Highway 61 Read Online Free PDF

their amazing red and gold colors reduced to a thick brown carpet at the forest floor. Resorts that did not offer cross-country or downhill skiing were shuttered for the season, and the crowded tourist towns had become virtually empty of traffic. Certainly that was true of Grand Marais, a port city that could trace its history back four hundred years. I had hoped to lunch there on a fresh herring burger at a café with the unlikely name of the Angry Trout, only the café was closed. However, a bakery with the even more implausible name of World’s Best Donuts—which just might, in fact, make the world’s best donuts—was still open, and I devoured an assortment of cake and raised donuts. Yes, I know it wasn’t a particularly healthy meal, but they are the tastiest Nina and I have ever had. That’s why she requested that I bring some home, which I vowed to do on the return trip.
    Just north of Grand Marais the world changed again. Snow appeared, first as scattered white dust, then in small, isolated patches—a reminder of things to come. Wind slapped my car from both the right side and the left. The temperature dropped to freezing. I could see the breath of the Canadian customs officer at the Pigeon River Border Crossing as he asked the requisite questions—where was I going, what was the purpose of my trip, how long was I staying, was I bringing in any food, did I have a gun? I wasn’t carrying, yet I was glad I had driven my Jeep Cherokee just the same. The false bottom in the trunk of my Audi might have raised embarrassing and unnecessary questions.
    Once across the border, Minnesota Highway 61 became Ontario Highway 61 and wound forty-five miles to Thunder Bay. Technically the City of Thunder Bay did not exist when Highway 61 was built in the early twenties. It was cobbled together in 1970 with the merger of the communities of Fort William, Port Arthur, Neebing, and McIntyre, and it showed. It sprawled over 131 square miles, which made it larger than St. Paul and Minneapolis combined, if that’s how you measure size. It didn’t have a central business or residential district, but it did have two downtowns, and while the Twin Cities had built up, Thunder Bay built out, so it was mostly flat. I didn’t see a single building that was more than five stories high and precious few of those. One of the five-story buildings was the Prince Arthur Hotel.
    The Prince Arthur was located in what had once been downtown Port Arthur. It certainly seemed impressive from the outside. I didn’t venture inside despite the cold. Instead, I parked in the hotel’s lot, hoping the Cherokee would not be towed away as threatened by the sign next to the entrance, and crossed to the pedestrian bridge leading to Marina Park. It was my intention to retrace Jason Truhler’s steps, although I had no idea what that would tell me.
    The bridge was enclosed, its walls covered by city-sanctioned graffiti, so I did not feel the bite of the brisk wind until I reached the concrete zigzag ramp at the far end. The grass and flower beds were coated in a thin layer of frost, but the park’s sidewalks were dry and clean. So were the bowl, ramps, and railings where the skateboarders performed their death-defying stunts, although there were none while I was there. Only a handful of boats remained at their slips in the marina, and the restaurant and stores of the converted railroad station to my right were closed for the season. I stood looking out at Lake Superior. The steel-tinted water, the wind-whipped waves, and the snow-dusted Sleeping Giant in the distance would have made me shiver even if it hadn’t been so cold.
    I zipped my jacket to my throat and made my way to the second pedestrian bridge, the one that separated the marina from the park. Truhler had said there was a fountain, but that, too, had been shut down. There were no ducks to be seen, either. When I reached the middle of the bridge, I turned to face the Prince Arthur. It certainly was