The Scottish Chronicles: Iron Bridge to Sudbury

Well I am on my way, on the first leg of my journey to Scotland. It began as any good adventure begins - flagging down a bus on the side of a highway in a small Northern Ontario town. Iron Bridge to be exact. At 6:00 in the morning - 20 minutes earlier than it was supposed to be there, the bus rolls in, almost hidden between two transport trucks. I wave my hands in the air as if hailing my personal oversized taxi. The bus pulls over and I run along the curb beside it. The bus driver opens the door and looks at me as if I shouldn't be there. I ask him if his is the bus I would take to Ottawa. He answers with a gruff "yes". A hasty loading of much-too-heavy luggage (my whole life paired down to one huge hiking bag), and a teary, quick goodbye with mum. The bus driver - "We've got 40 people on board here, ladies". Mum tearily tries to inform him that her daughter's on her way to Scotland. She almost walks away with my laptop bag and pillow.

On the bus, of course, everyone is sound asleep. They're either stretched out using both seats as a makeshift bed, or are sleeping in one seat with their bag taking up the other. The Golden Rule of Greyhound riding is strictly adhered to: don't let anyone sit with you. I walk to the end of the bus. No empty seats. I walk back. Finally I sit with a girl, about my age, who is fast asleep. It's not until we reach Blind River that she shifts enough for me to see that she's holding a baby on her chest. Like the rest of the bus, he is sleeping soundly to the hum of the air conditioning and gentle breathing of 40 passengers. Once in a while he strechtes out a tiny hand toward her face, as if to reassure himself she's really there. Sweet. The mother is young. She's obviously in for a long trip, on the Greyhound, just her and her helpless bundle of newness. I can't help but think that she must be a little scared. If anyone on this bus needs two seats it's her. I decide to switch in Blind River. Surely someone will sit up or move their bag at that stop.

No such luck of course. After about five trips up and down the bus, a bearded man in the front seat - a new-age-hippy-yoga type - offers me a seat. He has kind eyes, and keeps his books in a metal lunchbox. They're mostly about the art of Zen. Guess I prejudged him correctly. I accept the offer gratefully. As I finally sit, tears of frustration (at these selfish seat-hogs and thoughts of my poor mum unable to hold me long enough to say goodbye) well up in my eyes. I don't want to cry. I allow myself one tear. Then I think of the adventure I am beginning. Adventures, I've learned, are only the more memorable when they challenge you. And so far, every step of this has come with a challenge - or ten. One tear rolls down my cheeks and rests saltily on my lips. I am fine. Everything will be fine.

Life rewards you when you least expect it. Somewhere between Espanola and Sudbury the sun rises a huge, brilliant orange out of the mist. It hides now and then behind the spruce and poplar that line this part of the transcanada, along the north shore of Lake Huron, but mostly it sits just above the horizon, as if beckoning me forward. I realize that, although I'm going to a place reknowned for its rolling hills, crumbling castles and savage seashores, I am leaving a place I will forever think of in my heart as the being the most beautiful in the world. Northern Ontario, North of the trans canada, deep into the region of cutting granite cliffs, winding rivers, cool lakes of deep blue. Home of animals still kings of their forests, still wild and unharmed. The place where loons call late in the night, giving voice to harvest moons and icy thick fog. Where nights are cool and frogsong deafening. Where often, silence prevails and opens our ears to our oft-forgotten sister, Solitude. Mother of harmony. Keeper of inner peace and tranquility. Alien to most of the modern world.

The moon is rising, glowing red, as the mist whispers around the trees and hides the road, causing traffic - and life - to slow. Suddenly two black martins escape from their hiding place in the long dewy grass and dart across the highway. Northern Ontario is saying goodbye. It knows I will be back. And it will be waiting to welcome me home. But for now, I'm going away.

And so, the adventure begins.