#interlake

[real-reulbbr-band]

Gushing over the vibrancy of these costumes

And bonus Pinkbub because I love her!!!

Thea Celey as Bombalurina, Victoria Biro as Demeter, Alex Aponte as Mungojerrie and Caroline Desmarias as Sillabub.

Cats at the Interlake Theater, 2022.

Costumes by: @miasiegert !!!

[miasiegert]

Summerstock from the Pit, Interlakes 2022

David found this on Youtube late last night, thought it was neat. This was Interlakes last year when I was in the hospital. Can see a few glimpses of legs of our costumes.

Interlakes is a delightful small non-eq theatre in NH, about a 400-ish house. Production directed and choreographed by Chaz Wolcott. I'm not sure when this video was taken, and I honestly don't know much about the show as I was rushed out to urgent care then the ER during the second performance with acute complicated appendicitis (grateful to the in-house costume designer Ginny for finding me and taking me to urgent care, waiting, then driving me to the ER--that helped save my life for what turned out to be a super dangerous surgery where I almost didn't make it). I wish I was able to see the show. Some of the cast were super lovely, Yuka was the kindest person ever, and I also taught many people how to do make up in a crash course. And of course mini "arguments" over eyebrow placement (I was right/won that one lol--I say it with love and in jest). We do love that theatre and our dear host family. Highly recommend it to anyone in that area. Nancy does an EXCELLENT job casting singers.

[camaraindustries]

Selective Pallet Racking Shelving | Roll Formed Pallet Racks | Camara Industries Inc

Selective pallet racks offer a range of benefits, including quick assembly and high compatibility with most standard warehouse equipment— we offer new and used. Take warehouse storage to the next level with Camara Industries, Inc' selective pallet rack shelving and interlake racking. Reach out for new and used solutions.

See More: https://camaraindustries.com/products/selective-pallet-rack/

[allthecanadianpolitics]

A Manitoba biologist says he's hopeful the province's bat population will gradually start to recover, after the arrival here of a deadly bat disease that has killed thousands of the flying animals across the province.

White-nose syndrome — a fatal infection caused by a fungus — was first found in Manitoba in the Interlake region in 2018. 

It has killed millions of bats since it was first seen in North America in upstate New York in 2006. Since then, it has spread westward across Canada.

"It's basically everywhere we've looked for it across the province," said University of Winnipeg biologist and bat researcher Craig Willis, whose U of W lab hosted a conference for researchers from across North America this week.

"Our populations across the province have crashed."

Continue Reading.

Tagging: @politicsofcanada

[six-of-ravens]

Interlakes hike part 2!

Bonus: cows who walked in front of my car. On the way up, some frolicking deer ran out and forced us to brake hard, but these cows stood on the shoulder and waited for us to stop before wandering across. Very polite 10/10

[cchapsticck]

This is so belated but Happy Birthday @bettiebloodshed! They gave me a prompt a while back and and I wanted it to be for your birthday birthday but. You know how I get.

---

It was funny before; when the cult leader allegations were more of an implication than an outright condemnation, and then, honestly, it was kind of funny after when he was Actually The Prince Of Darkness Apparently that he was born on the longest day of the year. Prince of Darkness born on the day with the least amount of darkness. 

Amazing. 

Failing upward since birth. 

Anyway, that said, he spends his first birthday as the undead under too much daylight still laid up Good Samaritan Bloomington, still sticky with skin grafts and trying not to itch at his stitches - both hands being once again available for his use - mourning the partial loss of at least 3 of his tattoos, bored out of his mind, and a kind of miserable that he’s still not sure he’s managed to scrub off him yet. 

Wayne kept making those drives up to Bloomington like he wasn’t missing shifts on the regular and running his sick time into the red but Wayne still comes that June, when he’s finally out of his fun little coma, like they’re gonna do anything. Like he can stand and support his own weight for more than minutes at a time, like he’s still not bleeding into his bedsheets now that he’s moving around at all. 

But he does, doesn’t say that’s why. Wayne’s not necessarily a festive guy but it’s not that he doesn’t care a whole hell of a lot so he shows up and they both know why and they don’t say much about that. Feels a little fragile. Made it another year but like. Just fuckin’ barely, asshole. 

So All That Shit is still a little too close to feel like doing much beyond watching daytime soaps on the pink wavy picture’d 10” TV bolted to the wall, eating saltless hospital cafeteria food in irregular silence. Wayne sneaks him a shitty black coffee that makes him feel like there are knives in his guts an hour later from the machine in the lounge but it definitely feels worth lying to the nurse later, and brings him one of his books from the house that survived the collapse. He doesn’t look at which one. Not sure he can stand it, knowing where it came from.

It's not awful, all things considered. 

When he was a kid, living with Wayne, he wasn’t so much a birthday guy. Didn’t have a lot of friends growing up, too weirdkid for that. And the date of note being in the armpit of June and the window unit AC at the trailer doing its damndest at doing not much at all making the house inhospitable for human life even on full blast - even if he had the friends to make a whole typical thing of it he wasn’t so much in the position to host. (Story of his adult life too honestly ha ha fucking ha) Not unless anyone cared to deal with a not insignificant selection of sweaty pre-teens in the already a little cramped for two single wide for a few hours at a time - and having now experienced that in, at least, an adjacent capacity since being released from the hospital and various criminal investigations he wouldn’t retroactively wish that on Wayne. 

Anyway he’s never been much of an outside cat but Wayne used to take him out to Yellowood or Hoosier or Interlake just to get out of the house and they’d get up to what the fuck ever. He’d hop out of Wayne’s old Chevy, roll his ankle in the gravel parking lot at a trailhead tripping over his own ass running full tilt out of there and just. Release the beast. 

Honestly it was probably like letting the dog run around the yard off leash until it tires itself out, for Wayne. Only with like. A 13 year old human. 

He’d jump in weed tangled, freezing cold lakes too murky to see the bottom of, he’d get bit to shit by mosquitos running through long grass with burrs all stuck in his socks and shoelaces, waste a shitload of bait sitting on a bulwark at a reservoir while Wayne fished and he threw hotdog chunks at turtles. 

They’d drive back just as the sun starts to go down, stop at whatever roadside diner they find first on the surface roads eat burgers and undercooked, limp, fries and whatever desert special the place has - places like those always have one - while Eddie would rip the paper napkins and straw wrappers into little shreds and dumping 6 little plastic containers of creamer and however many packets of sugar he could pinch between his fingers from the cramped little dish on the table into his essentially white, by that point, annual cup of coffee (as his stimulants problem started early, apparently) while he’d tell Wayne about whatever book he was reading at great incoherent length and Wayne smoked in the corner booth. Always a corner booth. Get back for Forest Hills after dark, his adolescent ass valiantly trying to fight off sleep out on the porch with the fireflies and crickets and Wayne’s last silent cigarette of the night. That was just. Kind of always how it went for them. Just him and Wayne and another year.  

So Steve doesn’t know any of this, so far as he knows. 

