|One foot in the Mediterranean,|
the other somewhere else.
When I was little one of the first road-trips my parents took me on was to Flin Flon, Manitoba. If you’re not familiar, this town is located about six hours northeast of Saskatoon. And from my current location in Northern Alberta it’s about eighteen hours away.
If you love nature, you’d love this place. It’s classic Canadian Shield. And it’s not in the middle of nowhere, it’s in the middle of amazing nowhere. (I happen to love nowhere.) A mining town I guess, everything is built on rock. The way I remember it, the town weaves around rocks that look like they were kicked around by giants and abandoned. Rocks and precarious houses and deep lakes and sudden islands and spruce trees and more rocks. Before I was born, my Dad worked there. He seemed excited to share this place with me. And I totally got it.
Ever go someplace new and it doesn’t feel strange at all? That’s what it felt like for me. About a three hour trip from where I grew up in Saskatchewan, we arrived early enough to be seated in a restaurant around 9 a.m. Manitoba time. We had gained an hour. Despite the time, I ordered a cheeseburger. My nine-year-old self thought that was the best breakfast ever.
Decades later, I was in a medical doctor’s office in Alberta talking about feeling tired and stressed and confused and the doctor looked at me and said, “Ever been to Flin Flon?” Surprised, I shared my Flin Flon story. Then he added, “You need to go back to Flin Flon. It’s the best fishing ever.” Basically, he prescribed a vacation.
What are the chances I would meet up with another Flin Flon fan? Here’s my point: the world is a small town. It is.