On a snowy, bitterly cold Saturday morning mid-winter 1977, I drove into the city from Almonte to go for a skate on the frozen Rideau Canal. I parked my automobile south of the National Arts Centre and north of Patterson Creek along Queen Elizabeth Drive stationed safely within the quiet residential neighbourhood not far from the Canal. Removing my backpack with my ice skates inside and opening the car door to allow Lanny my Yellow Labrador to jump into the snow, we trudged to the wooden change hut erected on sleds at the edge of the Canal. With an effort which today would exhaust me to perform, I doffed my winter boots then put on and laced up my hockey skates.  Lanny waited patiently by the heater.

Once on the ice Lanny soon learned that in order for him to keep pace with me while I sailed across the smooth frozen surface, he must restrict himself to the border of the Canal upon which there remained a trace of snow to allow him to impede the surface while running. I understood the length of the Canal cleared for skating from the Château Laurier Hotel at the top end to Dow’s Lake at the bottom end was about 5 Kms. I did not travel the full length and back; rather I likely skated to Bank Street where the Canal begins to narrow towards Dow’s Lake whence the locks compence to elevate the Canal before tumbling its way into the St. Lawrence River.

Running from Kingston to Ottawa, the Rideau is 202 kilometres (125 miles) long, of which about 19 kilometres (12 miles) are man-made (locks and canal cuts). The rest are natural waters.

Winter though magical is a lonely time of year. Downhill skiing somewhat strengthens the elixir. Not long after the skating incident just mentioned I and my client, Gregory James Brown, went to Mont Tremblant for a ski weekend. We stayed at the Lodge at the bottom of the mountain. During the day there was a great deal of activity in the châlet nearby the Lodge. The place became especially vibrant around 3:00 o’clock in the afternoon as people’s thirst overtook their athletic ambitions.  Movement within this exceedingly popular châlet amounted to passageways between a mixture of benches, chairs and increasingly mountainous channels of winter clothing (coats, scarves, hats and helmets). There was loud music playing.  In the centre of the châlet was the construction of a mountain of empty beer cans.  Because the central area was a reduced elevation from the whole, one was afforded a bird’s eye view of the architecture as it evolved, always with a cautious pursing of the lips and a whisper. But after a couple of beer it wasn’t long before exhaustion took hold and the prospect of an early evening meal at the lodge became paramount. Invariably we were nestled in our rooms, fully fed, having passed out by nine o’clock.

Today I drove to the city and back to exercise my black mechanical stallion. The weather is ambivalent, a mist threatening to leave icy surfaces. We have arranged to rally at a local coffee shop with a family member who is young and active enough to ensure us receipt of a wealth of news and information. This is the fibre of old age, coffee and a chat!