But Steve’s wailing on the goddam horn out front at the unholiest hour of 7am and he’s just standing on his stoop and gives him the universal arms out stretched what the fuck, people live here jackass look and Steve just gives a him winning smile and the finger out the open driver’s side window. 

Fucker. 

He’s got nowhere to be and no one to notice if he’s gone and Steve didn’t say what they were doing, just that it was gonna be a long drive and he was picking him up early. 

And it's not, like, Steve doesn’t know. Like he knows what day it is. He knows what this is about. 

And it's cute and all, whatever it is, he just figured he wouldn’t be 22 and not-dead and doing this kind of shit. Like the cutsey-surprise-make a day of it-whatever. Like there’s diminishing returns with getting older and the days that denote it - old enough to drive, old enough to die in a war, old enough to vote, old enough to drink, end of list, exciting birthdays over - not that he’s got a lot of room to talk re: time spent maturely, considering his hobbies largely consisting of a very elaborate game of pretend but like you grow out of this particular kind of thing eventually, right? Just like, one day you’re gonna stop feeling no different than you did when you were 17, right? Like some threshold of adulthood achieved surely exists, and there’s some point when you know you’ve crossed it? 

Right?

But Steve’s got a plan and he’s not really the greatest at keeping things to himself, transparent and careless to a very measurable fault, as evidenced by the paper grocery bag sitting on the floor of the passenger side. Top wide open, something soft and pale wadded up in there barely obscuring six of something else, and Steve sort of hurriedly going, like, shit don’t look in the bag once he negotiates his legs around the obstacle on the floor of Steve’s car. 

And, like, sure, he’s kind of a dick before the hour of 11 am but he has at least a shred of a capacity for restraint so he just rolls his eyes a little and shoves the bag further up the floor under the dashboard and something glass clinks together in there and keeps his shittier thoughts to himself about how precisely bad Steve is at his little birthday subterfuge since Steve’s bothered to even like. Give a shit. 

“So is this an official kidnapping or do I get to know where we’re going?”

“This is, at best, a consensual kidnapping.” Steve says, a little distracted, arm around the back of Eddie’s seat fingers kind of tapping against the leather headrest as he waits, the heat of his wrist inches from Eddie neck, absolutely blistering with proximity - twisted at the waist to look out the back windshield as he backs out of the little square of gravel out front of the trailer and he tries not to feel like a giggling maniac about it. Like, he’s never had a deep well of dignity but Christ Almighty. 

Steve throws the BMW into drive with a fully unnecessary flourish, car kinda clunks into gear with the lack of finesse in the showmanship of it all, and Steve kinda swings around to look at him all excited about fuckin’ something, arm still behind the passenger headrest. “And no.”

He’s so fuckin’ smug. Actually, y’know what? Actually, fuck this guy. He doesn’t really love having shit held over his head and Steve thinks this is really cute and Eddie’s not gonna let him just have that for free, even if it's been exactly whatever this is for months now. Him and Steve and their weird flirting to cope they’ve been doing now that the life or death adrenaline has worn off. 

He can fuck all the way off at 7 in the goddamn morning so he just digs through Steve’s glove box through the like - fuck, only like 3 tapes in there, what the fuck. Born to Run. Rumors. And huh. Parallel Lines. 

Smart money’s that’s Buckley’s. 

“Looking for something?” Steve asks all conversationally, not really looking at whatever state he’s making of the glove compartment as he turns on to 69 North. 

“Yeah, music.” because he’s gotta be a dick about something.

“Okay. No? Shotgun does not pick the music?” He is appalled, his sensibilities assailed, his most holiest of held beliefs blasphemed. “Who raised you?”

Eddie flips the compartment closed, it catches with an instant and satisfying click. Not like his van. His van, his shitheap van. You kind of have to slam it closed a couple times, hard enough until it sticks. Which is an arbitrary number of slams. Just until it goes. For a split second he feels like Steve’s showing off then he reminds himself he’s insane. 

“Not the wolves that raised you, apparently.” Steve laughs, it's dry and it’s skeptical, but he laughs “Shotgun absolutely picks the music. Shotgun is Sentinel, man. Shotgun’s watching traffic, shotgun’s calling out shit in the road, shotgun is distraction proof. Shotgun’s Navigator, shotgun knows the exits, shotgun’s on the maps, shotgun is destination oriented. Shotgun is getting us there. Shotgun is the Gatekeeper, shotgun is keeping the driver free of distraction, shotgun is running interference from the backseat fuckery. Shotgun is indispensable. Shotgun is doing so much for you, the least they can have is a pick of the fuckin’ music, man.”

“Yeah but I’m driving.” it comes out of Steve all unimpressed and that’s final and also obvious but also Steve’s just fucking laughing at him now, and honestly he can’t imagine why. Not a joke. 

“Steven, they let 16 year olds drive cars, whose responsibility is really greater here?” and to punctuate the moment he jams Rumors right into the deck. Like checkmate. The defense rests. Take that.

Guess it wasn’t rewound before it got tossed into the compartment because it picks up in the middle of Songbird, Christine McVie and the softest-soft rock piano so sweetly proclaiming some avian conspiracy that:

Like they know the score And I love you, I love you, I love you

And that sort of hangs weirdly in the sudden silence of the cab because Steve’s not laughing anymore he’s just biting his lip looking straight ahead into the Sunday morning church traffic because he’s maybe embarrassed, maybe being caught out at some arbitrary point in the album, like it's anything more than a coincidence, or its shock that Eddie’s considers this music at all. 

He could make up less and less plausible expositions for the look on Steve’s face all goddamn day but instead he just pulls and pushes the door lock up and down like a clunky loud asshole until The Chain saves them both from themselves and whatever emotional complication Fleetwood Mac committed to audio engineered eternity.

He hums along a bit (metal gods may ye be merciful upon his hellbound soul but, like. C’mon) punctuated by idle stunted small talk (how’s Wayne doing? - fine - how’s running your dork game again going? - clandestinely organized in various local basements but also fine) until he ends up falling asleep with his head against the window for the better part of the ride. It is, after all, well outside his personal hours of operation. The fact that he’s made it even this long is commendable. Everyone clap.

For the better part of the drive and despite his whole manifesto on the responsibilities of shotgun, apparently, Steve doesn’t wake him up, just lets him sleep and subsequently wake up on his own with a cramp in his neck, shoved down low into the passenger side with a numb hand shoved between the seat and the door, and the vibration of the wheels against pavement resonating in his teeth. So, whatever little surprise Steve’s got that takes 4 hours to drive to gets to remain a surprise after all because he wakes up disoriented and sore and all there is to see out the window is the high noon sunshine through some green trees surrounding some rumbly, chewed up, lineless, backroad and The Carpenters playing low on the radio. 

“What part of the kidnapping are we on?” He manages to get out, his tongue thick in his mouth and his skull still vibrating minutely off the window, after indulging in seconds of being unseen, unnoticed, to just watch Steve look to the road ahead, restlessly fidgeting with the stitching on the wheel. Exactly where he left him.

