Wet Wet Wet

I’m sitting at my desk writing this blog and nursing a torn hamstring in my right leg. It is painful to do a lot of things, like putting trousers on and wriggling my toes into slip-slops. I can only walk really slowly with a funny limp reminiscent of a slow march, like a soldier in a funeral procession. I have a few other minor aches and pains, but I am not complaining one little bit, I am effectively unhurt. Shaken, not stirred, the Boulevard is a different story. I fear that it may well be a write-off. We wiped out taking a tight corner and the bike hit the barrier, I was very lucky… I didn’t. I’m going to limp for a while, I’m going to be bikeless for some time, I’m sure that I have lost a chunk of confidence that will have to be rebuilt, but I will ride again. This post is, however, not about this incident, that will no doubt still appear. I am a little behind in getting the posts written up. As you may realize that although I write these in first person present tense, they are all written days or sometimes weeks after the events that I describe. I therefor have one or two posts still to write before I get to my sorry saga of loss… so roll back the calendar a few weekends and let this tale begin. The title of this post is ‘Wet Wet Wet”, this does not refer to the 80’s boy band (they are actually still around), or to bad jokes about an audience at a Chippendales’ show.  

It’s Friday morning and we leave home, as is usual for excursions such as these, forty-five minutes later than planned. Nonetheless I am optimistic that we’ll make it in time… we have a 1.30 date with a ferry at Tobermory on the Bruce Peninsula. By my calculations I have left enough time for some sightseeing along the way, to take a scenic route and maybe have lunch on a verandah at one of the many nice pubs that overlook the harbor, I’m thinking fresh lake fish in batter. I’ve mapped out a route that will take us through Hockley Valley, then Highway 10 towards Shelburne, Dufferin County road 124, and then via some side roads to reach Lake Huron, hug the shoreline to Owen Sound, and up the peninsula. It’s about 300 km, a nice little ride. The plan is for Peter, my brother-in-law (my heavy), and me to ride the bikes first, whilst the ‘girls’, our wives, drive the Dodge Caravan, about half way, when we reach Huron, we’ll swap over and the better halves will ride the bikes and we’ll drive. It’s a good plan… I tell myself.

The scenic route is great and I’m well pleased with myself, but as we get closer to Shelburne a little voice in my head (I do have those) starts to whisper that I should take Highway 10 to Owen Sound and screw the lake shore, we have not made quite the progress we should have, too many bladder stops. Now I don’t know if you also have those quiet little voices of reason in your head, they are annoying, but mostly I find that I do better if I heed their message or at least give it proper consideration. Today I am stubborn, I want to take my guests up to the lake so that they can get a feel for the hugeness of this expanse of water. Of course I have not gone 5 miles up road 124 when I realize that this is a mistake. There are lots of road works and the traffic is heavy, the going gets slower still. It’s not an ugly route, but not entirely scenic either so it seems to not be worth the detour. Panic starts to rise in my chest, time is passing and we really mustn’t get there later than 1.00 else we’ll not get to board. Worse is to come, somehow we take a wrong turn and end up going through Collingwood. Usually it’s a nice little town to ride through, but today the traffic crawls through a mess of roads under construction. It’s always like that isn’t it, when you’re late the world conspires against you. The lakeshore route, Highway 26, is not as scenic as I seem to remember, not without the chance to take little detours, stop at a beach, have coffee at a little lakeshore hamlet. We have no time for such pleasantries, we just ride like hell to Owen Sound

At Owen Sound we stop for gas, and it’s decided that the ‘boys’ must carry on riding in the interests of making the ferry, still just over a 100 km left. It really is a pity to shoot up the middle of the Bruce Peninsula on highway 6, when there are so many gorgeous roads to ride. It’s a whole day’s ride just on its own, beaches and little bays to visit, forests to ride through, pretty towns. Crappy planning on my part I guess, we don’t get to see much, but we do make it on time for the ferry, thirsty, hungry and sore of butt. There is of course no time to explore Tobermory, and certainly no time to sit on a verandah and have a drink and eat fresh lake fish.

Tobermory

Waiting to board

After a short wait we are let onto the ferry, by the time we have lashed the motorcycles securely and go on deck to find the girls, the ferry has left the harbor and sailing between Russel and Flowerpot Islands. It is a lovely spot to be, but we go below to seek out the restaurant, we are still hungry and thirsty. The restaurant, more like a canteen really, isn’t too bad, the food is of the pies and gravy, sandwiches, hamburgers and chips style, and as we are in Canada, poutine of course. They do have lake fish so I get to eat fresh perch and drink a pint of beer, with a view of the lake, albeit through the window of the ferry instead of the pub’s verandah. All is good, I start to relax. There is in any case not much else to do, life aboard a ship for a passenger is about letting time pass. This a pleasant little voyage with lovely views to see and yes, the scale of the lake is pretty evident.

