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 Through careful research at archaeological dig sites scattered around the Region of Peel, archaeologist have been able to piece together some basic information about the First Nations in the area before the coming of the Europeans. Archaeologists believe that the earliest people to live in the Region of Peel were nomads who left very few remains for researchers to study. However, further excavations have uncovered artifacts that range in dates from 3000 BC to 1550 AD and reveal much about life in the Region of Peel before Native contact with European explorers.

The period ranging from 3000 BC to 1550 AD has been subdivided into categories. Some artifacts have been found that date to Early Woodland Period, approximately 3000 to 2400 BC. However, the majority of First Nations artifacts that have been unearthed in the Region of Peel have been dated to the Middle and Late Woodland Periods, roughly 2400 BC to 1550 AD. These artifacts tell archaeologists much about pre-contact Native society in the Region of Peel. The discovery of copper, shells and obsidian indicates the existence of a wide spread trade network. In addition, archaeologists are able to track trading patterns in the area by noting the patterns that appear in pottery that is uncovered, as each tribe produced distinct patterns.

Archaeology has also provided information regarding how the First Nations lived before contact. Research indicates that some First Nations lived in long houses, long narrow structures made of wood that were between 20 and 25 feet wide and up to 300 feet long. It is believed that up to 20 or 30 families would have lived inside, each with its own fire. From this, it is also possible to speculate as to what day to day life would have been like for the inhabitants of the village, which would have consisted of multiple long houses, protected by wooden palisades.

Based on eyewitness accounts and archaeological research Native men, women and children all would have had different duties. For example, men were in charge of hunting large game, while women picked berries, trapped small game, made clothing and cooked.  Children would have been in charge of looking after the village garden, while the elderly were seen as the keeper of cultural memory and charged with the task of handing down legends and family history from one generation to the next.

According to the accounts left to us by European explorers, the first contact that the First Nations had with Europeans occurred in the 16^th Century, around the year 1500. When the Europeans arrived in the New World they found a world rich with resources that were ripe for harvest, particularly beaver pelts which were used to make the felt hats that were becoming fashionable in Europe at the time. In return for beaver pelts and other furs, the Europeans gave glass beads, knives, axes and other metal goods which became highly prized among the First Nations. In addition, the First Nations also lent their extensive knowledge of local geography to the Europeans in order to help them find the best hunting grounds for trapping game, as well as knowledge of medicinal plants, and  crop plants, such as corn and squash. Unfortunately, the First Nations also found themselves caught up in the rivalry that existed between the French and the English so that by the start of the 18^th Century most of Southern Ontario had been depopulated due to infighting among the various tribes, fighting between the French and the English and the Natives lack of immunity to European diseases such as small pox and measles. The result of this was that many tribes from Northern Ontario, such as the Mississauga tribe, began to move into the areas that had previously been settled by the Iroquois and Algonquians.

The first encounter with the Mississaugas took place in 1640 and was recorded by Peter Jones who gave them the name, “Oumisaga.” He wrote that the Mississaugas were a branch of the Ojibwas tribe living along the shores of Georgian Bay. When groups of Mississaugas were found living along Lake Ontario, all of the First Nations groups living in the area were assumed to be of the Mississauga tribe, even though evidence has since revealed that very few of the Mississaugas relocated from Georgian Bay.

 The Mississaugas people lived in wigwams, and traveled seasonally in small bands, as food sources dictated. They were known among the First Nations as transmitters of information. This role was greatly facilitated by their location at the mouth of the Credit River and the start of the portage between Toronto and Lake Simcoe. As a result their tribal symbol was an eagle sitting in a pine tree and was believed to represent watchfulness and swiftness in carrying messages. As the French began to withdraw from the Region of Peel, the Mississaugas began to turn more and more to the English, having become dependant on European trade goods.

