Walking the line

The line is the Canadian-United States border, and it's not quite a line, more of a river. Pigeon River to be exact and coincidentally straddled by a nature reserve.

We wanted to explore some the nearby bush of Canada some more and this area was definitely on our to do list for a short walk.

As with many of our weekends of late the day started late after a late night for everyone. With the sun not setting until 10pm and still light in the sky for another half an hour, getting kids to sleep is a battle. So moments before the crack of midday we set off to explore along the border and parts leading up to it.

A short stop at Little Pigeon Bay (the geographical naming committee for this area must have been pigeon fanciers I reckon) we drove down to a couple of hundred metres shy of the international border and walked off into the bush.

We intended to cross the border and get cheap fuel and other gear, but during the walk we noticed a long queue of traffic stretching back across the border bridge - which meant a long wait in all probability. The reason as it turns out was the opening of the fishing season days before and every US fisherman bar none was attempting to cross and pillage the waters of Canada for their fish. We checked with a 'survivor' of the crossing who confirmed a one hour wait at least! The petrol wasn't worth the wait.

The walk sure was worth the visit though, even with the constant company of 3 ft. mosquitoes, our irrational fear of bush ticks and the myriad of other little bugs that pop out to visit you after a recent rain shower. In fact the rain was what made the walk all the better - the soil was damp and fresh, silver raindrops clung to leaves and spider webs and everywhere had that newly cleaned freshness to it.

The falls were exciting too, especially when you have 3 daredevil children all vying for the opportunity to be the closest to the edge of the 'certain fall of death'. Naturally the only way to compete in this lemming-style sport is hurry with no apparent awareness of your impending doom towards the crumbling cliff edge ignoring all screams from parents having serious heart palpitations. Oh! Did I mention that it's an individual sport? This means that EACH child has to rush at the precipice at a completely different spot to the others. The end result is like trying to herd suicidal cats AWAY from an unfenced cliff edge. The kids are of course oblivious to all of this except for the fact that their parents are grumpy spoilsports.

With our hearts safely returned from our mouths we walked along the river glancing over into the 'Land of Opportunity' a few hundred metres away. It seems so strange to think that is another country - I wonder if the mosquitoes carry passports?