Goodbye Mississippi!

I love a road trip. I don’t know why really but I think, in my heart, I must be a wanderer. I don’t actually like to drive; I just like to sit there and look out the window, taking in the views as they flash by. Sometimes, my kids are doing the same thing and, from the back seat, they’ll shout out if they see a hawk reeling in the sky overhead or pretty horses in the fields. My husband, who is usually driving, reads signs aloud (“PRISON NEARBY. DO NOT PICK UP HITCHHIKERS”) and licence plates from far away (“Nebraska – have we seen that one yet?”).

I like watching the landscape change. A couple of days ago, I had ample opportunity for this peaceful pastime, as we made the 15-hour drive from St. Louis in Missouri up to the shores of Lake Huron in Canada, where we are now. Before leaving, we studied the map and booked an overnight stop but, in this age of GP systems and online map resources, we are lazier now than we used to be about planning routes.

We told the kids that they would be in four different states in the same day. We laughed at their surprise when we left the first one – Missouri – within 15 minutes of settling in the car, which was loaded with several suitcases, tons of toys and games, a portable DVD player, an i-Pod and the puppy. As we crossed over the majestic, hypnotic, muddy waters of the Mississippi River, whose swollen banks still flood surrounding land from the spring runoff, we looked ahead to the endless, rich, flat farmlands of the land of Lincoln.

By mid-morning, we were in Indiana through which my husband – a sports and pop-culture junkie – entertained us by listing off the names of famous athletes from the big-name colleges and old rock stars from small, nearly-forgotten towns that dot the landscape. We ate lunch in a place called Brazil – for what reason I don’t know – not the stop, I mean, but the name. Why is it called Brazil? Regardless of the origin of its name, the Brazil Grill served up delicious five dollar hamburgers and steaming grilled cheese sandwiches with lots of thick fries and bottomless sodas.

By early evening, we had passed through Fort Wayne, one of the region’s oldest settlements on what had originally been indigenous lands, into the state of Michigan. Immediately, the land started to rise and fall, rounding out softly with low hills, tall trees, and hundreds of small, deep, dark blue lakes. The air cooled. I breathed deeply. The dog pranced and frisked and sniffed the air, rolling frequently on the blankets of thick green grass around our hotel in Lansing. A stunning sunset tucked us in for the night, as Fourth-of-July fireworks echoed from town.

The next morning, the feeling of anticipation was strong as we lined up to enter Canada, behind half a mile of cars, camper caravans and boats tugged on trailers. From Port Huron/ Sarnia to Collingwood, we shared the driving, weaving east, then north, then east, then north, over and over again on remote county side roads. As much as I love a road trip and believe that the journey can be as great as the destination itself, I was happy to haul my squished bottom out of the car and park it on our deck with a cold glass of white wine that my visiting mother had ready for me!

A gentle breeze is blowing now, although it’s very hot, even by Ontario summer standards. Even the birds are quiet, conserving their energy for nightfall, when they can feast on fat mosquitoes and other juicy tidbits. The geese and swans have half-grown babies trailing after them but I haven’t yet seen the giant white crane that fishes quietly in the protected wetlands behind our place. There’s not even a ripple out on Lake Huron, where summer storms can whip up massive steel grey waves that crash the rocky shoreline. It’s lush and green and smells like wildflowers.

It’s good to be home.