A walk in the park: Sentier Inter-Centre and Liberator Harry crash site

Part of an occasional series exploring North America’s national, provincial and state parks.

The Montreal Gazette of Oct. 22, 1943.
The Montreal Gazette of Oct. 22, 1943.

ST. DONAT, Que.
We know for sure it was a Tuesday in 1943. What’s less clear is whether the plane went down in the morning, sometime in the early afternoon, or in the dark of night.

We know for sure the weather was terrible and that the good people of St. Donat heard a large plane fly low over their town. It was wartime and they might have been afraid to look outside, and those who weren’t afraid wouldn’t have known which way to look — sound is tricky in the mountains and muffled by heavy fog. Though reports were made, no one in authority appears to have paid them much mind. It was just a little village with a lot of loggers, after all, and there was important war stuff going on, like the loss of a giant Liberator B-24 somewhere near Mont-Joli.

The Liberator was a U.S.-built monster designed to take out U-boats. It became a popular part of the Allies’ arsenal, though some reports say pilots and crew didn’t love it — it was harder to fly than others of its class, and they felt there was a smaller chance of survival in the case of a crash.

Liberator Harry was a training vehicle that flew out of Gander early that October morning, headed for the darling town of Mont-Joli on the south shore of the St. Lawrence River. On board was the pilot and 23 soldiers. The weather was terrible, though, as we’ve said, and the flight was diverted to Montreal, 550 kilometres southwest of their destination.

But they got lost in the fog and rain, and sometime — morning, afternoon, evening? — the giant plane roared low over St. Donat and hit the hard rock of la Montagne Noire.

liberator harry crash debris 6

As the 24 soldiers lay dead on the frozen mountaintop, confusion reigned below. It is clear from a report in the Montreal Gazette two days later that “the most intensive air search ever carried out in eastern Canada” was focused in the wrong place, in the river near Malbaie, 500 kilometres away.

“Every available plane of both the RCAF and the Royal Air Force Transport Command battled ‘diabolical’ flying conditions in a vain search of the missing Liberator.”

The Malbaie police chief told the Gazette travellers told him a big passenger plane had plunged into the river near his town. Dozens of reports came in saying the same thing, but it made no sense. The area had been well searched, and Transport Command figured the plane had crashed in the morning, not afternoon or evening. “A most thorough search of this area has been made and we have found nothing to indicate they are true.”


It would be more than two years till Liberator Harry and its men were found. June 26, 1946, search crews looking for another crash caught a glint on the mountainside and soon spotted Liberator Harry’s unique tail. The mission to the top of the mountain determined that the men had died on impact, and that the plane had caught fire. Only three of the soldiers have been identified.

It remains the greatest military aviation accident on Canadian soil.

A wing of the Liberator B-24 that crashed near St. Donat in 1943 still bears the American star — it was new enough that the Canadians hadn't had time to repaint it.
A wing of the Liberator B-24 that crashed near St. Donat in 1943 still bears the American star — it was new enough that the Canadians hadn’t had time to repaint it.

four wheels

Sentier Inter-Centre, the trail that leads to the crash site, gets four stroller wheels for story, on the understanding that this is a hike not well suited for younger kids who might not be able to walk uphill for six kilometres and absolutely not for people who need to bring their stroller with them.

We went in the middle of spring, but experienced three seasons on our way uphill. The lower two kilometres were an easy walk on wide trails covered in last fall’s leaves and woven through with green shoots. The middle two were a good combination of thick mud and some snow, forgiven because of the beautiful way the sunlight, unobstructed by leaves, glinted off golden birches and kept our backs warm even as our feet got colder. The last two kilometres were a serious slog through knee-deep snow, but well worth the time and effort, especially if you’ve packed food, water, and dry socks.

The crash site is in two sections about 100 feet apart, the second featuring a monument and interpretive plaques. We picnicked at the summit — 2,925 feet — overlooking a wing and landing gear in the sunlight and were not bothered by ghostly chills.

liberator harry crash debris 1

Car, kids, kismet: When the magic happens

If you enter a car with an open heart, a sense of adventure, and your favourite people, little bits of magic happen. Usually you have to watch carefully for it, because magic is rarely easy, but sometimes things just fall together to make you smile. Or guffaw. Or pull over because you can’t see for laugh-tears.

The kids and I were off on a short jaunt, with Trevor up front already making me laugh: “Fleet Rd? Why would they call it that? It already ends with EET — they kind of have to call it Street, right? … Wait, we just crossed Robinson Ave. If it crosses an avenue, it has to be a street!

“Wait, Geography Boy, is that a thing?”

“It is in New York! That’s how I survive!”

“Randall!” I hollered, as we’d been a little lost and I’d just seen a street I recognized.

“Who the hell is Randall? Why is he in trouble? That’s your mad parent voice. Randall!”

So as you see, things can get out of hand quickly when it’s just the kids and I. Not my fault, really — they’re totally insane.

Then there’s Jilly in the back seat. She’s three a half, you’ll remember, so like Trev (who’s 19), she knows everything. She sits back there and shouts out orders more convoluted than the GPS that has it out for me: “Turn right, Mum. Did you turn right? Can you turn right? Is that man going to tell you to turn left?”

