Published on May 18th, 2019 | by Alan Cross0
On the Adventure: A Tragically Hip story
[A guest post from Jennifer Dales, a writer based out of Ottawa who is also obviously a massive Tragically Hip fan. She’s been writing about the relationships between indigenous peoples and settler Canadians for some time. Read her blog here. – AC]
I think it was Algonquin park
It was so cold and winter dark
A promised hibernation high
Took me across the great black plate of ice
– From “The Bear,” The Tragically Hip
In the weeks leading up to the final Tragically Hip concert, I’d been
reading the band’s lyrics, watching the front
man, Gord, on video doing his weird salsa dances, wiping his face with a hanky,
singing about Thompson, Saskatoon, Kingston and New Orleans. On the day of the
last concert, we were travelling to south-western Ontario. All day long, every
radio station played the Hip. As we drove through Kingston, it was “Tragically
Hip Day” with 27,000 people celebrating the band
at the stadium, in the parks and on the streets of their hometown.
Gord was reminding me how I once thought my country was that place just
outside of here, where wind lifts up the waves on Lake Ontario and on Huron,
the freshwater sea. How we live along the north’s southern edge, with Canada
geese, deer, coyotes, chickadees, and pelicans that fly overhead like an air
force squadron in a prairie summer sky. Even the groundhogs and squirrels seem
freer just north of here—two hours north of Ottawa, four hours north of
Toronto, 20 minutes north of Regina.
I used to think this country could be as soft and sweet as young
bluebirds learning to fly in open fields, dipped in the colour of azure sky. I
thought it was about us helping each other survive on the edge of land we
settlers mostly can’t live on, where we would not set out alone but always with
a friend to keep each other safe—self-reliance being an illusion in vast, cold
Then I started to see fewer stars and more satellites up above, fewer
horizons and more steel transmission towers marching in lockstep into the
cities, more highways with line after line of cars. Our country was under the
power of a pinched, stodgy and secretive government, casting a grey pall.
There is cold, still air at the tops of pines and firs rising up along
Highway 7, north to Peterborough and Highway 60 up to Killaloe. There are
deep-dark green and blue lakes. But what about the shacks that pass for houses
in those little towns? No one driving through can figure out how you’d make a
living. For us city dwellers, these towns among the wild, open spaces represent
our dreams—of living differently, leaving behind traffic and the grind of work,
day after day. But maybe there, the wind that feels so fresh to us is nothing
special. The pines and firs not worth thinking about. The wild strawberries for
the birds. Maybe in a quiet little town north of here, you’d be looking for a
signal from the shiny cities, a new transmission and current of life.
This country was meant to provide food and furs to the Empire, which
sent off its traders and factors; merchants and soldiers for that purpose.
Behind them came refugees, indentured servants, slaves and immigrants from eastern
and western Europe, Asia and Africa. Is that our heritage? Along with beaver
pelts and fish? Timber and diamonds; uranium and oil?
What about a cold stillness that hovers above the highest branches of a
crooked jack pine? Or the feeling of washing away from shore in a freshwater
sea nobody can see the end of?
What about Mi’kmaq, Innu, Haudenosaunee—league of six
nations? Algonquins, Saulteaux, Dakota, Siksika, Dene, Haisla, Heiltsuk, Haida, Tlingit, Nlaka’pamux, and on and on? They
have always been here. Since before Columbus and Cartier, and the shiploads of
people searching for a home, people who mistook the land for an empty place.
People who saw fields for growing wheat and potatoes instead of for hunting and
fishing or for gathering medicines. People wanting fences and roads, deeds for
their land, cows, pigs and sheep. Not buffalo or even Canada geese.
I used to admire the idea of Canada. Not the constitution, smug
multiculturalism or nice houses and safe streets for fortunate ones. But what’s
here, on the edge of things, just below where the north begins.
Gord travelled along this way, living each day, as best he could, as an
adventure, travelled between the towns and cities strung like pearls along the
country’s border. He happened upon wonder in roadside motels, dug up miracles
hidden in shells on the shores of Lake Ontario. I think of Gord and I’m
reminded of the Canada I used to love. It reappeared after a long absence: a
place that listened to the Hip all day, where 11 million people tuned into a concert.
In fall, my son and I walk our dog on the street at dusk and, looking
up, we see thousands of bats beginning their night travels. We hear their wings
whisper, their dark singing flight, never knowing where they go or how they
Perhaps Gord didn’t know what Canada is any more than I do. He wrote
about it anyway and found himself on a ferry covered in ice in the Atlantic Ocean,
somewhere between Nova Scotia and Newfoundland. He held hands with the girl from Thompson,
Manitoba—she was so rosy-cheeked with her hair flying under the edges of her
toque. He met polar bears, black bears and black ice; black and white checkerboard
floors; one-third of his country singing for him in darkened halls, taverns
and city streets on a Saturday night.
The adventure is touching the icy border where it all begins, feeling
cold air come down from the roof of the forest. The adventure is driving to
unexpected places, where little towns are falling apart and no one can figure
it out, how do they survive up here? What do they hear in the wind?
August 26, 2016