In early 1985, we drove down to Tuscaloosa, Alabama. I’d accepted a guest lectureship—creative writing and a course in Canadian literature I called “Southern Ontario Gothic”: Robertson Davies, Alice Munro, Marian Engel, Graeme Gibson, James Reaney—all from that region of Ontario we nickname Sowesto, between London/ Stratford and Windsor and the southeastern shore of Lake Huron. PREPARE TO MEET THY DOOM highway signs and Black Donnelly Massacre country, at that time. The Alabama students loved these books: twisted secrets, small-town gossip and scandals, ghosts, village idiots, feuds, and murders were old news to them.
We were eager to see the birds of that region: for instance, the large, slow-moving, tasty, and rare limpkin. Graeme found that if we followed the instructions given to us by our colleagues, it was perfectly safe to watch birds. You should park your car by the side of a promising stretch of forest. You should wait. Shortly a pickup would come along. It would have a shotgun in it. The man driving it would ask—politely enough—what you wanted. Once you had explained, he would give you permission. If you walked onto the land without such permission, you’d risk being shot as a trespasser.
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