Mostly, as with the GPS, I tell her I’m turning right and then do a thing with the car that won’t get us killed. But there are certain things I’ll do just to keep her happy.

“Push the black button, Mum.”

“What black button?”

“That one.”

I couldn’t see what she was pointing at, because she sits behind me and I like keeping my eye on the road, but I hovered my hand over the silent radio and said, “This one?”

“Yes!”

I hit it and this came up:

car radio bass

“That’s just to adjust your bass,” I said.

It was quiet for a second, so I pushed the other button, to turn the radio on. And what was playing?

All About That Bass.

Trev and I looked at each other in awe. We high-fived. He said something like, “Is that for real?” Jilly sang along. Magic.

 

Downside? Jilly thinks I have an All That Bass button on my radio. Gonna go buy me a copy of that right now …

Ormstown’s demolition derby marks the start of my summer

ORMSTOWN, QC. — My birthday weekend includes the Ormstown Fair. It’s been a family tradition for years and years.

We don’t just love the carnival rides and cotton candy and funky chickens. We also love a good old-fashioned demolition derby. Sometimes it’s the only one I get to all year and sometimes, when it’s a really good year, it takes me three vigorous shampoos to get the smell of burnt oil out of my hair. I live for those years.

How to have fun in Ottawa for less than $10

Recently, Melani and Jilly joined me in Ottawa for a working weekend. It was one of those weekends where we were a little short on cash, but it’s a small and family-oriented town, and we were staying in a downtown hotel half a block from Parliament Hill. Here, in Melani’s words, is a tiny guide to having a blast in our nation’s capital on less than $10. 

How to have fun without spending (much) money: Talk like a pirate. (Photo provided by Melani Litwack)
How to have fun without spending (much) money: Talk like a pirate. (Photo provided by Melani Litwack)

How to have fun in Ottawa when you’re three and Mommy is beyond broke

  • Watch the changing of the guard at the war memorial.
  • Check out the “castles,” statues, 3D map, people, canal, things to climb on and pedestrian tunnel between your hotel and the bookstore.
  • Spend Mommy’s bookstore gift card. Then have a tantrum because she won’t buy you a scooter.
  • Scream all the way to the market.
  • Stop screaming and have a photo op on the nice policeman’s motorcycle.
How to have fun without spending (much) money: Talk to a cop. (Photo: Melani Litwack)
How to have fun without spending (much) money: Talk to a cop. (Photo: Melani Litwack)
  • Go to McDonalds for the food that would have prevented the tantrum in the first place.
  • Start walking back to the hotel taking pretend pictures with a cardboard camera. Greet EVERYONE.
  • Sneak into the biggest castle through the spinny door and peek in the ballrooms.
  • Find a bowl of candy and take one.
  • Climb on more things.
  • Meet a man with parrots and have a complete stranger pay him so you can have your picture taken.
  • Discover a reflective wall.
  • Climb on even MORE things.
  • Meet a nice lady who’s staying in your “hotowel” and strike up a conversation. Find out she’s there for the same reason you are.
  • Play with all your loot.
  • Go swimming.
How to have fun without spending (much) money: Have a tea party in the park with Dad, who Melani and Jilly stumbled upon by chance in a park across from the hotel. (Photo: Melani Litwack)
How to have fun without spending (much) money: Have a tea party in the park with Dad, who Melani and Jilly stumbled upon by chance in a park across from the hotel. (Photo: Melani Litwack)

A walk in the park: Alexandria’s Festival of Lights

Part of an occasional series exploring North America’s parks.

alexandria lights festival (6)

“Mum, can I come with you?” Jilly asked in her sweetest sing-songy voice when she saw me grab my car keys.

“I don’t know,” I said, a little cruelly. “I don’t enjoy driving with screaming little girls.”

“But I’m not screaming anymore.”

The tantrum was still echoing down the hall, but forgiveness comes as quickly as temper. Jilly and I were sick and had spent two days inside the house. She wasn’t the only one who’d had a tantrum that day; we needed to get out of the house or break down in tears. So we gathered all the hats and mittens, stopped to pick up Grandma and headed west toward the Ontario border.

Alexandria’s Festival of Lights is a showcase for community involvement. It was founded in 2006, when an enterprising citizen drafted people from the neighbourhood to create 22 light sculptures. It nearly came to a dramatic end that first year when an ice storm struck the day before the grand opening. The hardy residents banded together to get things back in ship-shape and the festival was inaugurated with a parade.

alexandria lights festival (5)The town of 3,200 people is a little more than 100 kilometres west of Montreal and it takes Christmas seriously. Strings of red lights spell out NOEL above the town sign and Main Street—in fact, dozens on dozens of houses on the way to Main Street—compete with constellations to light up the county.

The festival’s website does not display very nicely on mobile, so we weren’t completely sure whether the light show was still going on, or what park it was in. We drove slowly and pointed out every bright reindeer and slightly creepy crèche—like the heavily shadowed one that appeared to have a faceless Mary and Joseph—we saw along the way. We cruised along with our eyes peeled—“There’s a park!” I said happily, but it was just a monument on a hill—until we hit the back end of town and looped around to a gas station.

