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Hitchhiker HellHell: Wawa, Ontario
Definitely Not the Opera, CBC Radio, September 14, 2002
I am 23 years old and I have hitch-hiked approximately 27,000km in the last 5 years. I am more than famillar with the long strech of the Trans-Canada that meanders through Northern Ontario. Two years ago I was hitching with a friend across the country. It was early August, the days were scorching hot. We were having a blast until we got stuck outside of Sudbury for over eight hours in the sun. We decided that we would rather be anywhere than where we were, yes, even Wawa. So, as a joke, we decided to make a sign that read "Wawa please." Lo and behold a kind man stopped to pick us up because he was worried that we didn't know what we were doing and would get stuck in Wawa. I could take a few hours and tell you my other Wawa stories but i will leave it at that.
Take care,
AJ Withers
Toronto
Just heard your show about hitch hiking around Wawa. We just visited the town this summer on a cross Canada car tour and I can understand why that stretch of highway is called Hitch Hiker Hell. However in my experience in hitch hiking eons ago in the 70's between regions between Kingston, Ontario and Halifax, Nova Scotia. I found Truro, Nova Scotia particularly challenging. Coming or going you were invariably let off at the first exit had to walk all the way around the town to the next exit before you got a ride. The people were always friendly but you always walked that part. I made that trip a dozen times and I don't think I ever got by once.
Great Show,
Keep up the wonderful work
Randall Grant
Ottawa
Dear DNTO,
I'm writing in reponse to your call for hitchhiking stories. If Wawa, ON is hitchhiker's hell, then Grand Manan Island, New Brunswick is heaven. On my first solo visit to Grand Manan, I walked onto the ferry with loaded backpack, fully intending to WALK from the ferry terminal to the provincial campground on the Island which I'd promised my worried mom that I'd stay at, rather than simply erecting my tent in any opportunistic spot. The plan was going well, a beautiful sunny day, fantastic scenery. Who could ask for more?
But I hadn't anticipated the phenomenal level of helpfulness and friendliness I would encounter in Grand Mananers. There is only one main road which runs the length of the Island and I was walking along it. Shortly, a local stopped to offer me a ride and I thought, "How nice!" but politely declined the lift. The second time this happened, I chuckled and explained that I preferred to walk, thanks. By the third offer I was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable about snubbing the friendly offers. I confirmed that my thumbs were firmly hidden inside my fists and that I didn't appear to be looking for a ride in any way. However, locals, traveling up and down the road in their daily business, continued to notice me trudging along and decided to lend a hand. During the course of my 4 hour walk not 3, not 4, but 7 vehicles stopped to chat with me and see if I wanted a ride.
On a subsequent visit to Grand Manan Island, I had less luck with the weather. It poured rain. When I mentioned to the owners of the cottage I'd rented that I intended to hitch a ride to the ferry terminal, they had a better idea. They immediately suggested that I TAKE THEIR CAR and simply leave it parked at the ferry terminal with the keys in it and they'd pick it up later. They added that if I left right away, I'd have time to take a little tour of the Island before I had to get to catch the ferry. Yes, once again my belief is confirmed that islanders ARE the nicest people on the planet.
Happy Hitching!
Monica Waterhouse
Ottawa, ON
I enjoyed your piece on Wawa. I was surprised to discover that it's still the hitchhiker's nemesis it was in the late sixties, when I spent a memorable night there. Here's my Wawa story. In those days, a hitchhiking trip across the country was a rite of passage for lots of young people. The house where I lived in Montreal, a communal house with a shifting population of eight to ten, was a stopping place for many of these travellers, so I heard a lot of road stories. They often told of long hours spent waiting for rides in Wawa.
My decision to hit the road was made when my student loan arrived somewhat belatedly in May. I was no longer a student. I had dropped out of university. My year had started with a student occupation of the administration building, and after that, my studies in philosophy had lost their appeal. I needed to discover the meaning of life by living it, not by thinking about it. My friend Artie, a poet, also wanted to go out West, so we set out together, knapsacks and sleeping bags on our backs. The first few rides came easily, and after only a day we were on the north shore of Lake Superior, heading west on the Trans-Canada Highway in a late-model car with the radio blaring country music. The driver, a young guy named Tim, had said he could use some company on the long trip to Thunder Bay. We were elated -- all the way to Thunder Bay, way past Wawa! Tim drove fast, and we soon found ourselves speeding past the Wawa Goose and the hitchhikers standing forlornly on either side of the highway.
When we stopped later for a bite at a truckstop, I wrote postcards to my friends back home. They had a big photograph of the Wawa Goose on the front, and on the back, my message read, "We have escaped the curse of the Wawa Goose," with a lot of exclamation marks. We were making good time. There was little traffic and Tim was driving above the speed limit. With Artie taking a nap in the back seat, Tim and I discussed where our next stop would be. White River, he said, the coldest town in Canada, with a big thermometer by the highway to prove it. Suddenly there was an OPP car behind us. The police were motioning us to stop. Tim accelerated. Gripping the wheel with one hand, he reached in front of me to open the glove compartment. The police put on their siren. I heard Artie say in a sleepy voice, "Hey, man, I think you better stop, they have their guns out." With one hand, Tim rummaged in the glove compartment, yelling "Gimme my piece, I gotta piece in there," while I scrunched down in my seat, covering my eyes. After what seemed like a long time, I felt the car veer to the right, slow down, and grind to a stop against a rocky outcropping. The police took us back to the OPP station in Wawa. They kept Tim -- he was wanted for running away from reform school and stealing the car. When they found out we were hitchhikers, they gave Artie and me a lecture and let us go.
So there we were, back in Wawa. We waited by the side of the road, our thumbs stuck out hopefully every time a car or truck passed. After a few hours, we realized we weren't likely to get a ride that day, and we were exhausted. We threw our sleeping bags down in a hollow off the side of the road and crawled in. I spent the night rigid with awe as the Northern Lights moved magnificently across the sky above me. I felt small and insignificant in my sleeping bag on the ground. I must finally have fallen asleep, because in the morning I awoke to find that we were surrounded by clouds of mosquitoes and black flies, with Artie -- Artie who never lost his cool -- flailing his arms around, stamping his feet, and yelling incoherently. We had bedded down a few feet from a marsh. That day we decided to go home. Switching sides of the road, we joined the hitchhikers headed east. It took a long time to get a ride. We arrived back in Montreal the same day our postcards got there.
Phyllis Aronoff