Meeting the Spirit of a Place

Thunder Bay. The name evokes power, presence, something that cannot be ignored. Thunder Bay. Harsh. Distant. Remote. The land here is well loved and the city leaps out of the wilderness on the shore of Lake Superior like a hare bolting from a blueberry bush. No sugar maples here but a close cousin, the Manitoba Maple, is. Pavement here lays reluctantly over the soil, I can feel it through my shoes, through my socks, into my bare soul. Humanity's hand has a tenuous grip. Jack pine and poplar lean in close, aching to retake the asphalt and concrete. Bears roam the university's land, not the U's land, the bear's land. The bear walks HIS land and wonders when he'll be able to fish in the lake again. A sleeping giant watches over everything, visible from the peak of the terraces down to the shore. First Man, Wayna Boozhoo sleeps in Thunder Bay. In the deep fall the name will make itself known in the crash of viscious waves on the shore as Superior gets ready for a long nap, rolling over and over again. Far to the South East the lake funnels into another, smaller lake and is tamed. Again and again it does so until it reaches the Atlantic through the broad mouth of the St. Lawrence, surrounded by industry and cities and sprawl. Not here not now and hopefully never will that happen. The True North strong and free shows its' face here. May it never be blemished by sprawl or an excess of pavement.