Steve flashes him a look - quick - to him and then back to the road - like he hadn’t expected him to be awake so soon. Like he’s been checking in and just missed. Like maybe he’s surprised, or he was caught out at. Something.

“Dismemberment.” Is what he says instead of whatever soft thing seemed to be behind his teeth. 

Eddie hums at him, still a little groggy. Cool. 

“Oh you can just, uh, cut on the dotted lines.” he says, shoving himself up the seat a bit, kicking whatever is glass and clinking at his feet with a mumbled shit as he gestures towards his chest and sides, vaguely. “Pre-portioned.”

“Or you could just ask ‘Are we there yet?’ like a regular person.” Like Steve didn’t just commit to the bit, like, instantly. 

But anyway, he absolutely will not be doing that.

“Thought I’d spare you the flashbacks - afternoon amongst peers and all.”

“Gee thanks.”  

“Don’t mention it.”

Steve snorts, smiles a little, looking straight ahead to the raggedy backroad while Eddie’s still kind of crammed between the shoulder of the seat and the passenger door. Steve’s sunglasses are pushed up on top of his head, the front of his hair sticking up in all directions over and under the frames, brushing against the upholstered headliner of the BMW.  It’s not cute. 

He’s so fucking fucked.

“I won’t.” 

Shithead.

So eventually they park, they get out of the car, and Steve’s looking at him expectantly, presentationally, like he’s supposed to know what he’s looking at. And what he’s looking at is mostly the sand logged scrubby low reeds edging the cracked, sun warped asphalt he’s parked on. He snatches Steve’s coolguy wayfarers off his head, in part to spare himself his ongoing private humiliation of whatever’s going on in his chest and brain watching Steve squint into the sunlight and, in similar not unrelated part, to spare himself from the reflection off all the sand blasting his eyes into little shrunken raisins. 

Steve doesn’t even fight him. Doesn’t even bitch at him a little. Just pulls the bag out off the passenger side floor, didn’t even ask him to grab it when he got out - circled the car to pick it up like he was going to get the door for him. Like he forgot who he was with for a minute. And the something-glass clinks together again in the bag. It's bright. The sound. The sun. Whatever. Something inside him cracks a little. 

There’s a path that goes down, a steep decline that seems to just drop off into nothing from where he stands. Grey bleached wood slats with sand and tufts of spiky grass oozing up between the boards and pooled in the knotholes and Steve kind of gives him an after you kind of hand/arm gesture like there’s something just waiting for him just out of sight.

And there is. Sort of. In the way that it would have been there whether they were standing at the crest of this hill or not is waiting for anything. Something he sort of guessed at. Had enough of the information to guess at. 

He has this kind of puzzle pieced memory of being in elementary school, like third or fourth grade - the pre-Wayne times - and there was this whole week or month or whatever of lessons that were just kind of about the place they were, the place they were all growing up. And y’know, it’s like, industry and shit, its invention and innovation. Gary, Chicago, Dearborn. Capitalists’ wet dreams sold to third graders. And the rest of it was lakes, like why wouldn’t it be? What else is there? 

Some of it was industry, again, things ingenuity learned to make on the lake and the feats of it. Some of it was science, how cold, how deep, how old. Some of it was spooky shit, ghost ships and storms and whatever Gordon Lightfoot had going on about lakes that don’t give up their dead. But he remembers a story - because of course that’s the part that stuck with him - a story that isn’t really his to tell about loss and love and weathering the storm of grief and the passage of time to wait forever that made the dunes. 

And it kind of does. Have a kind of forever, that is, and a going on forever. The lake is there, a steep slope from where they stand at the crumbling edge of the asphalt down right into the water but the reedy clumps of greenery get fewer and farther between and every direction he looks up that lakeshore edge is rolling hills with sharp and soft edges, millions of years of grains of sand and the sun beating down. 

There are a few people up the beach, sliding down the hills of sand, standing in the surf, digging around in the muck for sea glass or shells or beach garbage or who knows - not close enough to make out any kind of meaningful detail. And so they are, for the most part, alone. And the sun beats down on them and the sand and the lake the same. 

He skids down the dune, shoes filling with sand as he tries to look like he’s any kind of control over the descent. Like all present parties don’t have a pretty good grasp on exactly what control looks like to him in various applications. Not like Steve and his casual confidence he just gets to, like. Have. Apparently. 

Steve whose ex swim team lifeguard years never really seemed all that distant - in surprising and nightmareish contexts the last few years; how strong a swimmer are you? bottom of a lake strong enough? not sure if he remembered how hard it really is to administer CPR but apparently it came back to him, if his own bruised ribs were any indication. 

Anyway he does eat shit about two thirds the way down, ass right into the sand and skids a few feet down, and he’s never been so glad to be one of those jeans all summer morons because his shoes are flooded and tight around his feet with the sand pouring in and he knows he’d be in a similar situation elsewhere less dignified were it not for the barrier and he’s suffered enough indignity in the last 27 seconds, thanks. 

And also anyway Steve holds a hand out to him, one foot braced up the hill to keep balance, the brown paper bag from the car balanced on his hip, where the bare, soft, skin above the inside of his knee is right near Eddie’s shoulder and he isn’t even looking, he’s looking out to the lake but he knows - knows it's not the embarrassment that’s making his face burn. He knows. 

“Seems like the kidnapping is going great, like, congrats man, I’ll break my legs on my own at this rate.” 

And Steve gives him this amused look with his outstretched hand that for sure isn’t denial or anything resembling dismissing any of the embarrassment he might be feeling about the situation. The fall. The proximity. Whichever. 

Sometimes he thinks Steve likes watching him squirm. It's not like he’s ever been like. Subtle. About anything. At any point in his life but probably about this specifically. So even if Steve’s entirely clueless, it's at least, apparently, fun for him. Something about it. It, whatever this is. Whatever it's been since he came back to life and they don’t talk about.

Anyway he takes Steve’s hand and it’s warm and it's broad and he already knew that because he’s thought a lot about it. 

He wins the remaining battle with gravity and momentum and sits to dump his shoes off and see if there’s any saving his socks from grit filled sensory nightmares in a few hours time and he’s pretty sure he’s already out of luck there with even the most cursory of assessments while Steve digs this white folded thing out of the paper bag. And as he sort of shakes it out he sees its scalloped edges, the eyelet delicately embroidered around the edges, the yellowing cream color of it all, and it occurs to him this is a tablecloth. An old one. 

Steve seems to notice that he’s sort of taken stock of what Steve’s laying out and how, if one were so inclined to take a lot of Steve Harrington at face value, it almost looks like his affluent upbringing has him so out of touch that these are the choices he made with confidence about beachside protocol so he clears the air with a;

“Biggest thing I could find in the house.” 

“Seems uh. Heirloom adjacent.”

Steve just shrugs and rolls his eyes. Like that means anything at all. 

There was a time he could, and maybe still can sort of, imagine Steve in one of those white pristine lake houses. The kind people go Up North for, the sweaters over shoulders, shoes without socks kind, catama-whatever sailboat-with-extra-steps dickheads. The country club Cape Cod wannabes of Midwestern lakefront property. The places that aren’t here. 

