One time I went on a date with a woman who expressed a principled distaste for travel. She argued that obsession over it betrayed a kind of shallow escapism, an avoidant dereliction of our duty to cultivate a secure home life, to properly root ourselves in a community and establish meaning in that space.

As you might imagine I took exception to this (or at least as much exception as I was willing to betray without making her sour on me), but sometimes I’ll think back and wonder if there’s actually something to her argument. I think my own love of road trips has many motivations, but I’d be lying if I didn’t admit escape was one of them.

As much as I look forward to experiencing the sights, sounds and sensations of my new environs, I savor the liberation of fleeing the old ones. No matter where I’m going I’m a new man; an anonymous soul with no job, no family, no commitments or backstory. I’m not haunted by a cloud of preconceived notions based on my personality or relationships. I can be anything, and anything can happen to me.

I’ve done Ghost on the Highway several times now and I’ve begun to notice certain patterns to each adventure. One of the more arguably disturbing ones is that I usually end up drinking every night, sometimes heavily. This is not something I normally do at home. I’m no teetotaler, but in general I’m a fairly healthy, responsible guy – I doubt many of my friends would use the “A” word in a description of my character.

But on Ghostly excursions my days usually end in a local bar, quietly sipping pint after pint of some local tap lager, my mind outwardly committed to soaking up the atmosphere but in actuality distracted by whatever sports game happens to be on TV.

Part of it, quite honestly, is that I need alcohol to open up. As much as I fancy myself a lone wolf, at a certain point we all need some degree of human connection; and for an introvert like myself a little booze can go a long way toward putting myself in the position where a chance enlightening conversation with a stranger is possible.

For the first few days of my trip this generally did not happen. I would sit in various pubs drinking silently, going over the pictures I took that day, listening to dialogue between bartenders and regulars (Thunder Bay is, after all, a fairly small town), too timid to try and join in or take up space.

On Tuesday night I hung out at Madhouse – a trendy-ish watering hole with oversized portraits of eccentric legends like Dali, Frida Kahlo and Hunter S. Thompson – and watched the final game of the Stanly Cup Finals. I’m not a hockey fan, but I knew that this series was significant; the Edmonton Oilers were taking on the Florida Panthers, trying to become the first Canadian team to win the title since 1993. The Canadian coverage of the event was full of exhortations for the Oilers to “bring the Cup home” and you could tell that they carried the weight of an entire nation’s hopes on their shoulders.

Inside the bar, however, attention to the contest was not as fervent as I had expected. As the Panthers pulled away to an early lead, the jaded patrons (only half of whom were giving the event any heed at all) grumbled soft laments that indicated they had expected a negative outcome all along. Just the way it goes, eh? I soon lost interest myself and left the bar before the third period.

I hardly talked to anyone my first three or four days in the country. The longest conversation I had was with a middle aged couple I ran into during my descent down Sleeping Giant. They wanted to know how much longer and harder it was going to be, and I had to temper their hopes by informing them that the tough part of the climb was just beginning. They were good sports about it though, and soon began regaling me in classic boomer fashion of all the hikes I absolutely had to try in Vancouver. B.C.

By the fourth day I was starting to feel a bit lonely, even if I wouldn’t admit that to myself. I decided to embark on a different type of attraction: an amateur baseball game.

T-Bay is home to the Thunder Bay Border Cats, who play in a collegiate summer league called the Northwoods League. It’s basically a team made up of college athletes who need an opportunity to play throughout the summer to maintain their development. Most of these guys in all honesty will never make it to The Show (if indeed baseball is their primary interest at all) but the leagues offer them a chance to play the game their love and for local communities to coalesce around them.

It’s going to be difficult not to over-use the word “charm” when describing the Border Cats atmosphere. The stands were at most 1/3 full, populated mostly by families with children, some local die-hards, the odd couple on a date and (let’s face it) relatives of the players on the field.

I snagged myself a Coors from the cute female beer-hawker almost immediately, then settled in. The Border Cats seemed were in control for most of the game, blowing it wide open with a 9-run 4^th inning, From that point onward I began to focus more on the social atmosphere; the die-hard fans calling out to their favorite players (and usually getting a response), the teenage girl who asked for and received a spare game ball because it was her birthday, the drunk brunette lady in Left Field section who gave an overly-enthusiastic rendition of “Sweet Caroline” when it bellowed from the speaker. I took note of how the announcer went out of his way to point out the Canadian members of the team (there were only 4) and joined the crowd in cheering for one particular member of the opposing team to strike out because, as the announcer explained, if the Border Cats managed to do so we would all get a free Root Beer from A&W.