“Turn right at the second traffic light,” the clerk told Melani, though from my spot inside the warm car, her gestures told a much more complicated route.

alexandria lights festival (8)

Indeed, we’d missed a step because we somehow ended up at the back end of Island Park. We shrugged, left the car there and snuck in. And by “snuck,” I mean we took five minutes to get all our hats and mittens on and grab the camera and giggle a little bit before slipping through the half-open gate.

Such pretty lights! The whole town—and beyond—is represented here, from schools to hardware stores to the pharmacy. A funeral home’s memory tree was especially touching. Along the shore of Mill Pond, a line of trees is reflected on the ice. If your gaze should wander upward, the stars seem to be just another part of the festival.

There is free hot chocolate to be had in the little kiosk and a donation box at the entrance to the park. All money raised goes back into the community, for next year’s festival and for improvements to the park like a sound system for the bandstand, the kiosk itself, a security system and lots more.

The Christmas season has blown past in a flurry of dinners, and flights to and from home, presents and colds, tree-shopping and tantrum-holding. Here it was quiet, despite us and without much snow to crunch underfoot. This small pause was like the deep sigh one indulges in before rolling up one’s sleeves for the next big thing.

Happy 2015, all.

You only have two more days: The festival of lights in Island Park runs from 5 p.m.-10 p.m. till Dec. 31. New Year’s Eve, get there by 6 p.m. for the fireworks celebration.

 

Soul food and mid-century adventures

SWANTON, Vt. — This year the trees have put on a particularly spectacular show, slowly and brightly changing into an autumn quilt draped over the gentle, low Appalachian mountains.

We’re fortunate enough to live in a place where we witness at no charge one of nature’s most lovely events and we’re not so jaded that our breath doesn’t catch as the car lifts over a rise and the entire world is spread before us in yellows and reds and oranges, pitted with green and canopied by blue and white.

fall colours

We were day tripping — during leaf season, room rates in northern Vermont more than double — and had promised Jilly an adventure. After a brief interlude at a friend’s cottage overlooking the mountains, we dipped father south to St. Albans where we got lost looking for a big-box store and ended up instead in the sweetest little shop. Vintage Vibe was packed with mid-century delights at mid-century prices and manned by the possibly the funkiest lady in all of Vermont. We left the store with crowns, costumes, antique furniture and a sense of gratification.

Yet Jilly was still asking whether we were on an adventure. An adventure to the nearest Denny’s is what I was thinking as I filled the tank with good old cheap American gas in a tiny border town. After all, all that socializing and shopping makes a family hungry. But Melani was looking across the street at Swanton Memorial United Methodist Church.

“There’s a church supper tonight,” she said, even though she knows I’m not comfortable with churches or strangers. “The second sitting starts about now.”

memorial united methodist church swanton

I didn’t make any cute jokes about the second sitting. I was still thinking about Denny’s as I clicked my seatbelt into place and pointed the car toward the border.

“Ten dollars a plate,” she added, appealing to my frugality.

I slowed the car. “You really want to do this? It won’t be weird?” She shrugged in that way that means “it won’t be weird unless you make it weird, dummy. And I’m hungry.”

memorial united methodist church swanton (2)The church itself was built in 1895, about 90 years after the first Methodist meeting in Swanton. It was the fourth official meeting place for Methodists. In 1826, Congregationalists, Episcopalians, Friends, and Methodists built a brick church, according to the Swanton Historical Society, and in 1848 the Methodists constructed their own building. It was torn down and replaced in 1886. That one was destroyed in a fire, but rose again a year later. That’s a lot of history for one little church, but frankly we were more concerned with our growling stomachs.

I think they were surprised to see us. But their welcoming smiles and almost uncomfortable attention put us somewhat at ease. The lady who seated us apologized that we’d have to sit alone — the only other occupied table was already full. We were brought cider and buns, then potatoes and mashed squash the deliciousness of which I can’t even begin to explain. Biscuits and chicken were the centrepiece of the meal, with more gravy if we wished, and my favourite kind of cranberry sauce — the kind where you can still see the bumps created by the tin it came in. All were served on mid-century church dinnerware by a kind lady and her sweet, round-faced daughter, who might just be running these church dinners herself ten years from now.

church dinnerA handwritten sign on the back wall said “All are welcome at God’s table.”

The pastor came over to personally welcome us and we nodded and smiled — none of us really knew what to say or how to go about this, this whole thing where complete strangers drop in and sit at a table alone raving at the deliciousness of the food in a small-town church basement. And yet I thought of our friends over at Meanwhile at the Manse, who I think would have been tickled pink to have travellers drop in to one of their church suppers.

Just outside the door, with our bellies full of soul food, Melani put her hand in her pocket and withdrew a bundle of crumpled cash. We’d be home in just a few miles. “What should I do with this?” she asked me.

I shrugged. She’s the one who’s involved with the Unitarians back home, not me. “What would you want some stranger to do with it?”

And so she slipped back in and dropped it in the church basket. I hope they’ll put it toward the next church supper.