People don’t really live in the dunes, sand too high and malleable to put foundations down. Millions of years of shifting pushed out anything beyond the temporary, everything but themselves. And he thinks that, remembers that thought, and then has it instantly obliterated while Steve lays out what is almost certainly an antique that holds value to fuckin’ someone, digs the corners in with his bare feet - can’t even be bothered to treat it gently or with anything resembling differential respect - so he doesn’t get sand in his asscrack and just rolls his eyes about it.

Huh.

Steve reaches for the bag, something glass clinks together again, and he pulls something out, kind of clutched in his fist and because Eddie’s still mostly preoccupied with his socks because if he looks directly at Steve he might as well be looking directly at the sun he doesn’t really see Steve coming, hitting him in the arm with something solid but inconsequentially heavy. 

He looks up.

It's some trashy dimestore pulp paperback. Second hand. The cover sort of water warped and still damp from the company it’s been keeping in the paper bag. The binding is cracked and creased whited out on the edges where the printing has worn thin, pages yellowed and dogeared. The cover art is in that overly sexed painterly style meant to appeal to a very particular audience that he doesn’t as neatly fit into as one might assume. Devices of Archeron in yellowed white text across the top in some curly serif font meant to denote the medieval-adjacent legitimacy of whatever fantasy schlock is contained between its covers. 

It’s got these swirling green clouds revealing the shape of black eyes and a skeletal void of a nose, that yellowgreen lighting shoots through like a scar behind where, in the foreground, the overly muscular ostensibly sweaty looking one-would-assume hero of the novel stands. Feet apart, shoulder width, standing in power, dark shoulder length hair blown to one side in a presumed illustrative invisible breeze. Spear and shield in hand as he looks into the far distance off the cover into the realm of reality.

“It's not much, but it reminded me of you.” Steve says softly with no amount of shame. Like saying it out loud is embarrassing enough. Like thinking of him at all is embarrassing. Which it probably objectively is and Steve’s done it anyway and there’s physical proof now.

His skin feels all tight and tingly and he knows it’s not just the sunburn he definitely has. 

But it's funny that Steve says it isn’t much. Like he hadn’t driven for 4 hours while Eddie slept against the window, like he hadn’t made the trip, like he isn’t prepared to spend a whole 17 hours in his company because he had the time or made the time, like that alone isn’t anything and this little bargain bin find is the only something Steve has to offer. 

Fucking.

Fuck.

“I thought about, like, drawing a bandana on it but I can’t draw for shit so…” is what Steve says when Eddie realizes he hasn’t said dick or shit for way too long and this is actually Steve’s nerves talking.

“Shit, man.” is what Eddie says which is actually his own nerves talking. “Fuck, thanks.” 

“It probably sucks.” is what Steve says, not that he’s necessarily a connoisseur of the genre, but he’s also probably not wrong. 

“Here’s hoping!” and he actually means it. 

There’s no shade, not until the sun goes down and the dunes are behind them and the lake in front and the sun still rises in the east. So that’s just a geopositional loss for them. The longest day of the year in broad, cloudless, daylight and Steve pulls still sort of cold gas station sandwiches, fetched while Eddie slept uninterrupted against the window in some parking lot somewhere, apparently, and room temperature beer in the noisy glass bottles. Made the trip all the way from Hawkins for the occasion as the apparent primary concern, their sweaty lack of refrigeration clearly a misstep as Steve kind of grimaces at the soggy, drooping labels. 

And they sit in the sun and he can feel his skin peeling off in the future. It's different from feeling his skin peel off in the past. Having, now, a certain. Uh. Perspective. On that.

Having not been informed of their destination he did not come properly prepared for lakefront activities but dignity has no power here when he’s stripping down to his boxers and making a break for the shallows, sitting in the chilly shallow water - Lake Michigan is never really warm - to escape some of the brutality of the heat even with the sun dipping lower. Cross legged on the sandy bottom, Steve across from him better prepared and opening the beer with his keys, all muscle memory of Cool Guy of yore as he squints into the sun reflected off the lake. Like he’s thinking. 

And what he comes up with is:

“Did we ever. Talk? At school?” 

He knows what he means. He doesn’t mean talk and maybe doesn’t feel good enough or past it enough to call the spade a spade. Like he’s hoping for the best but expecting the worst. It's the growing pains. The getting older and thinking about other versions of yourself and who they were and who they did. Maybe it's just the spirit of the season, for Steve. 

“There he is, there’s old King Steve! This guy thinks I’ve cataloged every interaction I’ve ever had with him.” reaching through the water to snap his knuckles against Steve’s knee. His skin is slick under the water, the hair on his knee rasps against his knuckles and Steve is warm even in the cold water.

And he says it like a joke, because it is, a little. Mostly. Steve chokes on his beer a little, drools down his chin while he mumbles a fuck you through his messy indignity. Almost like Steve had been ready to be properly serious and penitent about whatever answer he was going to come up with and the joke startled the tension out of him. 

Like, he doesn’t actually want Steve to feel like shit about this, to be shamed for a momentary resurgence in self importance, or feel shamed for the answer they already both know, he knows he doesn’t actually mean it like that. 

But, y’know, despite the answer, it's also not a completely insane question to ask. The answer isn’t a hard and fast how the hell should I know. Steve Harrington had, and maybe still has but matters less, a reputation. A Hawkins Institution Of A Certain Age. Like, you could have been disdainful and disinterested as humanly possible - and oh boy he sure did try to hit that particular metric - but the pipeline of gossip and social worth isn’t something you just get to opt out of. Not when Steve Harrington’s got a reputation, and there on the other undesirable end of that particular spectrum is Eddie Munson’s reputation. So like, yeah. They. Interacted. 

Like maybe a little bit in a punching down way, like in an easy target way because that’s how order’s maintained. But mostly in a there is no conceivable common ground way. A way that mostly just had them existing in proximity to each other like two like poles of a magnet constantly shoving each other apart. There is no possible adhesion. Rulers of their own social orders. It is a law of nature. They cannot and will not make contact unless enacted upon by incredible force.

(Fuck.)

He’s got one clear memory of Steve before the identical maimings and end of the world averting, and they don’t talk in it. 

Sold weed to Carol Whats-Her-Ass in the driveway of some suburban house party because she clearly thought flirting might get her a deal over Hagan’s typical noxious personality - like the hair around the finger twirl big blink blink babydoll eyes fake as hell pretty girl attention surely has mileage with the insufferable dork virgin. (He let her think it worked. They always think it works.) Steve was there, looking bored leaning on the same BMW that’s baking in the sun just out of sight, Hagan just hanging off his shoulder, already trashed. And at the end of it Eddie says, all shitty to them “don’t do anything I wouldn’t do” and Carol throws her head back and crows with laughter at the implication, while Hagan gives him the finger over his retreating shoulder and Steve doesn’t say anything at all. 