I all the while I sipped my Coors, enjoying myself and the game, intrigued by the people around me but not enough to go out of my way to initiate a conversation. In the 6^th inning the cute beer-hawker offered me a third can. I wanted one but shook my head “no”, partly out of an awkward, instinctual urge not to appear disgraceful or disheveled in front of an attractive woman (I realize how silly this is). The game itself settled into a bit of a plateau, with little scoring as the Border Cats maintaining their insurmountable lead, and gradually fans begin to trickle out. I walked over to the concession stand to grab one last beer but was chagrined to discover it had just closed up. I stayed until the end, relished the mild celebration that followed, and made my way back to the Airbnb where I polished off a can or two of a local ale I had bought.

It was the next day – my last day in town – that everything truly came together. I began the morning with a hike to the gorgeously serene Cascades National Area, a short hike that leads one to a beautiful rocky brook in the middle of the forest. On that particular morning there was no one else (save for a couple from Minnesota, who only stayed on the main trail and left rather quickly) and as I stepped off the official path and climbed the rocks toward a set of rapids upstream, I realized that for the first time on the trip I was truly – completely – alone in nature.

It was the first true moment of stillness I felt since I arrived in Thunder Bay. My whole time thus far (and in the days before my adventure) had been spent either plotting or executing my escapades, making sure I took enough notes and snapped enough pictures to be able to blog about it later. And while I enjoyed every single on of those highlights, this was the first moment where I felt compelled to do nothing at all.

I sat down on a mist-soaked rock, closed my eyes, and meditated. I was out of practice, but the gentle ambient roar of the rapids made immersion artificially easy, and soon I was able to lose track of time, my thoughts, my agenda, my constant nagging, rapacious need to always do. It was probably the best moment of the entire trip.

That night I’d embark on one last marathon bar-hopping adventure. I had to leave early the next morning, but I didn’t care. I knew not when or if I would ever be able to come back to Thunder Bay, and I needed to soak it up for all it was worth.

I began with a dinner of Duck Egg Salad at Tomlin, a vaguely upscale restaurant with astonishingly fresh-tasting ingredients. I chased it with an Old Fashioned but again failed to engage in any serious chit-chat beyond an enthusiastic affirmation when the asked if the food was to my liking.

I then trekked over to Lakehead Brewing Company and this is where things finally got interesting. I sat down next to a bearded, thirtysomething man with a stack of notebook, into one of which he was writing God knows what. He noticed me taking notes in my little Moleskine notebook that It take with me everywhere, and said something to the effect that this was a real writers’ bar (at that point there were one or two patrons who happened to be scribbling something down). I chuckled in agreement and allowed him to introduce himself.

His name was Jacob. He was an engineer (or something like that) by trade with a passion for literature, travel, and seemingly all things intrepid (or so he presented himself, in his not-so-subtly intoxicated state). I told him about the mission of my project and he seemed to dig it, and we bonded over our mutually creative spirits and passion for the road. He gave me some fascinating information about Thunder Bay’s grain elevators and how its ports are a crucial piece in the global wheat supply chain (he seemed rather anxious that, should the Russians ever want to cripple the West, a tactical nuke of T-Baby’s grain shipping capabilities would be a real good bet). He regaled me with endless recommendations for camping and hiking in the area which, unfortunately it was too late to act upon. I left with an email and a promise that I could and should hit him up if I ever found myself in the region again. It was all good fun but alas the man seemed quite inebriated by the end and I somehow doubt he remembers me.

From there I made my way to The Foundry, where I sipped on an IPA from Sleeping Giant Brewing Co. and took in what at first felt like a rather dull, listless atmosphere.

Then, however, a 30-something blonde woman came in and asked me if I was here for the Open Mic. I had no idea that any such event was going on, but the bartender quickly jumped in and informed her that it was just upstairs and due to begin in about 10 minutes.

Well… why the hell not?

I sauntered upstairs into what felt like an uncomfortably familiar place for Thunder Bay’s Open Mic Night at The Foundry. Three long tables faced a tiny “stage” that was decorated with old framed photos of Thunder Bay steamships. A slate of amateur local comedians (ranging from your typical schlubby-but-irreverent Millennial dudes to women of various ages and tastes and a 65-year-old retired man in a cowboy hat) took the stage, delivering half-baked bits about dating, shitty cars, the sorry state of the world, and in several cases Canadian Air (apparently Canadians really hate this airline).

It was more bad than good, but we all laughed nonetheless. There were perhaps two dozen people in the room and half of them were there to perform. It made for an awkward but intimate atmosphere and I emerged from it grateful that none of the talent had singled me out and asked me where I was from (thus likely using me as a springboard for one of their tired Trump jokes).