In 1787 the Toronto Purchase was prepared. This was a land deal that deeded the land, upon which the city of Toronto would later be built and included a provision for providing land to the Mississaugas. However, this part of the deal was never actually written down. In 1793, with newly acquired Native land a military road was built to link the town of York and the lands to the west. Known as Dundas Street, this once followed the path of an old Native trail. Later as more land was acquired, roads such as Hurontario Street were built to encourage development of the wilderness with settlers and new settlements.

 By the start of the 19^th Century, the traditional beliefs of the Missisaugas were in decline. After the land that had been granted by the government had been set aside, the Missisaugas were left in the care of Christian missionaries who began converting them to Christianity. As result when a bad flood occurred in 1804, the Mississaugas took it as a sign that spirits were angry with them and sold more of their land to the Government in 1805. The Mississaugas were forced to sell the northern portion of their tract of land in 1818, which comprised their best hunting grounds. It is in this area that the Region of Peel was later founded with Brampton as the county town.

The increase in trade also caused problems for the Mississaugas. As the Mississaugas were not actually given deed and title to the land they lived on they had very few rights when it came to the problem of settlers encroaching on their land. The result of this was that by the mid 1840s the forests had been severely depleted and the salmon fishery destroyed by the construction of mills and damns along the river. Also the depletion of the forests around the mouth of the Credit River meant that the Mississaugas were forced to go farther and farther afield in search of maple trees to tap for sugar. As the early records of the Township of Chinguacousy indicate the Mississaugas came to the Heart Lake area in the spring time to tap the maple trees.

By the spring of 1847, the Mississaugas had been so devastated by the loss of land and disease that they sold the remainder of their reserve to the Government and moved on land that they had previously given to the Six Nations Grand River Reserve in 1796. Today the Mississaugas live on the New Credit reserve near Hagersville, Ontario.

 They are trying to adapt to life away from the water and are attempting to attract businesses to their new industrial park. They have also filed a land claim for the Toronto Islands, claiming that they were never surrendered and are asking for financial compensation.

The Mississaugas and the first settlers to move into the Region of Peel almost 200 years ago would have been unable to envision that the wilderness of the Peel plains would eventually develop into the diverse and thriving communities that exist today.

A cool rain misted down on the streets of Toronto on the evening of October 15 as I stood with my father in front of the main entrance to the Royal York Hotel. It was approximately 7:30 in the evening and we were waiting for the overnight bus to New York City. After 18 months of planning and a lifetime of talking and dreaming, we were finally on our way.

Waiting for us in New York on the banks of the Hudson River was the Cunard liner Queen Elizabeth 2 getting ready to depart New York City for a final transatlantic crossing to the Cunard Line’s home port in Southampton, England.

Christened as the Queen Elizabeth 2, launched by Queen Elizabeth II on the banks of the River Clyde in Scotland in 1967, and more commonly referred to as simply QE2, the ship has acquired a reputation, over the last 41 years, of being the last word in luxury at sea. Until the construction of a sister ship, Queen Mary 2, in 2003, it was regarded by ship enthusiasts as the last witness to a by-gone era when ships such as the QE2 were a common sight on the North Atlantic.

In the 1950s that changed, however, with the introduction of long-range aircraft and by the late 1960s, it seemed that the age of the transatlantic liner was over. When the Cunard liners, Queen Mary and Queen Elizabeth, the direct forbearers of QE2 and Queen Mary 2, were retired in 1967, many said that no such ships would ever be seen on the Atlantic Ocean again. That claim was dramatically refuted on the last day of the crossing when the QE2 and the Queen Mary 2 closed to within 300 feet of each other and traded blasts of their horns one last time.

“This week is a historic week in British maritime history,” said Ian McNaught, the QE2′s last captain.

Those thoughts were present in my mind as I boarded the bus for New York, but the historic nature of this voyage would not be brought home to me until the next day.

The bus ride down to New York City started smoothly enough. In order to save cost, Dad and I made reservations with Greyhound’s new Neon service, which offered us an express run to New York City for only $25.00 each. We found the trip down to Buffalo smooth enough, but when we stopped to change drivers, we found ourselves with a bus driver who seemed to think he was driving a sports car and not a highway bus.