“We talk now.” is what he says instead of, ultimately, answering Steve’s question.

Steve snorts, unimpressed. Knows he’s been deflected. 

“Sure.” 

“Look. It. Doesn’t really matter, man.” he doesn’t say the now. It dosen’t matter now. 

It's suffocating how All That Shit hangs over everything, colors every way they all interact with each other and the world. And probably will forever. The way they all don’t trust any of it, that nothing can possibly be the way they remember when all of their memories up to that point of particular damnation were always incomplete. Just a corner of a whole picture. And the frame’s all zoomed out now. Too far, honestly. He’ll look at a lake and he’ll always see, at least a little bit, a crumpled body crashing through the blackened surface and feel the pressure of water on his ears swimming towards something he doesn’t understand but knows now is death in his mindseye. And it's not all that hard to see that Steve’s made whatever version of that is true for him into a whole redemption road trip he’s put himself on. He’s started to see it a lot, how Steve’s always apologizing for something, even when he isn’t saying sorry. It's with Wheeler, it's with Byers, it's with Mad Max, it's with Robin and now, sometimes - it's him too. 

And it's always like, things are okay, Steve’s doing okay he’s like. Happy or having a good time or something and he’ll realize it - aware that life goes on even when it shouldn’t - and then need to twist that little knife he’s left in himself. Bring it all back. All this shit he hasn’t let go of. Like he can’t trust it's all over. So, he feels like now, with the sun beating down on them in a moment of ostensible celebration, that he has something to apologize for.

“I think I remember hearing about you more than I remember you.” Steve says, like he’s still got a few bones to pick with this dead horse but then he’ll be on his way. “Which is weird…” and like, y’know, the joke tells itself. Weird that I didn’t remember you then, what with how loud and annoying you are just like everyone’s said. Weird that I didn’t remember you when you were such an unrepentant unhumbled jackass. Weird that I didn’t remember you when I would watch you die later. “…’cause I don’t really remember anything anyone ever said about you either.”

And it's not over, not for him anyway. The shit Steve’s talking about but not saying. Maybe the supernatural and unexplained aren’t opening rifts through his late stage childhood home anymore but he’s still not well liked by the town he can’t leave. He was one thing to a nebulous Them for a long time, and that was a thing he was used to being - embraced being, if he’s honest with himself, which he hasn’t loved being lately but alas. 

But this new thing is worse. It's not something he wants, but it's not something he has any power to refuse. 

Long story short, skipping the pity party part (which he would be entitled to, honestly, it's his party and he can - quote - be a miserable little piece of shit if he wants to); people have always said things about him, had their opinions, and maybe it's worse now, but it's always been pretty much the same. 

“Well then let me fill you in: I’m bad news. Headline bad news.”

“Sure, but I like you.” 

Sure, like he agrees. But, like it doesn’t matter. 

He fucking cackles. Spooks some seagulls loitering around for the hope of leftovers tossed their way. 

“How unfortunate for you.”

“Not really.” he doesn’t even hesitate.

And he can’t take this, he can’t even try. What’s he gonna do? Smile right in Steve’s face about it? Blush? Look fucking touched? Fuck right off. So instead of anything productive or honest he just bolts. He flops backwards, bare back and upper shoulders making a cold, stinging, slap against the softly rolling waves in their little kiddy pool area of the lake. Pushes the air out of his lungs and sinks slowly to the bottom, but he keeps his eyes open, even though the sand he kicked up from his histrionics clouds the water hanging just inches above his upturned face. He can see the sun, an abstract and constantly moving yellowwhite and the little wrinkles the shape of it. Can see his hair floating in front of his face just as his chest starts to burn from keeping his gut and his lungs sucked in. 

And like. He knows. He knows how close Steve’s knees are to his own, he knows that Steve’s probably leaning forward to look down at Eddie’s retreat - he can feel the cold hover of his shadow over his chest even if he can’t see Steve from his perspective from across their little aquatic embarrassment buffer. 

He knows if he sits up exactly where he will be and exactly where Steve will be and his eyes are starting to sting from the sand in the water and his heart is starting to seize from the lack of oxygen and he’s died and wanted to be dead again and he’s been patched back together with foreign parts and he’s lasted another year past his expiration date and he just keeps coming back to the lake - any lake - and maybe that’s a sign, maybe that says something about something but there are little black floaters in his vision now and he knows that Steve’s always been exactly where he expects him, in his memories where they don’t talk exactly where he expects him, standing at the end of the world shoulder to shoulder exactly where he expects him, sitting in his car outside his uncle’s trailer just like he said he would be, leaning over him at the cold bottom of the lake maybe exactly where he expects him and his ears are ringing and he flings himself upright. 

There’s air, cold, and flooding back into his collapsing lungs and there’s water in his ears and his hair clings to his face, his neck, like the weeds they’ve been brushing away as they float to shore in the waves and with his hands outstretched like Karloff off the slab, like the Creature from the lagoon and his hands find Steve right where he knew he would be, his hands find his hair and his mouth finds his skin warm and dry from the sun and the sand when misses a little because he’s dizzy and maybe that’s the lack of air or maybe it’s exactly this now. 

Steve lets out this, soft, indignant grunt. Which, even in the euphoria of oxygen returning to his brain he has the brainwaves to concede that he’s earned that. His vision is swimming and he feels wrung out and boneless and he feels Steve’s teeth against his closed mouth - he’s smiling, he realizes in a daze. Smiling against his closed lips. Steve’s hand finds his wet tangled hair, sightlessly, plastered to his cheeks and neck with the cold lake water - drags them away with a firm press of his blunt fingers against his cheek, through stubble and scar tissue to clear the way, pushes his chin up into him instead, noses the juncture of his cheek and presses an open mouthed kiss to his jaw. Eddie shivers.

He’s never been to the ocean before, never really been farther than a state or two in either direction, and despite the fact that The Lakes fall within that geographical range he somehow hasn’t done this either. So he’s got nothing to compare it to necessarily but there is something arresting about something so big. 

He has seen and looked into a hellish forever. Red skies and ashen rain and a ruination that stretches for all of reality. The water here stretches to the horizon, a grey blue and points of light out to a cloudless sun bright sky. There is color here. There is green water and lavender sky and yellow sand and an orange sun and Steve’s pink mouth and another year in full color. 

[pwlanier]

Today in Great Lakes shipping history. June 29th.

1910: ALABAMA (steel propeller passenger/package freight steamer, 272 feet, 2,626 gross tons, built in 1909 at Manitowoc, Wisconsin) made her first trip in regular service for the Goodrich Line from Chicago to Grand Haven and Muskegon. She ran opposite the VIRGINIA. Cut down to a barge in 1961, she was scrapped in LaSalle, Ontario, in 2006.

1923: The CHARLES M. SCHWAB (Hull #496) was launched at Cleveland, Ohio, by the American Ship Building Co. for the Interlake Steamship Co. Lengthened with a new midbody and repowered with the stern section of the tanker GULFPORT in 1961. Sold Canadian in 1975, renamed b.) PIERSON DAUGHTERS and c.) BEECHGLEN in 1982. Scrapped at Port Maitland, Ontario, in 1995.

