thoroughly unique concept in entertainment. It was also a time of great fear, when annihilation by The Bomb could be just around the corner. Indeed this anxiety formed the subtext of monster and horror movies that seemed to make up much of the fare shown on the drive-in screen. How perfect then that Elliot Lake, the self-proclaimed "Uranium Capital of the World" should be home to "The Atomic Drive In," which lasted from the late fifties into the early 70's. It was actually in nearby Serpent River, and became known for "buck nite" every Tuesday when one could fill a 'Merc to the gunwales with teenagers and get the whole carload in for a dollar. It was also known for its swarms of piranha-like mosquitos and blackflies, owing to its location in a field beside a swamp. When I visited in the late 90's, a year or so before it sadly was torn down, I took a couple of shots of the long abandoned ticket booth and its weathered screen, the last picture show a distant memory as the old projector rusted in the crumbling booth nearby. And so it's here preserved, along with memories of the smell of exhaust and popcorn, the sight of tail fins and steamed windows, the buzz of the flourescent lights and squawk of tinny speakers as Earth vs. the Flying Saucers played out against the backdrop of a humid July night.

St. Marys & Mr. Barnes

2008-05-17T11:24:00.003-04:00

Sometimes a chance decision can open a door to the past. I was making my way back to the generic comfort of the Guelph Days Inn, after a day exploring around Woodstock and London. It was a beautiful early spring afternoon, and as I swung onto Highway 7 for the trip east I saw a sign advertising St. Marys; a "5 star community" and "one of Ontario's best kept secrets." My skeptical nature and the fact that I'd already loaded up the memory card with dozens of shots of old buildings told me to drive on, but since it was just past three o'clock I thought I'd swing by and take a quick peek. It turned out it was the right choice, not only because St. Marys is indeed a beautiful little town (and the former home and resting place of a Canadian prime minister) but because I met up with an old, old friend. Again, circumstance played into it. I'd promised to look in the flea markets and antique stores while in the south for a little table for my grandson Thomas. While wandering around the downtown of this picturesque little place, marveling at the contrast between its traditional vibrancy and the sorry state of other towns I'd visited, I came across a store called "Eclectic Treasure," which advertised that "you'll never know what you'll find." "Fifteen thousand items" said the ad in the brochure, and as I wondered how one counted that many things, I struck up a conversation with the genial owner of the cluttered store. Long story, short version here. Nearly 40 years ago, in the northern Ontario town of Elliot Lake, Bruce Barnes taught me English in grade nine. Now, a snap decision to turn left off the highway, and a promise to look for a table turned the clock back four decades. We had a wonderful chat, reminisced about old classmates, and promised to stay in touch. It turns out he had three different tables, one of which I bought that little Thomas loves. So if you're looking for something special in that part of Ontario just north of London, stop in, say hi, and buy something. I recommend it, because as it turns out I know the owner personally. Eclectic Treasure is at 128 Queen, on St. Marys wonderful old main street.

Port Maitland

2008-05-10T00:08:00.003-04:00

The final stop on my Grand River Road drive was where the Ontario shore meets Lake Erie. Port Maitland is a strange little place, as it has two halves, divided by the river. What's odd about it is that there is no bridge over the river; to get from one side of the village to the other one has to travel about 15 kilometres north to cross, then go back an equal distance on the other side. In other words, you could shout across the channel to your neighbour, but if you wanted to borrow his chain saw, it would be a twenty minute drive. Port Maitland used to be a naval depot, and remains a busy fishing village. I arrived in the late afternoon, and was alone as I walked out onto its pier to the lighthouse overlooking the calm-as glass lake. Sitting on the rocks at land's end, I breathed deeply and gazed out over the misty lake as the sun's rays warmed my face, while just a hint of early April breeze blew the last of winter's chill from the surface of the water that stretched into the haze.

21st century vernacular

2008-05-02T23:52:00.002-04:00

Oxford dictionary defines vernacular as "the language of a country or district." The term refers to primarily speech, but it has also come to represent the architectural stamp on a town or place as a result of its cultural heritage. The problem is, that's increasingly disappearing. Anywhere is everywhere. It really doesn't matter whether you're in suburban Winnipeg, or small town Ontario, what gets built today all looks the same. Or does it? Neighbourhoods evolve with time, and assimilate the styles of each passing era. I chuckle as I drive down a 19th century street in old Ottawa, to see a 1950's ranch house perched in a row of proper Victorians. The problem is, today when a building goes up, especially a commercial building like a shopping centre or in this case gas station, it just screams temporary. It's here to serve the needs of the people in its surrounding area, for however long it stays functional, then it's town down and replaced with something else. Heritage types shake their heads in disgust when a "Snack Express" appears on a street corner in a quaint little town. But really, like it or not, it's all a part of who we are, where we are, right now. So as I walked around Caledonia breathing in the crisp spring air, marveling at the wonderful old red brick houses of this beautiful town, I stood on a busy corner and snapped a picture of the "Snack Express." Offering Super 7, an ATM, gift cards, and "Arctic Glacier ice," (speaking of temporary.) The late model purple Cavalier completed the picture. In all likelihood it won't be here ten years from now, but nonetheless it is a statement of a street-corner in anyplace, anywhere, circa April 2008.