There are a few other motorcyclists on the ferry, some of whom we already met whilst waiting to board. One of them evidently recognized our accents and comes up and chats with us, he is from the ‘old country’, working in Canada for a bit. The conservation switches to Afrikaans and for a brief moment we all belong to something, or maybe somewhere, special. Deep down the feeling of loss that all emigrants feel from time to time, swells and becomes a momentary palpable ache. He bids us farewell and leaves us to rejoin his group, they are going on, not stopping on the island after we land at South Baymouth on Manitoulin Island.

You think?

We are going to stay over on the island at a cabin I have booked, via a website, near to Gore Bay. The plan is to explore the island tomorrow for a little while, possibly do some of that this evening, then tomorrow take highway 6 to meet up with the Trans-Canadian just north of Espanola (for a full description of Espanola see http://not-so-easy-rider.blogspot.ca/2014/07/welcome-to-webbwood-population-488_20.html ). Then go east and south into Muskoka to Burke’s Falls where I have booked another cabin, the planned route is a decent enough ride, with lots of scenic bits. On Sunday we’ll wind our way home through Muskoka, there are some places I want to see, the Screaming Heads of Midlothian for sure, some water falls, there are many lovely twisty roads that beckon, lakes, forests, rivers and loads of interesting little villages. After the rush to get ourselves to the ferry on time I am looking forward to redeeming myself as official tour guide with a relaxed ride and the breathtaking loveliness of the places we are going to.

As the two hour ferry ride comes to an end Peter and I go down to the bikes, the plan is that we will ride the motorcycles off the ferry and the girls will drive the van, then they’ll find a spot to stop and we’ll switch. They’ll at least get to ride most of the 90 odd km to the cabin. Manitoulin Island, in case you didn’t know, is a sizable piece of real estate, said to be the biggest fresh water island in the world. By the time the switch is made the weather has turned, clouds have moved in and the temperature has dropped, but not yet any rain. It’s a nice enough ride, or so it seems from the driver’s seat of the Dodge Caravan, narrow country roads take us through farming districts, the area has an air of a by-gone age that I like, farming that is less of an industrial process, if you get what I mean. The thought strikes me that this area must just be fucking awful to live in through the winter, as picturesque as it is in the summer. The few villages that we go through are really tiny, and there seems to be not a great deal going on. The blacktop is in reasonable condition and there is relatively little gravel on the road. I hope the girls are enjoying the ride, I feel bad for not being able to give them a decent ride today. 

My feeling bad gets worse as the grey clouds grow suddenly darker and rain starts to fall. I know that riding in the rain is one of Helena’s least favorite activities, right down on bottom of the list with root canal and polar bear swims. The rain goes from light to deluge in a few minutes, but by now we are close to the cabins, according to the Tom Tom, about 5 kilometers. The rain actually lets up as we arrive at our destination… Lake Wolsey Cabins. When I booked the place I had in mind something like Donnelly’s Sunset Point Cabins, which I had stayed at in the Adirondack last year (http://not-so-easy-rider.blogspot.ca/2014/10/donnellys-sunset-point-cabins-adirondack.html). Indeed the pictures on the website gave me the impression of something similar, the expectation was of a place that is not luxury, but well equipped, maintained and spick and span.

The bits of odd scrap lying around the place is a little discouraging and the person that signs us in is even more discouraging, her teeth are nicotine brown and she reeks of tobacco. The cabin itself carries the theme forward, the outside is seriously in need of a paint job, inside there were no doors, just curtains that hang where doors should be, there is a basin and toilet in a small ‘washroom’ (at least there is a door there), and one of the bedrooms has no lights. The only two redeeming features is that it is actually clean and free of the smell of cigarettes, and it does have a fabulous view over the lake. Now I will admit that the website did not say specifically that the cabins were equipped with a shower, but we had booked the ‘superior’ cabin for $15 more so my assumption was that the cabin would have such a facility as a matter of course, it didn’t. There is a communal shower a hundred metres away, but with the general air of decrepitness that permeated the place none of us is too keen, so we make do with an old fashioned wash, top and tail, not entirely what we’d looked forward to. I am disappointed with the place, a little embarrassed actually, normally the rate is a reasonable indicator, but in this case it isn’t, this cabin was not cheap at all, significantly more than I paid at Donnelly’s Sunset Point Cabins. It is something that I have discovered about accommodation, much better value for your money south of the border. Oh well I guess that you win some and you lose some.

