The Great Migration (Northward)
My day began at 5:30 AM in Brantford, an hour usually reserved for bakers and people who have lost control of their lives. I drove to Burlington where I staged a tactical vehicle swap at my dad’s place in Burlington before summoning an airport limousine to Andy’s. There, I joined the fellowship: Andy, Nadine, and Mike. We trekked to Billy Bishop for an 11:30 AM Porter flight to Thunder Bay—where the adventure officially decided to get “scenic.”
The “Broken Plane” Detour
While idling in the Thunder Bay airport, I ran into my old neighbour, Will Grubic. In a twist of fate that only happens in Canada, he’s now a pilot for Wasaga Airlines. Seeing Will was the high point; the low point followed shortly after when we learned our connecting flight to Bear Skin Lake was grounded due to a “broken plane”—a phrase you never want to hear while staring at a propeller.
The airline exiled us to the Sunset Hotel. On the bright side, I had a room to myself, which in hindsight was a luxury I should have cherished more deeply.
Blizzard Bingo
Tuesday morning arrived with a snowstorm that made takeoff look like a statistical impossibility. We boarded anyway, sitting on the tarmac in a frozen metal tube while mechanics wrestled with a stubborn emergency door and the de-icing crew gave us a chemical bath. Against all meteorological odds, we cleared the runway and touched down in Muskrat Dam two hours later.
The Sleeping Arrangements (The Real Challenge)
We were greeted by the local missionary and a few community members before being escorted to our “base camp.” The room assignments went as follows:
•Mike: Claimed the front room (The Strategist).
•Nadine: Secured the middle room (The Negotiator).
•Me: Assigned to the shared room with Andy.
Now, Andy is a fantastic human being, but he possesses a snore that can likely be picked up on seismic sensors in the next province. I realized then that I wasn’t just on a trip to Muskrat Dam; I was embarking on a week-long experiment in sleep deprivation.
The Presentation (A.K.A. The “Cat Herding” Seminar)
Once we were settled, it was time to head to the school for my leadership and anti-bullying presentation. I entered the gym to find a demographic that can only be described as “The Entire Spectrum of Humanity.”
We had a high-energy mix of students ranging from four to twelve years old, including kids with autism and various special needs. It was a crowd that didn’t just have energy; they were vibrating at a frequency capable of powering a small city. Grabbing their attention was like trying to catch smoke with a butterfly net, but eventually, I managed to pivot from “guy talking at the front” to “engaged leader.” We burned off the excess adrenaline with some high-octane games before retreating to the relative sanctuary of the classroom for some storytelling.
The Deep-Freeze Open
After a home-cooked dinner back at the house, the group split up for the evening’s extracurriculars:
•Nadine: Opted for the civilized choice—a spa night with the local ladies.
•Mike, Andy, and Myself: Chose the “Arctic Pool Shark” experience.
We headed to the hall to play pool with four teenage boys, only to discover the building had no heat. We weren’t just playing billiards; we were playing a frozen version of the game where the only thing colder than the felt was our fingers.
The Soccer Redemption (And Decline)
Eventually, our survival instincts kicked in, and we traded the walk-in freezer for the heated school gym to play soccer with the boys. I managed to peak early by scoring the first goal of the game—a moment of pure, unadulterated glory.
Unfortunately, that goal exhausted my entire athletic quota for the decade. After that, my performance didn’t just decline; it went south so fast it nearly beat us back to Burlington.
The Local Flavour: Dogs, Trucks, and Dry Tanks
Navigating the community was an adventure in itself. Packs of dogs patrolled the streets like fluffy, four-legged landlords. Our primary mode of transportation was a pickup truck that seemed to start only on a wing and a prayer. On one excursion to the local store, the prayer clearly timed out. The truck died, and we discovered the tank was bone-dry—not of gas, but of oil. We had to perform an emergency transfusion of four liters of oil just to get the heartbeat back.
Moose Parts and Musical Chairs
Wednesday morning kicked off at the Treatment Centre, where we were greeted by a half-filleted moose casually reclining on a table. It was a vivid “farm-to-table” moment that really puts a grocery store meat counter to shame.
I spent the morning with Hunter, Jadrian, and their sister. Our session was a classic trifecta: Singing, Uno, and Painting. The resident teacher pulled a classic “Houdini”—claiming she needed to photocopy some papers and then vanishing into a temporal rift. I eventually had to go on a search-and-rescue mission to find her. The kids started off quiet, but by the time the paint hit the paper, I had successfully infiltrated their circle of trust.
The Afternoon Shift: After a quick lunch, we headed back to the school for Round Two. This was a high-energy rotation of games, stories, and art projects. I told my “Red Button” story, which—thankfully—landed better than a broken plane in a snowstorm. Between the crafts and the storytelling, I think we managed to use up every ounce of glitter and imagination in the building.
While Mike and I handled the youth division, Nadine was next door performing art therapy with the parents—presumably involving fewer glue sticks and more “emotional processing.”
The Great Volleyball Strike
By evening, the group split again. Nadine headed off for her nightly “Ladies’ Secret Society” meeting, while Mike and Andy went to the gym to play volleyball. I looked at my aging joints, looked at the court, and decided to pursue a career in Professional Spectating.