The saddest street in Ontario

2008-04-26T22:40:00.004-04:00

Witnessing the decline of parts of downtown Ottawa over the past years, I've come up with my own "canary in a coalmine" theory on how to predict when a city's core is failing; the opening of the first tattoo parlour and/or pawn shop. Two or more of each and it's a sure thing. It's when you start to see them close that you know a neighbourhood is in trouble. My travels took me through downtown Brantford, once one of Ontario's mid-sized industrial hubs. They made everything here from farm tractors to carpets. The first blow to the downtown came when the factories closed. Then they built
suburban malls, and commerce that had once driven department stores and restaurants exited on the wheels of convenience. Like many similar small cities, Brantford tried to stem the tide by building a downtown mall; in Brantford's case it was the "Market Square" which proved to be, as the Globe and Mail reported in a recent article the "highest form of disaster." Not only did the mall fail, but it sucked whatever life was left of the downtown, creating a classic "doughnut city," meaning that while the suburbs eventually rebounded from the industrial decline, the downtown became a hollowed out shell of its former self. I've witnessed similar scenes in many Ontario towns I have visited, but none sadder or more pronounced than the shock I got seeing Colborne Street during my recent trip. Basically the entire street is either boarded up, for sale, or gutted. It is one of the highest crime areas in all of Ontario. Perhaps the bleakest symbol of all however, is that they have painted hopeful scenes of the life that once thrived in this beautiful old street on the boarded up windows, much like they did in the South Bronx of New York back in the 80's. The idea was to make it look like people and business was someday coming back here. I certainly do not blame civic officials who are trying to remake their city, and I hope they succeed. There is a hint of desperation however in a community website that urges residents to "adopt a block, street or alley." It goes on to ask people to "chose an area, grab your group and start cleaning! Be a part of downtown Brantford's revitalization." I wish them well, and indeed it seems some tentative steps forward have been made. It's likely however that in small cities at least, we are witnessing the end of an era, when "downtown" was a destination, rather than a place to avoid on the way to Wal-Mart.

Salt Springs church

2008-04-25T22:45:00.003-04:00

It was a perfect day for a drive. In this part of Ontario, south of Brantford, the cool morning chill gave way to one of those timeless early spring days. The simple exhilaration of throwing off the jacket for the first time and rolling the windows down, as the robin song and spring peepers made a sweet soundtrack for the day, served as a warm salve to the long, tough winter now far behind in the rear-view mirror. The Grand River road proved all it was billed to be; a scenic drive through a part of Ontario with links to rich native history and many remnants of people who settled the land after the war of 1812. I swear I saw more of those blue historical plaques along the quiet back roads than I've seen anywhere, and it was the right route to begin my spring road trip. I had packed a lunch and as the miles rolled by I looked for a place to pause. I took a side road because the name intrigued me; "Salt Springs Church Road." I found a half hour of tranquility at a picnic table beside the tiny church and an old cemetery by the meandering river. Of course, it had a blue plaque. Doors Open Brant, a local historical society posted this about the church; "In 1822 Methodist missionaries established the Grand River Mission and a brick church was built on this site in 1860. The original church burned in 1901 and replaced by the present structure." The cemetery behind dates from 1822, and the church gets its name from salt springs located near here. Whether it was the unseasonably warm April air, the cool breeze off the river or just the sense that here I was; in this place, on this day, at this moment, with the best ham sandwich ever I made a note to commit this one to memory.

Mud Lake

2008-03-02T09:20:00.003-05:00

In the west end of Ottawa, near the shore of the Ottawa River just east of Britannia Bay, lies an amazing place. Officially called the Britannia Conservation Area, locals just know it as Mud Lake. It's as if when the suburban forest of subdivision streets, parkways and high rises relentlessly marched westward from downtown, an area of wilderness was left frozen in time, as indeed it seemed to be on the crisp Sunday I paid a visit. Mud Lake and its surrounding forest remain pretty much as they were before humankind arrived in these parts; home to hundreds of different species of animal and plant life. As one walks through the trees along a path that runs around the edge of the lake on a February day, the only sounds are the chickadees in the trees, the steady white noise whisper of the Deschenes Rapids on the river, and the occasional snap of a hockey stick hitting the ice on the small makeshift rink the kids have scraped off at one end. People who frequent Mud Lake tend to be very respectful of the place. Except for one huge boulder left incongruously thousands of years ago by a receding glacier, that has become an ever changing palette for teenage paint-messaging, it remains a clean, litter free remnant of the wilderness that once covered this stretch of river country. Though there were a number of pretty good colour images to come from that walk along the shore, the stump poking through the snow and the long shadows of late afternoon tell of entering a different world at Mud Lake, while the kids enjoy a winter afternoon with the trees as their backdrop.