We left Venice, we left Munich, we left London, and we left Paris. Each city had been, in its turn, more stimulating than the last. We planned our days to the last degree. With lists in hand, we boarded the metro in the morning, and never put less than 10km on our shoes by nightfall. Only one list was short; a single destination. From the metro, we transferred to the commuter train, and from the commuter train to a regional one. By degrees, we made our way to Vimy.
Walking into Vimy, each quiet street gave way to another quiet street. The town was vacant, but watchful. As we folded and refolded our printout map and walking directions, it became clear that we were travelling by instinct and not by plan.
"It’s a ridge; we're walking uphill; this has to be the way."
It was hot, with a familiar and comforting humidity. We knew this weather in Southern-Ontario. Just like home, it would take a summer storm to cut that kind of heat.
We walked out of town. On the road, the speed limit increased from 50km/hr to 80km/hr. The highway was never part of the plan. Neither was the heat.
We walked the road for over an hour before we saw the ridge. Over the highway berm, silhouetted against a dark sky, we could see the white monument.
We looked across the plain sloping away from the ridge. Farms sat under a low ceiling of clouds, rapidly hiding the sky from our sight. The fields anticipated the rain - I breathed in the moisture. We stood upon the infamous ridge at the front-line of a thunderstorm.
A stretch of farmland separated us from our goal. The highway lead past the monument into Givenchy. My eyes searched the field for a path - I found none. I envisioned a shotgun-wielding farmer chasing us out of his field. We stuck to the road. Single-file, we continued to parallel the ridge. Sweat and humidity dampened our clothes. Each passing truck stirred up gusts of wind, giving relief from the sticky heat.
Entering Givenchy damp and dust-covered, we lost sight of the monument. We had walked 4km from Vimy.
"Perhaps it would have been better to risk the field route: We could have seen where we were headed."
The sidewalks were inviting. We decided not to return to the highway. Up ahead was an intersection - we agreed to re-evaluate our plan there.
“Mémorial Canadien” read the sign. Our saviour was an arrow pointing left. A smile returned to my face. We turned left uphill into a residential neighbourhood. Trees and roofs now hid the monument. The oncoming storm clouds pointed the way.
The thunderstorm reminded us that we had no raingear and were miles from the train station.
"It is a stretch to call it a station: it looked like a bus shelter."
The sky ahead shifted from shades of blue-grey to black. I checked my watch to measure the time. 90 minutes had passed. We wanted to make it back for the last train.
We headed out of the neighbourhood, crossing fields. We could see the monument once more: It was closer. We had made progress, despite how roundabout our path seemed to be.
Grit covered the road. We walked the edge of the pavement, asphalt crumbling at every step. Gravel and bits of asphalt crunched underfoot. We pressed ahead, stirring up dust with our footsteps. This was not unlike the back roads of my childhood. Streets had no need for curbs or painted lines or sidewalks: They were take-it or leave-it routes. This was not a popular route - We were alone.
We walked. Sweat tickled as it rolled down my back. I thought about how similar this place was to home. I imagined the Niagara Escarpment rising ahead of me. Summer for summer, it felt the same. I recalled summers at home; humid days, thunderclouds, and crumbly back roads. I lifted my eyes from the asphalt. This was not home.
A forgotten bunker sat in the berm beside the road. We had seen war artifacts, but this was ours. We stared at the worn graffiti-covered object. Wordlessly we crossed the street to look. I imagined the ground bloodied and bodies strewn about. Neither of us could enter. I clambered up the berm alongside the bunker, uncertain what I expected to see. Poking my head over the top, I saw advancing enemy lines. I blinked - A winery and vineyard came into view. Beyond, our own foe loomed. A low rumble echoed across the farmland. I skidded back down the dirt to street level. We had to beat the storm up the ridge.
Our street narrowed as it rose. It passed another neighbourhood and banked right. The monument was uphill and to the left. We stood at the bend, staring ahead into a woodlot. A tractor path disappeared into the woods turning left, heading farther up the hill.
We left the street behind.
We hiked. The path rose steeper with each step as we travelled deeper into the lot. The twin tractor ruts abandoned us at the first field. Only a narrow strip of dirt continued on. We followed a worn trail- someone had come this way before. The trees sheltered us as the storm clouds roiled overhead.
The trees thinned into a line of brush, dividing the right field from the left. We trod the property line single file. We passed through dense foliage and once again lost sight of the monument. A hush overcame us - All we heard were our footfalls. I wondered if there were any unspent explosives underfoot.
"Could 90-year-old explosives detonate?"
We stuck to the path.
A flash of darkness and a warbling sound broke our silence. We stumbled to a halt, staring into the brush where the pheasant had been. My heart pounded. I grinned at my companion. When we had caught our breath from laughing, the sanctity of our journey was gone.
The hedgerow thinned beyond the pheasant's hideaway. Now we were in full view of the monument and at the mercy of the elements. A breeze swept over the ridge from the West. The wind carried the smell of rain. Our trail was the no-man's land between combine tracks on the left and right. We no longer needed a path. We aimed for the memorial, and walked.
The land rose to a plateau. I watched my step as I trod through the upturned soil. At the edge of the churned dirt, a wild flower grew. I stopped and crouched. One lonely flower. John McCrae's flower. Trembling in the breeze on a fragile stem, the poppy held its ground.
Unlike all the other poppies on the ridge, no one had planted this flower. It adorned no gravestone, yet it surely marked a grave. We stared at the vibrant petals which dared the earth to remember: a red poppy in a soon-to-be muddy landscape. We watched the delicate petals wave to the sky.
Overhead, cloud cover danced across the sky. On both sides, the ridge sloped away to fertile plains.
"No wonder this was a turning point in the battle, this ridge is the most defendable land for miles."
Shadows shifted across the land below us, and intensified closer to the ridge. We remained distant from the monument.
Ahead, the path dipped headlong into another hedgerow. Leaving the poppy behind, we pressed onwards. Soon, impenetrable underbrush obscured our path. We instinctively moved towards the least dense part of the bush. An embankment was hidden within the hedgerow. As we reached the edge, my eyes fell. I spotted a barbed wire fence crossing our trail. Beyond that, a low-lying yellow and black wire stretched between standoffs: an electrified wire. We had to find another way.
The brush line extended beyond sight in both directions. Part of it had electrified fence within it. With no obvious gaps or gates, our pilgrimage ground to a halt. The monument mocked us over the hedge. The storm scorned our foolishness.
I took a deep breath. Unclenching my fists, we paralleled the edge.
"Left was as good an option as right."
Not far from us a path disappeared into the brush. We moved quickly to the opening in the hedgerow. I skidded down the embankment, wary of unseen fences. Unscathed, I landed on a path. Looking up the hill, I could see a break in the fence. I motioned that the route was safe. We hurried up the path.
We ascended the ridge from the East. Two hours after arriving in Vimy, we stepped onto Canadian soil. Our campaign was at an end. We took the ridge. Over 6000km from home, we had made it. Solemnly we climbed the platform. Surrounded by over 11000 names of Canadians, we paid our respects.
The storm ascended the ridge from the West. Thunder peals came in greater frequency. We stood unprotected under a threatening sky. The storm had reached a crescendo. Hovering above us, the sky released its ammunition. Our foe was merciless, and the ridge - once again - belonged to the besiegers from the West.