This led to a much warmer alternative: a ride-along in Rick Martin’s truck. Driving around Muskrat Dam with Rick was like having a backstage pass to the community’s history. Rick is a musician, a storyteller, and apparently our unofficial breakfast mascot, joining us every morning for fellowship and coffee.
The Morning Ritual: Wisdom Before the Storm
Each morning, before the day dissolved into logistical gymnastics, we began at the school with a prayer and story session. It was a moment of quiet focus before we headed over to the Treatment Centre to face the half-filleted moose. These sessions were the heartbeat of the day—a chance to ground ourselves in the community’s spirit before the chaos of “The Houdini” teacher or the frozen billiard halls took over.
Moose Stew and Frozen Mists
Thursday was a whirlwind of stories, art, and “deep-tissue” community connection. For lunch, we were treated to moose stew and moose fritters. While I can’t say my palate was exactly screaming for seconds, I appreciated the gesture (and the fact that the moose from Tuesday had finally fulfilled its destiny).
The Pie Sentry
As evening fell, the men headed to the school to prep for the Jamboree. I, however, opted for a strategic retreat. Between a creeping cold and general exhaustion, I stayed back to rehearse some children’s songs for the grand finale.
More importantly, I was on High-Alert Pie Duty. There was a rumour of lemon meringue pie and tarts entering the house, and I wasn’t about to let those precious assets fall into the “wrong hands” (read: anyone who wasn’t me).
The Big Chill: -47°C
While I was guarding the desserts, Nadine and Diane were out hunting the Northern Lights in -47°C weather. To put that in perspective:
•At that temperature, touching metal is basically a permanent commitment.
•Opening a door results in a literal “mist of despair” floating into the room as the air itself gives up.
It was a night where the only thing colder than the outside air was the realization that I still had to share a room with Andy’s snoring.
Friday & Saturday: The Midnight Marathons
By the time Friday rolled around, the community was vibrating with the energy of the Jamboree. These weren’t your average “in bed by 10 PM” events; the music and testimonies stretched into the early hours, seeing us crawl back to our quarters at 12:30 AM each night.
The Puppet Master Phase
From 7:00 to 9:00 PM, we ran the children’s program—a frantic, high-stakes variety show featuring music, crafts, and a puppet show. If you’ve never tried to maintain the “fourth wall” of a puppet show while a room full of sugar-charged kids stares you down, you haven’t lived. It was exhausting, but the connection was real.
I formed a particularly “modern” bond with a boy named Isaac. Our friendship consisted of deep conversations punctuated by Isaac taking unflattering, “weird” photos of me and immediately showing them to me. Nothing keeps a leader humble like a candid, low-angle chin shot taken by a tech-savvy child.
Sunday: The Grand Departure
Our final day was a whirlwind of fellowship: a morning church service followed by a community lunch where we presumably ate everything that wasn’t nailed down. We caught one last session of music in the gym, and as I waved goodbye to a single community member, I was met with a synchronized “Great Wall of Waves” from everyone in the building. It was the kind of cinematic exit usually reserved for departing royalty or people who have successfully guarded the last of the lemon meringue pie.
The Parting Gift: Worth Every Frozen Second
As I stood in the school foyer, finally escaping the high-decibel energy of the gym, I was met by Roy Fiddler. He presented me with a gift that made my store-bought winter gear look like summer-wear: a beautiful beaver and moose hide hat, hand-crafted by Esther, an 87-year-old Elder in the community.
As Roy pulled me into a hug, he leaned in and said softly, “You’re welcome in our community anytime.” In that moment, the -47°C mists, the questionable moose stew, the “Houdini” teacher, and even Andy’s seismic snoring faded into the background. That hat wasn’t just warm; it was the ultimate “VIP pass.” It made every bumpy flight and every puppet show worth it.
The Final Ascent
I climbed into that four-seater “flying lawnmower” with my new hat and a full heart. As the two teenage pilots revved the engines, I realized I was leaving Muskrat Dam with much more than just weird photos on Isaac’s phone—I was leaving with a second home.
The Homecoming: 22 Hours of Recovery
We touched down in Toronto at 12:00 PM, and by 2:00 AM, I had successfully performed a tactical face-plant into my own bed. I didn’t just sleep; I went into a state of semi-permanent hibernation. I didn’t resurface until noon the next day, finally waking up to the realization that while I was back in the “civilized” world, I had brought a souvenir back with me: a “Muskrat Dam Special” head and chest cold.
The Post-Trip Gauntlet
For the following week, I had to maneuver through my schedule of after-school programs and school presentations. It was a masterclass in “Powering Through.”
•The Condition: Major head cold, chest congestion, and a level of fatigue usually reserved for people who have just run a marathon while carrying a moose.
•The Mission: Maintaining the energy of a “Leadership Guru” while my brain felt like it was made of wool and my lungs were auditioning for a Victorian ghost story.
Somehow, I survived. Between the memories of the -47°C mists, Isaac’s weird photography, and that beautiful beaver hat, I had just enough internal fuel to keep the presentations going.
Final Thoughts
Looking back, the trip was a wild mix of mechanical failures, 87-year-old artisans, and oil-thirsty pickup trucks. I may have come home exhausted and congested, but I also came home with a standing invitation to a community that knows the true meaning of warmth.
