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USA Edition | Today Is Tuesday, March 9, 2010 |
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USA Edition | Today Is Tuesday, March 9, 2010 |
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Gore Bay International Airport -- Manitoulin Island, Ontario
For the longest time we saw a plume of dust approaching. Then, with a squeal of tires, Colin raced along the tarmac and pulled up to the aircraft. “Emma too late for the smugglin’?,” he happily growled as he lept from the car — a giant grin overtaking his ruddy, red cheeks.
This true story is the second of eight installments dealing with experiences outdoorsman Keith Bemis and I shared with Colin Montgomery, one of the most engaging characters many of us will ever meet. Although the events portrayed in this series of stories are true, they transpired over several years.
It had been a beautiful flight on a hot summer day. Only a few hours after leaving Ohio, Keith Bemis and I landed at Gore Bay International airport In Canada. CYZE, as it is known to aviators, is a general aviation airstrip on Manitoulin Island off the northern mainland of Lake Huron in what is known as the Georgian Bay region. As we taxied up to the tiny government communications facility at CYZE, it was clear, by the absence of his car, that Monte Goodman, the Canadian Customs and Immigration Officer, had not yet arrived.
Once on the ground, we stepped outside to await customs clearance and Colin Montgomery — our ride to Dawson’s resort on Lake Kagawong. While Keith remained with the aircraft, I went inside the small communications building to complete our landing formalities. When I came out of the building, Keith asked, “What’s this big box in the baggage compartment?”
“Nothing important,” I assured him. Keith was clearly puzzled, so I offered a little more information about the strange box.
“One thing they cannot easily obtain on the island is radio tubes,” I explained.
“Fortunately, the Customs and Immigration Officer, Monte Goodman, is the radio and TV repairman on the island. Goodman tells me what tubes he needs to fix things around here and I bring him enough radio tubes to keep everybody on the island running for at least six months.” Keith had an uncertain look on his face.
Gore Bay -- One Of Canada's Hidden Gems
It wasn’t long before Monte Goodman arrived in his Customs and Immigration uniform. He carefully recorded the mileage when he parked his car, then came over to the aircraft.
“Good to see you again, Mr. Butche.”
We shook hands even as Goodman gave Keith the eye.
“What are you fellows bringing into Canada?,” he asked.
“Nothing, I assured him, we’ve no baggage of any kind.”
Keith looked perplexed — for there was now baggage and fishing gear strewn all over the tarmac.
“Nothing to declare today?,” Goodman asked Keith.
“Not a damned thing,” Keith told him, with a twinkle of mischief rippling across his face.
“Very good,” Goodman said in full dead-pan. Thereupon he signed our customs forms and immigration papers. “Any trash I can dispose fer you fellers?”
“Yes,” I replied, pointing to the box Keith had inquired about. “Just this box . . .,” I said.
“Well . . . I suppose I can get rid of it for you.”
I motioned toward the box and asked Keith, “Would you give Officer Goodman a hand getting this box of trash into his car?”
Moments later, as Goodman pulled onto the dusty road to Gore Bay village, we could see a flume of dust approaching the airport from the other direction.
“There’s Colin,” Keith exclaimed with joy, “Now we can have some fun.”
For the longest time we saw a plume of dust approaching. Then, with a squeal of tires, Colin raced along the tarmac and pulled up to the aircraft.
“Emma too late for the smugglin’?,” he happily growled as he lept from the car — a giant grin overtaking his ruddy, red cheeks.
“Afraid so,” I responded, motioning for Colin to keep his voice low. He couldn’t wait to share important island news with us, so he continued, “Seems they got the TV workin’ again over to the bar in Mindamoya — ever body seems happy about it, too.”
We shook hands as old friends do — for I had known Colin for well over a decade. Soon we were riding in a car with depleted shock absorbers on roads of gravel and ruts with dust everywhere. “Seems like home,” Keith said looking at the sparse countryside and rocky terrain.
It is home, Keith,” I assured him — “If only this crazy man gets us there in one piece.”
