In Memory of Stan Johnson

This story is long overdue.

Many years ago, I promised a friend, Stan Johnson, that I would write down the story of Josy P. Zaremsky for the local museum and for the history of Marathon. Stan cared deeply about preserving the stories of this community and believed that local history mattered.

Sadly, I never fulfilled that promise while Stan was alive.

Tonight, I finally do.

This story is dedicated to his memory.

Long before Marathon existed, before Highway 17 connected Thunder Bay and Sault Ste. Marie, the Canadian Pacific Railway was the lifeline of northwestern Ontario. What is now Marathon was little more than a railway stop called Peninsula. There was Jacques General Store, a few railway houses, bush trails leading toward Heron Bay and what is now Biigtigong Nishnaabeg, and the railway itself.

South of Peninsula lay a place known locally as the Rock Cut.

As a boy, I spent many hours exploring there with friends. We climbed the granite outcrops, wandered the trails, and followed the railway tracks south from town. Just beyond the Rock Cut was a large grassy field backed by an ancient, raised beach of Lake Superior and, beyond that, Hawk’s Ridge.

At the edge of a small stand of birch trees stood three wooden crosses.

Only one bore a name.

Josy P. Zaremsky.

For years I wondered who he was.

As a child, I never found the answer.

As a teenager, I never found the answer.

Even as a young teacher, the mystery remained.

Then, about seven years into my teaching career, an unexpected opportunity arrived.

I was teaching Geography in a Grade 7 and 8 rotary system. One particular Grade 8 class remains vivid in my memory. They were bright, inquisitive, and endlessly curious. There was a group of five girls in that class who seemed to devour learning. Every teacher dreams of students like them.

The challenge was keeping ahead of them.

On one occasion I overheard them talking about their weekend adventures at the Rock Cut. Suddenly the mystery of Josy P. Zaremsky came rushing back to me.

After class, I asked the five girls to stay behind.

I offered them a challenge.

Find out what happened at the Rock Cut.

Who quarried the granite there?

What was the purpose of the old steam engine remains?

Why were there piles of discarded granite blocks?

And perhaps most importantly:

Who was Josy P. Zaremsky?

They accepted the challenge with enthusiasm.

What followed amazed me.

The girls discovered that both north and south of Peninsula there had once been granite quarries. Massive blocks of granite were cut from the surrounding rock and loaded onto railway flatcars for shipment across North America. Some of that granite, I was told, still survives today in buildings throughout Canada and the United States.

The evidence remained scattered across the landscape.

At the Rock Cut they found rusting machinery, anchor bolts embedded in the granite, and remnants of a steam-powered lifting system once used to hoist enormous stone blocks onto railcars.

They investigated a large open field south of the quarry and discovered the outline of a building. Digging carefully through the rubble, they found traces of green paint and concluded that it had likely been a cookhouse serving the quarry workers.

Nearby they examined an old garbage dump and uncovered bottles, cans, and other remnants of camp life. From these small clues they began reconstructing a community that had disappeared decades earlier.

But they did not stop there.

One of the girls persuaded her parents to take her to Thunder Bay to continue the investigation. Through records held by the authorities, they eventually discovered the identity of the man whose name had fascinated me since childhood.

Josy P. Zaremsky had been the cook at the quarry camp.

The girls dug deeper.

Their research led them to people who still remembered him.

One was Dan McFarland, one of the early residents of Peninsula and a gifted storyteller. When I spoke with Dan, he told me that he and Josy often met at Jacques General Store and shared a drink together in the evenings.

Another source was Des Smith, the first editor of the Marathon Mercury.

I arranged for the girls to meet with Des and share their findings.

Before we began, Des quietly confided that he was uneasy about telling the final part of Josy’s story.

The truth was not especially heroic.

According to those who remembered the events, Josy had been drinking heavily on the night of his death. His drinking ultimately contributed to the circumstances that led to his passing.

And so the mystery that had occupied a corner of my imagination for years was finally solved.

Yet looking back, I realize that Josy P. Zaremsky was never the most important discovery.

The real discovery was watching five young students become historians.

They sifted through evidence.

They interviewed witnesses.

They searched records.

They tested theories.

They followed clues.

In short, they learned how history is uncovered.

Even now, many years later, I remain in awe of what they accomplished.

Time has dimmed my memory. I can still recall two names—Rena and Trudy. The names of the other three girls have slipped away, though I wish they had not. If any of you should ever read this, know that your work remains one of the finest examples of student inquiry I ever witnessed.

As for Josy P. Zaremsky, his name no longer belongs only to a weathered cross beneath a stand of birch trees near the Rock Cut.

His story survives.

And so does Stan Johnson’s hope that the stories of this community would not be forgotten.

This one is for you, Stan.