Ten thousand years ago Highway 11 was the kind of road you drove in summer with a cooler of rye bread and cold cuts, a thermos of coffee and another of Lime Freshie. You remember this road as all hills because your dad treated it like a rollercoaster… speeding up as he approached a rise then yelling for you to hold on!! as you practically flew off the top and down the other side. This was in the days before seatbelts. High adventure times. You can still hear him laughing, still see the cigar clenched between his teeth.
It was the kind of road where you stopped the car any old where and dragged the cooler up the rocks and sat there and watched the not very much traffic while you ate radishes and salami. Sometimes you found blueberries.
Sometimes your parents had thought to book a cabin, sometimes they just winged it. You could do that then. Show up and say, hello, I know it’s August but this looks like a nice place, can we stay a week in one of your cabins? Why sure you can would be the answer. Sometimes. Sometimes you would have to drive until ten o’clock at night in the rain looking for a place with a vacancy while your parents blamed each other for not having thought to book a cabin.
You have no idea if this is one of the booked or one of the spontaneous but about ten thousand years ago you fell asleep in a tiny bed on the other side of this window to the sound of your parents’ voices as they talked long into a warm Muskoka night.
The place is still there.
It’s just the road that’s changed.
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