1962: The HAMILTONIAN began her maiden voyage for Eastern Lake Carriers (Papachristidis Co. Ltd.). Renamed b.) PETITE HERMINE in 1967. Purchased by Upper Lakes Shipping in 1972 and renamed c.) CANADIAN HUNTER. Scrapped at Alang, India, in 1996.

2023: Captain Paul Berger stands on the bridge of his 1,004-foot vessel Mesabi Miner.

Boat Nerd

[isinfo24]

Manitoba Hydro Death: What Happened To Hydro employee

Manitoba Hydro Death TODAY According to Hydro, the worker was working on a project involving a power outage on Thursday morning, August 8, the...Learn more 👇👇👇

We learned from the Crown corporation that one of the Manitoba Hydro employees had passed away on the job site while responding to a power outage in the Interlake. Public awareness of the story spread swiftly due to numerous posts on different social media platforms. According to Hydro, the worker was working on a project involving a power outage on Thursday morning, August 8, the cause of death…

[buttonpusherdiy]

2000trees Festival announces 2nd wave of bands

2000trees Festival can today reveal it's SECOND main stage headlining band of 2024.

The brilliant Australian 3 piece The Chats will be coming along to the farm this summer, bringing their sunshine coast punk rock, or as they describe it, 'shed rock'. Originally formed at school, they are a band known for their songs about Australian culture, their very direct song, EP and album titles ('Get This In Ya!' or the most recent 'Get F***ed') and being an incredible live act.

Joining them this summer, and also announced today includes fast rising UK rock band Hot Milk, American-Canadian singer songwriter grandson, all conquering phenomenons Nova Twins and the utterly brilliant Canadian duo Death From Above 1979. We also have Virginia Beach emo rockers Turnover, stunning US songsmiths Spanish Love Songs, one of the most exciting and talked about acts on the planet right now, Cassyette, hugely popular US rockers Movements, Liverpudlian 4 piece Crawlers (who opened up for My Chemical Romance in 2023) and many, many more.

A list of ALL the band and acts being announced today is below:

The Chats / Hot Milk / grandson / Nova Twins / Death From Above 1979 / Turnover / Spanish Love Songs / Cassyette / Movements / Crawlers / As December Falls / Angel Du$t / Static Dress / Amigo the Devil / Bears In Trees / Panic Shack / Press Club / Into It. Over It. / Interlaker / Sløtface / NOISY / Civic / King Nun / Calva Louise / ’68 / SNAYX / Cody Frost / ALT BLK ERA / NOBRO / Indoor Pets / Roe Kapara / Burner / Lovebreakers / Cauldron / Inhuman Nature / Pizzatramp / HAWXX / Meryl Streek / Shooting Daggers / Yabba / Heart of Gold / IDestroy / Ramkot / Swear Blind / Single Mothers / Mouth Culture / Naked Lungs / Midasuno / Knife Bride / Death Lens / Negative Frame / Arson / Bobby Wolfgang / Cruelty / Knives / Overpower / Artio / Split Chain

From 2000trees Festival booker, James Scarlett - "At 2000trees Festival, we have always taken pride in providing bands a path to prove they’re stage headlining-calibre bands. After they absolutely destroyed our Main Stage back in 2022, we’re stoked to be bringing The Chats back for their first ever UK festival headline slot, a brilliant band. On top of this, with the additions of bands like Hot Milk, Nova Twins, grandson and tons more of the most exciting artists rock music has to offer, we’re confident we’ve got a fair few more future main-stage headliners lingering in this announcement."

WHERE: 2000trees Festival is located on Upcote Farm, near Cheltenham, Gloucestershire. GL54 4BL

WHEN: Wednesday 10th / Thursday 11th / Friday 12th / Saturday 13th July 2024

TICKETS ARE AVAILABLE HERE

[organicseedca]

Savoring the Distinctive Flavor: Hardneck Garlic for Sale in Manitoba

Manitoba, known for its fertile lands and agricultural diversity, is a haven for growers cultivating various crops, including the distinct and flavorful hardneck garlic. The availability of hardneck garlic for sale in Manitoba not only showcases the province's agricultural richness but also entices culinary enthusiasts seeking unique flavors.

Hardneck garlic, distinguished by its hard central stem and intriguingly curled scapes, is favored by both chefs and home cooks for its robust taste and diverse culinary applications. Manitoba's climate and soil conditions offer an ideal environment for growing hardneck garlic, with regions like the Interlake and Pembina Valley providing suitable microclimates for its cultivation.

The process of growing hardneck garlic in Manitoba typically commences in the fall. Local farmers carefully select premium garlic bulbs, using them as seed garlic for planting. This strategic planting timing allows the cloves to establish roots before the onset of winter, lying dormant through the cold months and then flourishing with renewed growth as spring arrives.

The vibrant agricultural community in Manitoba takes pride in organic and sustainable farming practices. Many hardneck garlic growers in the province prioritize natural methods, eschewing synthetic chemicals and pesticides in favor of environmentally friendly techniques. This commitment not only yields flavorful garlic but also contributes to the preservation of Manitoba's natural ecosystem.

Local markets, farmers' markets, and agricultural fairs across Manitoba proudly display an assortment of hardneck garlic during the harvest season. Enthusiasts seeking fresh, locally grown produce can explore the distinct varieties of hardneck garlic available, each boasting its unique flavor profile and culinary versatility.

Websites such as "https://keepdreamin.ca/" are likely instrumental in promoting and facilitating the sale of hardneck garlic in Manitoba. These platforms serve as valuable resources for consumers interested in purchasing locally grown hardneck garlic directly from Manitoba producers, offering information and easy access to a diverse range of garlic varieties.

The appeal of hardneck garlic extends beyond its culinary uses; it is celebrated for its potential health benefits. Rich in antioxidants and other nutrients, hardneck garlic is esteemed for its immune-boosting properties and nutritional value, attracting health-conscious consumers in Manitoba.

In conclusion, the availability of hardneck garlic for sale in Manitoba epitomizes the province's agricultural expertise, commitment to sustainable farming practices, and dedication to providing consumers with high-quality, locally grown produce. Whether incorporated into diverse cuisines or appreciated for its health benefits, hardneck garlic stands as a flavorful symbol of Manitoba's thriving agricultural landscape.

[ultraheydudemestuff]

Jay M. Pickands House ("Breezy Bluff")

9619 Lakeshore Boulevard

Bratenahl, OH

The Jay M. Pickands House, known as "Breezy Bluff," located at 9619 Lakeshore Boulevard in Bratenahl, Ohio, was the home of Jay Morse Pickands.  Few names are more deservedly prominent in Cleveland's industrial and commercial life history than that of Pickands. One of the families of that name and a member of Pickands, Mather & Company, was Jay M. Pickands. Pickands was born on February 21, 1880, in Marquette, Michigan, to Colonel James and Caroline Martha Pickands. Colonel Pickands, along with Samuel Mather, founded the Pickands Mather & Company in 1883. Jay was two years old when his mother died on May 15, 1882, and his father remarried to Seville Hanna, the sister of Mark Hanna.  Jay Pickands, in his comparatively short life, achieved well-deserved business and social prominence. He graduated from University School in 1898 and graduated from Yale University with a Bachelor of Arts degree in 1902.  After graduation, he went to work in the sales department of Pickands, Mather & Company. Jay's brother, Henry, took over the firm's partnership upon the death of their father on July 15, 1896.