It was all gloriously unprofessional. In the middle of the proceedings a redheaded male comic took the microphone to announce that he was taking over hosting duties, since the night’s original MC had to leave due to a sudden death in the family. We laughed until we realized that was actually true, and then laughed some more when the redhead, in a crude but empathic manner, tried to make a joke out of it. By the end of the night he asked if anyone from the audience wanted to step up and try their hand. A middle aged tourist – who had been bantering with various comics all night – was somehow convinced to take the mic, where she told a silly story (the details of which I can’t remember) and got a few polite chuckles and some “A for effort” applause.

After the show we all made our way downstairs. I had made up my mind that it was time to move on – there were still so many bars in T-Bay to visit – when on my way out I was approached by a tall, plus-sized raven-haired woman who had sat across from me in the  

“Hey, I’m Natalie” she said, “I thought I would introduce myself.”

I politely gave her my name, told her I like her bit, and then nonchalantly pressed on toward the door. Immediately I could sense her disappointment and I felt a pang of regret. I wasn’t necessarily attracted to her but she seemed quite nice and was clearly at least somewhat interested in me. I realized I had missed a golden opportunity to make, if nothing else, a second genuine human connection.

As I smoked the last cigarette in my pack (another one of my habits is vacation cigs: I smoke regularly on each Ghost on the Highway and immediately quite when I get back) I cursed myself for squandering the opportunity. Something in my gut was telling me to go back, try and talk to her again, see if maybe I could pass off my departure as a mere “smoke break”. I finally made the plunge and headed back to The Foundry where several of the comedians and onlookers were still milling about.

I noticed Natalie was hanging upstairs with her fellow comics, so I planted myself at the bar and ordered another beer. The atmosphere was decidedly warm and open, and I managed to worm my way into a conversation with two women (one of which was the blonde who had inadvertently introduced me to the event). I revealed my origins and the three of us quickly commiserated on the sorry state of the world. The blonde asked me what it was like living as an American under the insanity of Trump and at long last I had my opening.

With alcohol-fueled passion and bitterness, I apologized on behalf of my fellow Americans that our demented, narcissistic clown of a President had dared to try and bully poor Canada around. I tried to explain the dynamic of living in a country where half the population –  after years of dishonest manipulation by party hacks, propagandistic media, and soulless corporate overlords – was living in an alternate reality while somehow having seized control of the ship. I assured her that there still was a strong component of intelligent, cosmopolitan Americans who saw through it but time and again, for whatever reason, found it impossible to pass this nasty political kidney stone out of our system. I tried to convey for her the horror of living through the 2003 Iraq War – where the entire media and political apparatus lined up to support an invasion that all thinking people knew was unjust – and the horrifying existential déjà vu of witnessing that entire drama play out once more, line by line, over Iran.

If she though my inebriated soapbox rant was too much then she concealed that under a vail of typical Canadian niceness. We spent a good hour or two despairing over the state of the world, although I was grateful to hear that her and others were hopeful that new PM Mark Carney would be able to fight back.

At one point Natalie did briefly return, but seeing me occupied in the conversation of other women she seemed to have felt discouraged once more, and soon bid us all a polite farewell. It’s too bad; by that point I was starting to feel genuinely interested in her, but alas that particular exchange slipped my grasp. I hope she’s doing well, wherever she is.

I left the bar finally, hours before I was due to wake up and leave, satisfied on a social level. I had met with real Canadians, shared laughs and laments, heard interesting stores and unique perspectives. This truly is the bread and butter of the human experience, and I’m grateful I got to experience it for at least one night.

***

 I woke up the next day with only a very minor hangover (a sign that my body was getting way too used to alcohol), packed up my things and left Thunder Bay, snagging one last coffee Farmer’s Wrap from Tim Horton’s for the road. To ease my own paranoia, I threw away the last half of that Adderall pill before reaching the U.S. Border.

I crossed with relative ease and for the next 8 ½ hours made my way down the gorgeous Minnesota coastline. As sad I was to be leaving beautiful, enchanting Canada and returning to my own life and reality, I did feel a certain degree of comfort kick in once my physical body was back in the United States, my home.

That comforting feeling lasted  all of four hours, until I crossed the state line into Wisconsin and was almost immediately pulled over by a Superior PD officer. He accused me of going 20-plus miles over the speed limit. I knew this was absolute bullshit because I had seen his squad car from a quarter mile out and had deliberately slowed down, keeping my eye on the speedometer the entire time.

But this cop could smell blood and I knew it. He knew I lived 5 hours away and likely wouldn’t be able to contest a $250 speeding ticket. Just another layup for the Superior civic economy. I begrudgingly apologized and spent the next several hours silently seething in rage.

I was back in the Land of the Free, all right.