As I ride my bike along the path to and from work, I often find myself wondering things like, “Who stood here in this place I am right now 100 years ago? 200 years ago?” or about the events that may have transpired along this river before it was squeezed between roadways and train tracks and the press of the city.

What did it look like when the “New World” was still new? I imagine a place that is intensely green and dense with trees and ferns. I hear the whisper of deer wandering through the woods and the roar of the river uninterrupted by the rush of traffic on the DVP. What it must have looked like to someone seeing it for the first time.

The other day I looked up as I passed under the bridge of Dundas Street and noticed a set of old tracks running beneath the road. My mind rushed forward in time to a place that was black and white and grainy like an old photograph. And I wondered about what the streets would have looked like when those old wooden tracks were laid. And what the streetcars looked like and who rode them to where. I wondered where this track began and where it would take me if I could follow it to it’s end.

A mystery. Like the leprechaun’s pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

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