From Buffalo, all the way to New York City, our speed was never less than 70 miles per hour and on more than one occasion, considerably faster. Our bus driver must have sensed our excitement and anticipation, because we actually arrived at our drop-off point, which was just a few blocks from Madison Square Gardens, a full hour early.

After a very early breakfast, we went to the pier to check our luggage and waited to board the ship. We found the QE2 already tied up and undergoing pre-departure preparations, such as taking on stores of food by the truckload and fuel, which was measured not in gallons or litres but in hundreds of tons.

After a very lengthy check-in process, which grouped the passengers according to the deck their accommodations were on, we boarded the ship around 1 pm.

The ship’s white superstructure gleamed in the morning sun. That combined with sleek lines and a thin, elegant funnel, or smokestack, painted black and red gave an impression of modernity, even though the ship is 41 years old.

The care and attention paid to the design of the ship’s interior was equally evident. Rich carpets covered the deck. The walls were covered with wood veneers with polished chrome and aluminium accents.

We came aboard into the circular Midships’ Lobby. Waiting to greet us as we boarded the ship were a dozen white-gloved stewards, all dressed in red and black waistcoats with the Cunard emblem, a crowned lion holding the globe, embroidered on the left breast in gold thread with a double row of brass buttons down the front. In the sunken area that dominated the room, a harpist played classical music.

Over all I was given the sense that the ship possessed a subtle elegance and an air of quiet refinement. Yet, on the outside, the QE2 was every inch an Atlantic greyhound.

Even at that point, the momentous nature of this crossing didn’t truly sink in for me, as our thoughts were preoccupied with Dad’s suitcase which went missing and didn’t appear in our stateroom until we were heading down the Hudson River and on our way out to sea.

At 5:30 pm, under a cloudy sky and with the New York City skyline in the background, we began to pull away from the pier and into the turgid waters of the Hudson River. It was at that moment, surrounded by Champaign-drinking, flag-waving passengers, the patriotic strains of Rule Britannia and God Save the Queen and the deep moan of the ship’s horn that I understood. The QE2 is the last in a long line of ships that stretches back to the first paddle wheelers to cross the Atlantic Ocean almost 200 years ago.

As we steamed slowly down the Hudson River toward the open ocean, the Queen Mary 2 took up a position a thousand yards astern of us, horn wailing in response to the QE2′s deep, undulating moan. Once we cleared the harbour, the Queen Mary 2 moved to come along side the QE2, remaining about 1000 yards away, but appearing on alternate sides of the ship every day for the entire crossing.

We took our meals in the Caronia Room. The walls were panelled in dark wood that was matched by equally darkly stained furniture. The room was lit by beautiful cut-glass chandeliers and fine art dotted the walls. Passengers are expected to dress for dinner on the QE2. The first night of the crossing was semi-formal, which still means a jacket and tie on the QE2.

Our waiters were extremely attentive and polite, addressing us as “Sir” or “Mr. Long.” It was in the dining room where I was able to see just where the Cunard Line’s reputation for impeccable service has come from over the course of the company’s history.

After dinner, which was excellent, the onboard entertainment was diverse, ranging from popular movies such as Iron Man and Prince Caspian to opera, ball room dancing and jazz in the ship’s pub, The Golden Lion. At night we were rocked to sleep by the gentle motion of the ship moving back and forth in time to the waves.

During the day, there were as many diversions and activities on offer as there were at night. No cruise is complete without a celebrity or two and of particular interest to me was Dr. Stephen Payne, the chief architect of the Queen Mary 2 and the head of shipbuilding for the Carnival Corporation, the Cunard Line’s parent company. Other speakers of note included Jenny Bond, a former BBC Royal Correspondent and Robert Hoey, an author who is well known for his many books on the British Royal Family

Payne spoke of his love, not just of ships in general, but of the QE2 in particular. It was during a visit to the ship, while on a coach trip to Bournemouth less than month after the ship was commissioned and put into service by the Cunard Line that made him decide at the age of seven, to become a naval architect.