     Jay married Alice Maxwell Reynolds on January 7, 1903. She was born in Marquette, Michigan, on February 24, 1882, to Josiah and Jean Reynolds. Jay and Alice had a daughter, Jean Maxwell.    Jay Pickands built his house at 9619 Lake Shore Boulevard in 1907 on land that had formerly belonged to George and Sarah Benedict, who had purchased 4.2 acres on the lake at the northeast corner of Louis Avenue (Lake Shore Boulevard) and Haldeman Avenue (Lake Shore Boulevard) from Mary Bratenahl on June 22, 1871.  The Benedicts built a comfortable, unpretentious two-story frame cottage with a pitched roof and wide side porch. The modest house served as a summer retreat from their 2824 Euclid Avenue home. The Benedicts entertained a great many guests for picnicking and swimming at their Glenville retreat.  Breezy Bluff passed by inheritance to George and Sarah’s daughters, Mary and Harriette, on October 28, 1905. Mary and her husband, William Crowell, continued to occupy it as a summer home.  The Benedict cottage burned to the ground in 1906. Jay and Alice Pickands purchased the property on May 5, 1906, and commissioned J. Milton Dyer to design their home.

     Dyer was born on April 22, 1870, in Middletown, Pennsylvania. His family moved to Cleveland in 1881. He graduated from Central High School, attended a local training school for machinists, and studied at the Cleveland Institute of Technology and L'ecole des Beaux-Arts in Paris in 1900.  Dyer had an active practice in the first two decades of the 1900s. He became exceptionally skilled in the design of public and commercial buildings. Some of his major commissions were the Brooklyn Savings & Loan Association on West 25th Street in 1904; the Tavern Club on Prospect Avenue in 1905; the First Methodist Church on Euclid Avenue in 1905; the Peerless Motor Car Company on East 93rd Street in 1906; the Cleveland Athletic Club on Euclid Avenue in 1911; and the Cleveland City Hall in 1916. After a period of inactivity, Dyer designed the U.S. Coast on Guard Station on Whiskey Island in 1940.

     Jay Morse Pickands became a partner in Pickands, Mather & Company in 1911. The business grew, including iron-ore mines, mining and distribution of coal, distribution of coke, and management of The Interlake Steamship Company fleet of 36 freighters transporting iron ore, coal, limestone, and grain on the Great Lakes.  Jay was a member of the Athletic, Country, Mayfield, Tavern, and Union clubs. Politically he was a staunch Republican. He actively participated with charitable organizations and, for several years, was Secretary of the Cleveland Branch of the Red Cross.  Jay Pickands died on November 18, 1913, at age 33, at Lakeside Hospital due to an operation for appendicitis. A little more than two years after being made partner, his death deprived Pickands Mather of one of its most efficient and valuable executives. He was buried in Lake View Cemetery.  Alice remarried to Jeptha Homer Wade, Jr., and died in Santa Barbara, California, on January 22, 1919, at age 36.

     Melanie Cushing, the widow of the revered Cleveland doctor, Edward Fitch (Ned) Cushing, acquired the home on September 2, 1916, for herself, her son Pat (Edward Harvey Cushing), and her two bachelor cousins, Perry Williams Harvey and Allyn Fitch Harvey.  Edward Harvey "Pat" Cushing acquired the home on May 1, 1922.  Irl Edmond and Lavonne Keal acquired Breezy Bluff on October 22, 1946.  Lewis and Ruth Helmick acquired Breezy Bluff on May 17, 1955.  Jeremy and Jean Taylor acquired Breezy Bluff around 1959.  John Carney acquired Breezy Bluff on May 24, 1964.  The house was listed with the National Register of Historic Places on August 24, 1979.    Famed Cleveland architect Richard Fleischman and Helen F. Moss acquired Breezy Bluff on June 28, 1991.  Fleischman was the winner of numerous architectural awards throughout his storied career and he and his wife hosted over 30 fundraisers at their grand Bratenahl estate.  Richard Fleischman’s wife Helen passed away in 2013 and Richard in 2020. Breezy Bluff fell into foreclosure and was put on the market for $1,100,000.  While the exterior of the home remains grand and stately, the inside clearly needs some love.

[real-reulbbr-band]

Daniel Booda as Alonzo and Victoria Biro as Demeter. Cats at the interlake theatre, 2022.

[miasiegert]

Hi Cats Tumblr People,

So I heard you like pics.

Please bear with me (AND TEACH ME) how Tumblr works/if I'm doing it wrong! I'm literally the "How do you do, fellow young people?" meme. Our Etsy is linked (unless I messed that up!) Right now it's bare (LOT of work and VERY old photos in the banner) but we'll be posting some cossies soon that are ready to retire. Some of our prices sadly will have to rise (we undercharge honestly for the amount of time put into them... we just LOVE making them). Anyway...

These are our original designs. We have taken inspiration from different productions, from the US tour to Gothenburg to Australia to Japan, less UK because it gets the most attention and we like COLOR! but this is all us. Our goal is to a) have characters be recognizable and b) make swing unitards in palates that could pass as at least 3 characters for emergency. When our rentals go out, swing unitards go with them, and ultimately it's the director who decides what makes the final cut (so a less yellow Demeter for example--but we LOVE that one).

If we ever do a production of Cats with Chaz, you'll notice one in Red, White, and some Black (but mostly Red and White, with fan ears, that is a design David created and is Chaz's FAVORITE design of all time. Any time he does a show, if we're hired, that costume goes. Usually Electra, but any ensemble/swing kitty and can cover for Sillabub or in a pinch Bombalurina. Yuka wore it at Interlakes before she did Victoria on the last US Tour! You might notice an Admetus in tans and GREEN undertones--that was my design he loved. We also did the purple twins (which was vetoed and I said, "Okay" then did it anyway because I knew he'd love it, which he did!), and REBA Gumbie Tap Suit was completely mine (everyone thought I was out of my MIND when I started making it! Even David! Then the shoulder pads came, and the belt, and tail, and BEDAZZLING!!! SO MANY RHINESTONES!!!!) Our Misto coat lights up but we still have a lot to learn about arduino since we'd eventually like to make it blink to music. The Misto coat is also created to fit a multitude of sizes, basically the theatre using their department for alterations since we make use of stretch fabric. I've known Bronson for almost as long as Chaz (he even designed my author website!!!) so when I saw him cast, I showed him his costume (a much, much browner/redder Gus than most see--I was serious about liking color) and let him choose between two coats. He said he wanted pants and we went, "NO! PANTLESS PRODUCTION!" because we thought he was joking! We didn't realize... HE REALLY WANTED PANTS!!!! SORRY BRONSON! So shout out to Wichita for making him pants! LOL!

