an ode to the red rock inn
draft v0.2. edited 23 dec 2022, originally released 7 dec 2022. photographed late oct/early nov 2022. by philip hossu
i’m not sure exactly what this will look like in its final form but i’m working on it. part photo essay, part melodramatic memoir, mostly true. if you’re a writer or have suggestions, please reach out.
I like to paint landscapes, not portraits. I deeply enjoy the freedom of imposing, exploring, discovering, a landscape from a blank sheet.
The desire to find new inspiring landscapes is exactly what fueled my vacation northward. After a year and a half of work without a notable break, I desperately wanted to disconnect. Get outside — find myself somewhere that felt very far away. Some 700 miles further north, I arrived in Red Rock Ontario Canada, my late-Fall home for the next 6 days which was selected essentially at random.
To be certain, the landscapes I’d see, miles I’d hike, wildlife I’d observe, etc, would arm me with interesting stories and memories. However, I realized very quickly that one of the most compelling stories I’d have to tell was in fact a portrait — one of Red Rock and the Red Rock Inn. I feel a strange intangible obligation to try and portray even a sliver of its unique character through these brief sequences of text and unedited images, for my own memory if nothing else.
On paper, Red Rock Ontario is basically what you’d expect for a secluded town of around 800 people. One grocery store. One financial institution. One restaurant with finicky hours (it turned out to be closed during my stay due to a “water drainage issue”).
Back in 1936, the construction of a large paper mill began in Red Rock, effectively starting the town on its modern path. In 1940, the Canadian government opened POW Camp “R”, housing some thousand German prisoners for eighteen months.
That mill closed its doors a number of years ago with few remnants remaining outside of an overgrown rail line running parallel to the shore. Yet the town still comes off as populated, loved. It’s not often I get to experience a place which almost certainly has its best days behind it but still comes off this way. Folks tend to know each other, children ride bicycles and play hockey in the streets. Rumor has it that many leave their doors unlocked. Crime, needless to say, is virtually nonexistent.
Sitting at the marina my first day, awestruck by the serene reflective water of the Nipigon Bay.
Overcome with a sense of quiet, in front of me was just a glimpse of the great north. Seemingly endless trees, water, boulders. Birds calmly drifting in the intensely quiet water. Natural silence. Creation largely untouched. My words plainly struggle to capture the scene — thankfully I had a camera.
Only if I turned around did I have to re-engage with the life I had been living a day ago. In front of me there were no computers, email, zoom meetings. None of the algorithms I’d analyzed over my 6 years of higher education were remotely pertinent. No shift in the US Treasury curve yields could bother me. At that moment, the vast, beautiful, largely uninhabited space was totally consuming.
Predictably, that moment could not last forever. As the sun began to set and temperatures cooled, I walked back around and up the road to the Red Rock Inn. The inn was built in 1937 by the paper mill. It recently re-opened by a private owner after being shut down for a few years. By the standard of the area, it is a very large building. 3 stories, tens of rooms, three main common areas, a large kitchen with heaps of equipment, the list goes on.
Though the pictures won’t do this aspect justice: the story of the present day Red Rock Inn would be entirely incomplete without a mention of its owners.
The wife works the check-in afternoon/evening shift. Paints abstract acrylic paintings in one of the basement rooms and contributes generously to the cheerful (clutter) lining the halls. Kind and accommodating, in her own way. The day I arrived she asked me to reposition my car multiple times in an empty gravel parking lot. I obliged. Another day, after several hours of hiking, she took pity on me and surprised me with dinner. All the establishments in town had closed and my feet wouldn’t happily take me to the next town over.
The husband, a more elusive character, roams around the main level during morning breakfast and check-out hours chatting with the customers. He grew up in Red Rock, moved to the US for some years, and decided to purchase the then-defunct inn upon returning to Red Rock. He will happily tell you stories about how he remembers visiting the inn as a child for an ice cream and a hot dog (these original machines still inhabit the inn, though in a less functional state).
In fewer words, they could safely be described as eccentric.
Stories of times past hide in nooks of the building. It’s a credit to the owners that one is still able to get such a clear picture of what once was. The basement once boasted a fully functioning bar, and what a bar it must have been. Under the tastefully water-damaged drop ceiling I observe the old illuminated signs…a cigarette machine…the gentle hum of old machinery and lights…oddly comforting musty basement smell…
The building has an uncanny ability to overload your senses and trick your mind. At times I found myself momentarily frightened by this structure — was it somehow alive, larger than I, out to get me? Could it be secretly hiding something, or someone, behind the next door I dared to open? Or maybe it really is just an old chunk of coal, putting up an intimidating weathered facade but secretly wanting nothing more than to clumsily recount old stories.
Back to the main level, the sitting room has been fitted with a television in recent years, as the guest rooms themselves have walls far too thin (among other reasons). One late evening while sitting in this room watching the baseball world series, in walked a local. After introducing himself and saying he’d be staying the night at the inn, he proceeded to talk to me for the next 2-3 hours about anything and everything. Canada, the USA, politics, sports, global events, local disputes. It was a thoroughly interesting conversation, hearing how a Canadian living in a small town might approach certain topics. It’s easy to forget that folks don’t necessarily draw the same social or political lines that we’ve come to expect from our local surroundings.
I imagine that this is exactly what the original designers of the inn had in mind, minus the television. Multiple common areas where people gather, read, play games, discuss events and share stories. I am thankful to have gotten a glimpse of this.
A few days later, the inevitable check-out time rolled around. Should I not have obligations to return to, I would have been perfectly content spending additional weeks in the beauty and eccentricity of northwestern Ontario.
The rest of the photos come from scattered rooms on the upper levels of the hotel and largely hold their own. Much has been left un-said.
Here, the inn was allowed to be a reflection of the larger story. A story about a different speed of life.
Caption: Third floor common washroom