“One of the real deciding factors for me to become a naval architect was going on board the QE2 just one month into her service.”

Likewise, Payne was also philosophical about the decision to retire the ship, which he said was due in part to the “vast amounts of money” needed to keep the ship in service, but also due to the fact that as of 2010, the QE2 will no longer be considered seaworthy for safety reasons. New international safety regulations that are due to take effect in 2010 state that a ship must be capable of surviving a broadside collision to the centreline. This means that the QE2 must be able to survive a collision, as well as 50 feet of penetration into the hull.

According to Payne, it is unlikely that the ship could survive such catastrophic damage, given the size of the new generation of cruise ships currently under construction and just entering service, such as the Queen Mary 2 which weighs well over 100,000 tons, thus the decision was made to withdraw the QE2 from active service and put the ship up for sale.

“It is time to say good bye,” said Payne.

On our second night at sea was the captain’s reception. This took the form of a cocktail party in the Queen’s Room, one of the ship’s main public spaces. This was also the first formal night and many of the passengers were dressed in tuxedos, evening gowns and fine jewellery. After shaking hands and being photographed with Captain McNaught, an honour that few passengers decline, we sipped Champaign, talked and listened to the ship’s orchestra before going to dinner.

The historic nature of the QE2‘s final crossing was brought home to me yet again on the third day at sea. One of the daytime programs offered aboard the QE2 was the Cunard Heritage Trail, which took the form of an hour long tour of the ship.

The Cunard Heritage Trail told the story of the Cunard Line and highlighted some of the many pieces of ocean liner memorabilia and antiques on display all over the ship. Among the items on display were a piano from the original Queen Mary, the builder’s model of the Mauritania, as well the bell from the Queen Elizabeth and models of other famous Cunard ships.

My tour guide and senior member of the ship’s cruise staff, Thomas Quinones, didn’t hesitate to make some scathing comments about what he thought of the decision to sell the ship. But he was also hopeful and believed that the QE2 will be remembered fondly by everyone who has sailed aboard the ship.

“She will be an icon forever,” he said.

 Another highlight was Baked Alaska Night. It has been a tradition aboard cruise ships since the 1950s to serve Baked Alaska on the last night at sea and the final night of the QE2′s last transatlantic crossing was no exception.

This night was doubly special, however, because not only was the voyage almost over, but it was Oct. 21, the anniversary of the British naval victory in the Battle of Trafalgar over the French Navy in 1805. The British victory at the Battle of Trafalgar ensured the supremacy of British sea power for the next two centuries.

For most of that time the shipping lanes that kept Britain in touch with the rest of the Empire were dominated by the ships of the Cunard Line.

Stephen Payne said that even though the QE2 will be radically altered by the new owners in Dubai, who are planning to convert the ship into a hotel, museum and a venue for live theatre, “her spirit will live on.”

As I walked down the gangplank and on to the dock in Southampton’s Ocean Terminal, I couldn’t help but think I had been part of something very special. I also remembered something Payne had said at the end of his lecture on the history of the QE2.

“Sic transit gloria mundi,” he said. “So Earthly glory passes away.”

What was needed was a way to communicate quickly over long distances. Many different methods of achieving this been tried over the years, but the most effective was the heliograph. A heliograph is a type of semaphore that harnesses a focused beam of sunlight and Morse code to communicate quickly over long distances. The first recorded mention of sunlight being used for communication is in Xenophon’s Hellenica where he describes how the ancient Greeks sometimes used sunlight reflected of off highly polished shields to indicate the positions of friendly troops and to relay orders during the Peloponnesian War.

The first patent for a modern heliograph was filed in 1810 by German mathematician Carl Friedrich Gauss. Gauss was a professor at Georg-August University in Gottingen, Germany who was looking to increase the speed and accuracy of geodesic surveys. The first wide spread use of the heliograph came in the mid-19^th Century. They were quickly adopted by the British and proved to be particularly effective in providing fast and reliable communications during Britain’s many colonial wars in Africa, India and the Middle East.