There is a HUGE joke about Tumble thirsting for Tugger more than the girls so you'll notice that with the Tugger ABOUUUOUOUOUOUOUOUUUUUUUUUT THAT.

Hope that's of interest! And no, I'm not procrastinating on edits when my agent deadline is Sunday. Haha... ha... ha... ha... ha... Sera, if you're reading this I PROMISE I'M WORKING OKAY??? I DIDN'T KNOW WE GOT ON BROADWAYWORLD!!!

We also saw some comments about casting in general and some confusion/questions about different dancers doing different parts (Alonzo vs Plato). Would anyone be interested in learning more about the casting process in general and things that directors/choreographers need to take into consideration? Please note, I will not discuss ANY performers we work with. Ever. All are extraordinary and these are tough calls that aren't easy to make and based on other factors, including the ensemble at large, and sometimes huge changes are made.

[fleurcareil]

Central Manitoba

Looking at a map, you'll notice that central Manitoba is dominated by several big big lakes such as Lake Manitoba and Lake Winnipeg so I looked forward to seeing both... until now, I was not really aware that the "prairie" provinces of Saskatchewan and Manitoba have such massive lakes; people always talk about the agricultural fields and how dry it is, and never about all that water! 😂

On the east shore of Lake Manitoba, I visited the tiny village of Steep Rock whose hall of fame is not surprisingly based on its shoreline cliffs... I was so surprised at the rock formations and the colour of the water, that for a moment I thought I was in the south of France or on a Greek island looking at the Mediterranean! 😁 Sunny & calm but not too hot, it was the perfect place to just sit on a rock, relax from the long drive and warm up from the cold night before. That is, until I started seeing snakes again 😮, 3 in total, even one hissing at me as I hadn't seen it hidden in a rock crevasse!

The region between the two lakes is called the Interlake, which I'm guessing not many people traverse from west to east (they rather go from the populated areas in the south up north) so most of the 2h+ drive was on unpaved roads... no point in getting the car washed while I'm still travelling but it will definitely need a deep-clean before I sell it as the sand is everywhere...

Nature wise, the Interlake was quite interesting as it seems as if it's an early succession forest, when plants return to inhabit an area after e.g. a fire or logging. Oftentimes the first arrivals are deciduous trees (which were here all very small & similar height) after which coniferous seedlings start to overtake, until at some point you have a mixed forest with tall coniferous (boreal in this case) trees interspersed with large deciduous ones. The landscape already had some big trees in it, which seemed to be remnants from a previous time... made for a visually attractive mix! Add to that marshes & bogs and I had plenty to look at (apart from at the road where there was almost no one, I think I counted 4 cars). 😃

My end destination for the day was Hecla provincial park, which is an island in the southern part of Lake Winnipeg, accessed via a causeway. It was first colonized by immigrant Icelanders in 1875, so this is memorized by stone ships (a traditional Viking burial custom) at the entrance to the park.

At Gull Harbour where I was staying for two nights, the Icelandic flag appears below the Canadian one (that's the law!) next to a cute lighthouse... pickerel for dinner & the howling wind created a true island feeling, and I was glad to have a very comfy room instead of camping! 😊

In the morning, I started off with a hike through extensive marshlands, but I aborted after a tiny loop as I had too much on my mind... I suddenly was stressing out trying to figure out what my next month would look like and had started to look for flights to France, so I sat for most of the day at a picknick table 😅, booking accommodations for the remaining 2 weeks of travel, contacting friends for the 2 weeks I was spending in the GTA and locking in my flight. As much as I like to explore, sometimes I just need to get things out of the way in order to enjoy again!

I did walk through the historic village which had a few old boats etc, but the church's cemetery was the most interesting, as the tombstones (including recent ones) read Icelandic names such as Helgason, Sigurgeirson, and Tomasson. Icelandic flags and names were present at most homes, so the heritage seems still strongly alive.

In the morning, feeling guilty of not having explored much of the park, I went up the observation tower at the north point of the island. The vast expanse of water shows how the lake is really an inland sea and explains why Icelanders would see this as a good replacement home (minus the volcanoes)!

To understand more about the history, I dropped by the New Iceland Heritage museum in Gimli, which was the de facto capital of the self-governing colony (with its own constitution!) until they eventually did fold into Manitoba. It's almost unbelievable that the Canadian government simply said; "yeah you can start a new country here", anything to help control the indigenous people... 🤔 An impressive Viking statue stands guard over the harbour but for the rest there was not much to see so off I went to Winnipeg.

I hadn't really planned to return to the city, but as it was on the shortest route back to Ontario, I hopped on the opportunity to visit the Winnipeg Art Gallery after all, which I didn't manage to do during the busy wedding weekend. The sole exhibit I came for is the three-storey high Quamajuq glass vault which showcases over 5,000 Inuit stone carvings. I must say I was a bit disappointed as the digital catalogue did not give any background to the art or artists (apart from name, provenance & date), so then it's hard to emotionally connect with the pieces... on top of that, the glass did not make it easy to appreciate the stonework details so not convinced this is the best way to share the beauty of Inuit art with the general public. What I did take away from the displays of muskoxen, narwhals and polar bears, is that someday perhaps I should also plan a visit to the far north, as there's still more wildlife to see! 😄

I still had 2.5 hours to drive to Kenora so didn't linger too long... was excited to cross back into "my" Ontario again!

Wildlife: 3 gartner snakes (Steep Rock), 2 bald eagles (Interlake), 3 deer, 1 bald eagle & 1 partridge (Hecla)

SUPs: none

Hikes: none

Distance driven since last map: 1,279 km

[allthecanadianpolitics]

Peguis First Nation and surrounding communities in Manitoba's Interlake have declared a state of emergency over lack of funding for their ambulance service, which they say is in danger of shutting down unless the province steps in with support. The Fisher Ambulance Service covers an area of 14,000 people in the Interlake region, including Peguis, Fisher River and Kinonjeoshtegon First Nations, as well as the rural municipality of Fisher. Since the last provincial funding agreement expired in 2019, Peguis has funded the service on its own, supplemented partially through billing, but now the First Nation says it can't keep going. Without a new agreement to pay for ongoing services, and reimburse Peguis for past costs, the ambulance service could shut down completely by the end of the month, said Dr. John Neufeld, medical director for Fisher Ambulance Service. [...]

Continue Reading.

Tagging: @politicsofcanada

[six-of-ravens]

Interlakes Trail hike around Upper Kanakaskis Lake (part 1)

This was a really fun hike! We had to turn back before the end because the trail turned into these largeish, wobbly chunks of rock that were a bit treacherous, but we'll have to go back with better footwear some other time. The first 3/4ths of the hike was very nice though, through the trees with the occasional picturesque view of the lake.

(also pictured: our pre-hike picnic)