Monday, August 1, 2011

One More From The Road

I think I’m finally getting the point of my geographical fixation with this piece. 
With certain stories, Terry Fox’s being one of them, you will often hear phrases like ‘united the country’....and in Terry’s case it’s totally true. In the late summer of 1980 the whole country was united, following the story.
This seemed like such a good idea
at the time.....
Here’s the thing: Canada is really, really big. Huge, in fact. Uniting all the disparate cultures across all the regions of this gigantic place is, in and of itself, a mythical accomplishment.
If the Greeks had a myth about a courageous young boy running across the land, he would have to have run from Greece to middle China to approach Terry’s accomplishment.
‘Running 2/3 of the way across Canada’ should really be ‘ran 1/4 of the way across the planet’.
As the Hound sets sail for the final stretch, and we ride the Terry Fox Courage Highway, I’m finding the environment to be the exact opposite of Newfoundland. The terrain here seems to be welcoming; with the placid lake constantly on the left,  the endless trees and the gentle swells of rock giving the land a rolling quality.
I’m also stunned by the lengths of time Terry would have been on his own. There can be no people for a couple hundred kilometers, or 4 or 5 days for Terry. Not a house, not a farm, just the trees and the lake.

So Sault Me

After 20 hours on the bus.

As we near the final stretch of Terry’s marathon I find my mind becoming more and more preoccupied with how I’m going to translate what I’d like to say into a piece of music.
My iPod was loaded in anticipation of this long ride and I’m taking the time to check in with some of my biggest influences, hoping for inspiration.
Gubaidulina, Part, Schnittke, Varese, Tchaikovsky, Adams, Copland, Meyer, Crumb and Ligeti are all along for the ride and provide an excellent soundtrack for an eternity on the Hound.
I know the piece will be in several short movements, each correlating to a stage of the mythical hero’s journey as described by Joseph Campbell, and I have a theme based on the numbers 3339 (the number of miles Terry ran), but I am starting to have anxiety over depicting what I want to say.
Of course, I’m not really clear yet about what exactly I’d like it to say. I think I was hoping it would all become clear as I rode the blacktop from the Sault to T-Bay.
And what a great strech of road it is. No divided highway here, no, it’s mostly 2 lane blacktop just like it was 30 years ago. There are some newer structures, to be sure, but a very high percentage of the houses and buildings would have been here in 1980 as well. 
I’d also forgotten how stunning Lake Superior is. Having grown up in lake country,  I’m finding a great deal of comfort being back in this area. I love living by the ocean in Vancouver, but the lake will always hold something special for me.
And now I have a sudden urge to put some Lightfoot on, and I think I’ll go with it.

The Canadian Shield


Monday, 10:30am EST
This is the part of highway I’ve been thinking about since I first decided to do this piece. 
The Canadian Shield area is beautiful and inspiring, but it had to have felt very isolating for Terry. After weeks in southern Ontario, where he was given a hero’s welcome in every city, this must have been a shock to the system.
There simply aren’t many people here. There are long distances between towns, and the towns themselves are often very small. As I wrote before, his run felt inclusive to those of us who were isolated in these small places. Just by running by on the highway, Terry made people feel like they were a part of his amazing journey.
This stretch of road is not as unforgiving as Newfoundland, and maybe it’s just because I grew up here but it seems a little more welcoming. There’s an openness to it, and in the sunlight it feels like nothing bad could happen here.
In all the hours of running he did here, I wonder what Terry was thinking as he went. I can’t help but think his mind had to have been on his lungs. When he stopped he had a tumor the size of a lemon in one and a golf ball in the other. Surely, as he ran past the great forests, dilapidated barns, lakes and rivers he had to have noticed something wasn’t quite right.
Of course it’s entirely possible he knew full well he was in trouble and took it as far as he could. 

The Aging Body

Monday, 7:30am EST

It’s not like I’m inexperienced in the fine art of sleeping on the Greyhound.
The year I played Principal Bass for the Kamloops Symphony I took the overnight bus back to Vancouver many, many times. With a double bass. And each time I managed to get some decent slumber.
Last night I learned that when the body is pushing 40 it no longer responds as well to being twisted into Tim Burton yoga poses in a vain attempt to rest.
On the plus side, it’s a beautiful Ontario morning as we head out of Sudbury. I’m looking forward to the brief stop in Espanola, crossing the Spanish River and seeing the dam at the Eddy mill.
I’m kind of looking forward to the whole ride. I’m tired enough that I’m in a state of near hallucination, so it should be interesting at the very least.
The first thing I saw as we entered Sudbury? Deluxe Hamburgers. Excellent.

Some Thoughts Gathered In The Middle Of The Night


Monday, 2:45am EST
Good bus karma! Due to the number of people taking the Hound this fine night, they had to call in a second coach, meaning I get two seats to myself and a shot at some sleep. As an added bonus, the other coach is going to make all the stops and we’re going directly to Sudbury.
I may even have time to get breakfast.
I’m kind of excited to see Sudbury. I spent a lot of time in Sudbury as a child; pretty much every Saturday until my family moved to Ottawa when I was in the 8th grade. We’d go there for groceries, swimming lessons, guitar lessons and, if we were lucky, hamburgers at Deluxe.
There were also the evenings of hillbilly magic when we’d join the other cars at the lookout and watch Inco pour slag down the hill. Good times.
Sudbury was also where you had to go to see any decent movie. They’d get to Espanola eventually, but sometimes you just couldn’t wait.
Like when Christian Cook’s Dad took us to Dragonslayer, or when my Dad took us to Return of the Jedi and Jamie Ramsay puked all over the back seat of his new Buick, marring it for all time.
Sudbury was the city. If you wanted to try the fast food you saw on TV, you had to get it there (or Toronto, if you were, you know, fancy), and most field trips centered there. I have been to the Big Nickel, Science North and the pool at Laurentian University more times than I can count.
This Northern childhood also informed how I see Terry’s story quite a bit. Nothing came to Espanola. Nothing. And while Terry didn’t stop there, he ran past it, and seriously, that’s enough when you live in a town like that. 
Listening to the radio for updates all the time, watching on TV, marveling that this bigger than life figure was running past things I knew. When Terry ran through Massey, he went right by Murray’s Barber Shop, where my Dad took me for haircuts. He ran by Pacey’s Texaco, where we got ice cream, over the bridge near McKerrow, past the sawmill at Nairn.
It was a big deal.
Typing it out, it sounds a little ridiculous. In my defense, I was not quite 6 years old yet.