In his 1993 book, The Telegraph: A History of Morse’s Invention and it’s Predecessors in the United States, Lewis Coe wrote, “one of the most successful and widely used signalling systems, the Heliograph did not appear until after most visual signalling systems were considered obsolete.”

The British Army employed a single mirror model named for its designer, Sir Henry Christopher Mance. Mance became interested in using reflected sunlight to communicate while attending the British Army’s Signal School in the 1860s. The Mance heliograph employed a single mirror with a small sighting hole in the middle and attached crosshairs mounted on a tripod. Signals were sent through a telegraph key mounted on the back of the mirror, which tilted the mirror upwards when pressed and interrupted the beam of sunlight, causing the mirror to flash on and off. Auxiliary mirrors could also be used to redirect sunlight onto the signalling mirror if the sun was at the wrong angle or if the sunlight was too diffused.

In the United States a two mirror apparatus was used by the US Army and Cavalry Corp. A signalling mirror was mounted on a tripod in front of a second mirror which was set up on a second tripod a short distance away. Messages could be sent by opening and closing flaps positioned between the reflecting mirror and the signalling mirror. Heliographs figured prominently in the US Cavalry’s efforts to put down Geronimo’s Apache Rebellion in 1886.

Despite its apparent backwardness, the heliograph proved to a popular means of sending messages quickly where telegraph lines did not exist. In the right conditions, a message sent by heliograph could be visible up to 48 kilometres away and even farther than that by telescope. In September, 1897, the US Army set a record when it sent a message by heliograph from Mount Ellen, Utah to Mount Uncompahgre, Colorado, almost 300 kilometres away, using mirrors that measured only 8 inches square.

The last wide spread use of heliographs for communication was during the Boer War in South Africa, which lasted from 1899 to 1902. When the British garrisons at Kimberly, Ladysmith and Mafeking were surrounded and besieged by the Boers, the British relied on heliographs by day and signal lamps by night for rapid communication with the outside world. With the widespread implementation of radio technology in the early 20^th Century, however, interest in heliographs began to wane.

By 1935, heliographs ceased to be a principal means of battlefield communications. Even after the Second World War, however, heliographs remained popular among the special force branches of many of the world’s armies due to their portability, long range, low probability of detection, and ease of use. In the 1980s, Afghan Mujahedeen fighters were still using British patterned heliographs in their guerrilla war against the Soviet Union.

As the end of summer approaches, the thoughts of many people in Toronto begin to turn from summer activites to the rapidly approaching start of school and traditional Fall pursuits. For many Torontonians, this means only one thing, idling away the dog day afternoons of August on the Toronto Islands, where Hanlan’s Point is a particularly popular rest spot. But one hundred years after Ned Hanlan’s death in 1908, very few people know the story of the man for whom Hanlan’s Point is named.

Known as Ned to his family and friends, Edward Hanlan was born on the Toronto Islands on July 12, 1855 to John Hanlan and Mary Gibbs. Hanlan’s interest in rowing began at an early age when he would row across Toronto Bay to run errands for his father’s hotel or to go to school.

He made the newspapers when he was only five after threading among boats in the harbour so he could see the Prince of Wales, who was touring the British Empire at the time.

Given the amount of time Hanlan spent on the water, it was perhaps inevitable that he should become interested in becoming a competitive oarsman. Hanlan entered his first race when he was just 16 years old as part of a three man “fisherman’s crew.”

According to Richard MacFarlane, the official historian for the Hanlan Boat Club, such crews were looked on with suspicion by the gentlemen amateurs against whom they competed. The reason for this was because they were seen as having a professional advantage due to the fact that people such as Ned Hanlan spent significant amounts of time on the water as part of the day-to-day routine of their lives.

MacFarlane said what really set the so-called professionals apart from the amateurs was that the amateurs did not work. MacFarlane went on to add that in some regattas, the rules of competition specifically forbid professional oarsmen from entering. Such individuals could also be subject to disqualification and other penalties if they were discovered.