Manitoulin North Channel -- Canada's Sailing Heaven
He claimed to be from Toronto, but his Irish twang said he grew up in Sudbury. Truth be told, he sometimes lived in Toronto in the winter, but Colin Montgomery was never a city dweller. His place in the Sun was called Manitoulin — a gentle and sprawling island nestled along the north shore in the Georgian Bay region of Lake Huron.
“It’s all bullshit,” Montgomery would enthusiastically proclaim to some unwitting Yankee who might show off his knowledge of Canada saying that Manitoulin Island is the largest fresh-water island in the world — which is true. True or not, the arrival of a newbie to Manitoulin was a prime opportunity for Colin to puzzle such newbies with his peculiar sense of humor. “Problem is tellin’ what’s island and what’s lake,” he would explain to the newcomers, more than a little tongue in cheek. “Don’t-cha fellers know there’s eighty great big lakes on this here island?”
The wry twinkle in Montgomery’s eyes assured those who knew him that another of Colin’s colorful tall-tales was coming. Such tales sometimes left first-time visitors uncertain about whether they had offended their Canadian host. Newbie or old timer, everyone listened intently as the ruddy faced Irishman with the unlit remainder of a cigarette dangling perilously from the left side of his mouth, began with a wry grin.
“Hells’ bells,” he would confidently proclaim to the unwary, “we didn’t even have cars out Kagawong way ’til last summer. It’s a lot better now,” he would assure the newcomer with the rarest of twinkles in his eyes, “. . . we don’t have to swim into town fer groceries any more.”
For reasons I don’t fully understand, this story always left new visitors perplexed and confused. Maybe that was how Colin wanted it — for anybody who wasn’t wise to his colorful tales of the north bay could be in for tough sledding.
Soon we passed the little village of Spring Bay, rounded the unmarked corner, and turned north on the dusty road to Dawson Resort. At the end of the road, Colin turned right along the old South Kagawong path. Soon we rounded the southeast corner of Lake Kagawong. Moments later we arrived in the familiar fishing camp. The car lurched to a stop near our cabin.
“This is as much ridin’ as I can afford fer you fellers,” Colin said as he popped out the driver-side door. In less than 10 seconds, he was gone.
After unpacking, Keith and I walked up to the Dawson’s place for the evening meal. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green peas and apple pie for dessert.
Dusk Settles Over Kagawong Lake
After dinner Keith opened a bottle of well aged Scots Whiskey. Together we sat by the fire that Keith had built and contemplated the days to come. While glancing out the open screen door, Keith suddenly said, “Bob, I think you better see this. . .”
We went to the door and stood side-by-side in silence as a V formation of geese approached. The sun was setting over the far shore. Perhaps fifty feet above the lake the big birds were making their last flight of the day. Moments later they disappeared from view. For the longest time we stood at the door and watched the sun slowly dip below the tree line. I went back to the rustic chair I had been in and propped my feet on a tackle box.
“It’s been a hell of a great day,” Keith said, in a tired, but happy voice. Then he motioned toward my empty glass, “. . . want a little more scotch?,” he asked.
“How do I know it’s really scotch?,” I inquired impishly.
“Scots Honor,” Keith replied, “. . . it’s your own Chivas . . .”
“Sure,” I replied, “give me another finger or two.” Before long, darkness engulfed the cabin leaving the room drenched in the flickering yellow light from an oil lamp and the crackling fire. For the longest time there was quiet in the cabin.
“You forgot to declare the Scotch at the airport,” Keith said quietly.
“Imagine that,” I replied, while watching the flickering fire.
“Fish probably won’t care.”
“Probably not,” I agreed.
Bridal Veil Creek, Manitoulin, Island
Before long we were fast asleep. Dawn would come quickly — and Colin would have the bait ready and the boat loaded.
This had been quite a day. Better yet, these were the good days — and we knew it.
What we didn’t know was coming our way would change our lives and add maturity to our thinking. But we were young and foolish so many years ago, for we thought these trips to the beautiful Georgian Bay area of Canada were about fishing. They weren’t. They were largely about becoming responsible men — and learning firsthand about being successful at the business of life. So too were they about learning more of who we are — and making our short visit on this tiny planet one of meaning, fulfillment and understanding.
