Ernestly ?!Ernestly ?!
By ERNIE NEUFELD, Weyburn Review Associate Publisher
Last week, if you were tuned in, you will have witnessed myself
carried away with nature's grandeur almost to the extent that
I was tempted to kid myself that I was speaking in the tongues
of angels. Well, not quite, and of course, I wasn't speaking.
Only writing. But admittedly I was using adjectives and adverbs
and superlatives that would have been impossible without a couple
of thesauruses at the ready.
In case you were too busy to read that column, what brought about
my attempt at eloquence was our early-October drive from Weyburn
to Ontario, and particularly the four-day stretch from Bemidji,
Minnesota, to Ontario's Muskoka region. And I won't take back
a word. But I have to acknowledge that these gifts usually exact
a price. Sometimes the price is totally predictable, in which
case there is no embarrassment. On other occasions the reason
for the penalty is humiliatingly obvious when the piper wants
his due, and the embarrassment imposes a further price.
I speak now of accommodation, that important feature of travel
one ought never to take for granted, but always arrange in advance,
regardless of how certain its availability may seem beforehand.
What gave me a false sense of security was the good fortune enjoyed
at Bemidji, that Minnesota resort town that has been a mecca for
prairie travellers and vacationers for decades. While my navigator
advised phoning ahead, I reasoned that the tourist season was
well past its peak and the hostelry industry would be grateful
for any business. In any event, we would be arriving safely before
nightfall.
As it turned out, I was right, and we had no difficulty securing
most acceptable accommodation on our very first try. Lulled into
a false sense of security, I expected - and encountered - similar
good fortune in Ironwood, Michigan, the following evening.
By this time a room for the night seemed as minor a consideration
as finding a coffee stop at mid-morning and mid-afternoon. After
all, summer was behind us.
Then came the shocker!
Discussing beauty of the autumn colors with fellow travellers
over breakfast at Iron Mountain, we received and heeded the advice
that Highway 28, although a few miles longer, would be ever so
much more scenic than the more direct Highway 2, which passed
through endless miles of a national (evergreen) forest. Even using
this substitute route I had planned for an early night stop at
Newberry, Michigan. Studying the map as the day wore on, however,
I decided that available daylight hours would easily take us to
St. Ignace on Highway 2, and would leave us nearer to Sault Ste.
Marie, which figured in our Sunday luncheon hopes. St. Ignace,
according to our travel guide, has tons of rooms, and who in the
world but us would be hoping to bed down at the western end of
the Mackinac Bridge in October! Indeed who!
That hypothetical question will, you may have guessed, be answered
in due course, Suffice it to say that although the sun was still
high in the sky - OK, low enough to be mighty uncomfortable whenever
we faced west - the first good motel we encountered proudly displayed
a neon "Sorry" sign, and from there on this icon prevailed
as though the theme for a special religious celebration.
Strange creatures I thought I had left behind in my ulcer days
began eating at my innards. Almost ready to give up and head for
Newberry, I hardly believed my eyes when, after several passes
through "motel row," my eyes locked on a vacancy sign
in front of a motel that looked at least at the level of suitability.
I parked illegally, risked my life running across the busy highway,
and made for a tiny office bulging with humanity. My heart sank.
It didn't improve when I saw one couple triumphantly exchanging
legal tender for a room key, while a small group of people received
the information that all that was left was a suite that would
accommodate six persons at a price of $65. Naturally, they would
grab it. But no: "Too much!" pronounced the leader of
the group, and the party headed for the door, while I sang out,"
I'll take it!" without being certain I was next in line.
The suite was ours, and I muttered "That guy was nuts,"
which the proprietress smilingly seconded. She added the comment
that she was certain it was the last room available in town. My
joy, admittedly, was tempered by the knowledge that $65 is not
exactly a king's ransom for a suite in a sold out resort town.
Well, the "suite" was really one corner room about half
again the size of a normal room. It contained three double beds
placed in a special pattern to accommodate available space, a
television set and two chairs. A game of bridge would have been
a tight squeeze with some rearrangement.
But shucks, the plumbing worked, the room was clean, St. Ignace
has a splendid eatery and best of all, we slept the sleep of the
righteous. That's as much as one dares ask under the circumstances,
and at $65, not to be scoffed at.
It did occur to us to ask a waitress next morning what in the
world had caused the sellout of hotel space. "Why, color
tours!" she replied. And we realized that the fall panorama
of color which taxed my eloquence last week had not been lost
on Michigan folks. They had descended on St. Ignace by the thousands
and had quickly cornered all available rooms. Except our "suite"
of course. Why do we always have to learn anew that we are not
the only ones to hear the siren's call?
But once again, it all ended well, and happy landings are what
it is all about.
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