At the time that Hanlan began to compete, however, a shift in emphasis from amateur athletes competing for the love of sport to professionals in pursuit of cash prizes was taking place.

Bruce Kidd, the Dean of Faculty for Physical Education and Health at the University of Toronto said that this process is one that had already begun when Hanlan began his career as a professional oarsman and would continue long after his death. According to Kidd, it was driven by the successful capture of the sports media by sports entrepreneurs and would culminate in the creation of Hockey Night in Canada in the 1930s.

This was due in a large part to the behind-the-scenes skulduggery rampant in professional rowing. Huge amounts of money were changing hands, both in the form of bets and bribes. MacFarlane said that races were often fixed, boats were sabotaged and that there were even instances of one oarsman having another quietly murdered.

MacFarlane compared this atmosphere to the world of professional boxing. “The handlers got the money,” said MacFarlane. According to MacFarlane oarsmen such as Hanlan would be given “a few large crumbs” while the bulk of the money, which would be made through betting on the outcome of the race would go into the pockets of his backers.

In the 1860s, a syndicate of more that 20 prominent Toronto businessmen was formed. Among them were such prominent figures as David Ward, Albert Shaw, John Davis and James Douglas. They called themselves the Hanlan Club and they provided Ned Hanlan with the financial backing necessary to compete.

In 1874, Hanlan wore, for the first time, what was to become his trademark , a red head band and a blue shirt, which gave him the nickname, “the boy in blue.” That same year, he defeated the reigning champion, Thomas Loudon, three times in a row to become the Toronto rowing champion and was eventually awarded the coveted Dufferin Medal.

The following year Hanlan won the Ontario provincial championship.

Hanlan’s growing list of victories and the stakes that came with them led the members of the Hanlan Club to make a number of decisions on Ned’s behalf. The first was to switch his area of competition from doubles to singles events. They also hired a trainer, James Heasley, who was to oversee the details of Hanlan’s training schedule, leaving him free to “row, eat, exercise and sleep.”

In 1876, Ned rewarded the confidence the Hanlan Club had shown in him when he won the Centennial Regatta in Philadelphia.

MacFarlane said that this was an important moment in Hanlan’s career, as he was racing against the very best oarsmen in the United States.

“Hanlan whipped them all,” said MacFarlane.

Kidd agreed, stating that Hanlan’s success in Philadelphia “legitimized him in the eyes of most of the Toronto establishment.”

Hanlan’s victory in Philadelphia was important because it catapulted him to the top of the competitive rowing world. Before Philadelphia, Hanlan was unknown. Afterward, he was an opponent to be beaten.

The years that followed only served to cement Hanlan’s reputation as an exceptional oarsman. Following his capture of the American championship in Philadelphia, Hanlan set his sights on other national championships. The first was the Canadian championship, which Hanlan won on a five mile course against an oarsman from New Brunswick named Wallace Ross. The following year, Hanlan defeated the newest American champ, Ephraim Evans Morris in Pittsburg on the treacherous Allegheny River. The year after that Hanlan took the English championship when he beat William Elliot by a spectacular 11 lengths on the River Tyne.

“Toronto had bragging rights,” said MacFarlane.

With this triple crown, the Hanlan Club disbanded. Ned, however, wanted one final coup de grace race. He wanted to be a recognized world champion. On Nov. 15, 1880, Hanlan challenged the reigning world champion Edward Trickett to a race on the River Thames’ historic Putney to Mortlake course.

An estimated 100,000 people lined both banks of the river to watch the Canadian who had come from nowhere to challenge the world champion. Hanlan won the race easily. When news of his victory reached Canada, spontaneous celebrations broke out all over the country. Hanlan had become the first Canadian to win a world championship in a singles sporting event.

Hanlan proved to be a very active champion. He accepted numerous challenges, in addition to racing in non-title regattas. Defending his titles and his American title in particular proved to be highly lucrative.

In 1878, Hanlan won an unprecedented $10,000 racing against the American oarsman, Charles Edward Courtney at Lachine, Quebec. He defeated Courtney again a few months later, this time in Washington DC. This was only the beginning of a string of further successes in the early 1880s.

The key to Hanlan’s winning streak, which would last almost to the end of his career, was his highly effective stroke.

MacFarlane said that Hanlan only rowed at 32 strokes per minute, unlike many of his competitors who often rowed at a rate of 36 to 40 strokes per minute. The key to Hanlan’s success, said MacFarlane, lay in Hanlan’s early adpotion of the sliding seat.

The real origins of the sliding seat, may never be known, but what is known is that it first appeared in the early 1870s when it was adopted by the members of the London Rowing Club, who took it to the Royal Henley Regatta in 1872 and won every race they entered.

The sliding seat “revolutionized the biomechanics of the sport,” said Kidd. “It enabled rowers to enlist all of the muscles of the body, not just the arms and shoulders.” Kidd went on to point out the fact that Hanlan was physically much smaller than many of the men he raced against, yet because of the sliding seat, he was able to increase the effectiveness of his stroke because he was able to better harness the power of his abdomen and legs.

When Hanlan was not competing, he was engaged in putting on exhibitions, in which he would race locals, or the clock. He would also put on displays of trick rowing, such as rowing in a straight line with only one oar, rowing in zigzags and even walking on water with a special pair of tin shoes.

During races, Hanlan became equally as well known for putting on a show for the spectators watching on the river banks. He would stop and chat with them, fake collapse and even taunt his opponent. One of Hanlan’s favourite stunts was to turn around after crossing the finish line and meet his opponent at the half way point on the course so he could beat them again.

“He did a lot of antics,” said MacFarlane.

Despite this, Hanlan was known for being a model sportsman. He respected his opponents and would often give them a set of oars as a gift after the race. This, combined with the way he fooled around while racing, and his “average folk” origins made him incredibly popular, right to the end of his career and beyond.

What was most important, however, was the way Hanlan constantly emphasized his Canadian origins. Hanlan was the first native-born Canadian to receive world-wide recognition for his athletic accomplishments. He also provided a huge boost to immigration and was said to have been “as good as the railroad.”

Hanlan sent the message that Canada was a country built on the ideals of opportunity and equality. He also sent the message that even though Canada was only 15 years old, a tradition of excellence was already established.

“We have our own champions.”

Kidd agreed, saying that Hanlan’s success created a loyalty to Canada that crossed class, gender and ethnic boundaries.

Ned Hanlan’s retirement in 1897 marked the close of what has been called the most brilliant achievement in the history of sports. Over the course of a 26 year career, Ned Hanlan competed in more than 300 races and was beaten less than a dozen times.

Even after his retirement from competitive rowing, Hanlan still remained active in the sport, coaching the University of Toronto rowing team and later the Columbia University team. He was also an active member of Toronto’s Argonaut Rowing Club, where he was popular for telling tales of his many exploits.

In 1898, Hanlan became an Alderman for the city of Toronto, representing the Toronto Islands. He was responsible for many improvements to the Islands’ infrastructure such as the introduction of electricity and better roads and paths. However, his outspokenness did little to win him friends and he was voted out of office in 1900.

Hanlan continued to live on the Islands running his family’s hotel. He died of pneumonia on January 4, 1908. Even today, Hanlan’s funeral is remembered as one of the largest and most elaborate in Toronto’s history. It is believed that approximately 10,000 people filed past his coffin in St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church, while his funeral cortege was a mile long.

Kidd also believed that Hanlan left a lasting legacy to Canadian athletes. “He made Canada a respectable sporting nation in the eyes of many first world people in the 19^th Century and inspired several generations of athletes.”

A mark of the impact that Hanlan had on the evolution of Canadian sports and on Canadian history in general can be found in the dedication speech given during the unveiling of the monument erected in his memory in 1926. “Vimy Ridge was won on the rowing courses and stadia of Canada.” Hanlan’s memorial originally stood near Lake Ontario on the grounds of the Canadian National Exhibition. However, it was moved in 2004 to its current home near the ferry dock at Hanlan’s Point