The Cabin - scary hey.

After we’d unpacked and washed we sit on the verandah while I try to get the BBQ to work. After a few minutes it sputters and dies so we just sit and drink some beer or tea and feed the tamest chipmunks I have ever seen. They come right up to where are sitting and we give them pieces of bread. They stuff the bread in their cheeks until not a crumb more can fit in, then dash off into the bush, presumably to a burrow, to return within a few minutes looking for more.  When the rain comes down again and the mosquitoes get too busy for sitting outside we abandon the verandah and go in. I make the grass fed beef T-bone steaks that were intended for the BBQ on the stove in a pan, Peter makes a salad, so dinner at least turns out fine. We are in any event damn tired so bed time rolls around quickly, it rains a lot during the night.  

Headspin?

   

Tamest chipmunks ever

In the morning the weather forecast is promising rain along the whole route, and indeed the rain has started to fall ever so gently already. My heavy and I, old fashioned gentlemen that we are, offer to ride the bikes and the offer is accepted. After packing the car we don the rain gear, KSU and carefully navigate the gravel track up to the main road and head towards the town of Gore Bay on the 540. I can see that we should not go too far before a stop for gas is on the cards. The planned route does not actually take us into Gore Bay, but turns east a few kilometers shy of the metropolis. The scenery is much the same as yesterday, small time farming and loads of lakes, it’s pretty, but a little desolate in the misty rain and low light from the heavy dark grey cloud cover. It’s quite wet, but the rain gear is holding up well so far and I’m actually enjoying the ride despite the weather.

We find a gas station/general store at Kagawong, after a detour into the village that yields nothing, except a view of Lake Huron and a drive past the Manitoulin Chocolate works, http://www.manitoulinchocolate.ca/signaturechocolates.htm , apparently a must visit for anyone with a sweet tooth, unfortunately or perhaps fortunately, the establishment is not yet open. The general store, half a kilometer along, makes up for this slight disappointment, it is a bit of a delight and serves a reasonable cup of coffee. The proprietress is pleasant and we have a nice chat with her about the area. My heavy is a bit of an extrovert with the gift of the gab so we seem to make friends wherever we go, it’s a nice change, I’m a withdrawn, hermit type fellow that doesn’t know how to start a conversation with a stranger.

View from the general store

Gassed up and coffee-ed up we continue with the 540. The rain starts to come down quite heavily and my boots start to get wet, evidently they are not hugely waterproof despite the copious quantities of mink oil I have rubbed into them. I don’t have waterproof booties (memo to me, buy some), but we have got some plastic shopping bags. We stop and fit these on… my heavy goes for the bags inside his boots, he has only got a pair of canvas boots, I try the bags over my boots. I know it looks silly, but actually it works and I have dry boots from that point on. Soon we hit highway 6 and go north, off the island and along one on the loveliest routes in Ontario, through one of the ugliest towns, to meet the Trans Canadian Highway. Here things get faster as we travel east towards Sudbury on the motorway. It’s still wet and fairly cold, but I’m riding well and despite the rain the road doesn’t feel particularly slippery, nonetheless, riding as cautiously as possible.

By the time we reach the turn off to Rheault I’m in need of a rest and the cold has soaked through. Some coffee will be welcome, perhaps a light meal and I suspect bladders are in need of some emptying. I take the turn and a few kilometers later the inevitable Tim Hortons appears. I’m grateful, as usual when on a trip, for this Canadian institution (sadly now recently bought out by Burger King). It was a good choice, everyone is happy for the break and the large dark roast with double cream warms the cockles somewhat. The girls have been discussing things in the car and decided that as the weather forecast is really gloomy for the rest of the weekend, they want to go home. We can do Muskoka at a later date, perhaps next weekend. I don’t argue, I had been thinking the same thing myself, the point of it all is to enjoy ourselves, not to prove a point on how tough we are. I call the cabin owner and cancel, he is not thrilled, but understands and as this isn’t quite in season its marginal income anyway… still I don’t feel good about cancelling.  It’s a good 350 clicks to home from our table at Tim’s and it’s still pissing down. Valiantly the boys choose to ride on. I am enjoying the ride so far, but the road home is going to be a hard ride, motorway for most of it. The Trans Canadian Highway in its highway 69 incantation, then just north of Parry Sound it becomes Highway 400.

It takes us about four hours to get home, with one stop for gas and the usual biological stuff. It’s wet, wet, wet all the way home. Total ride today, 560 kilometers, it’s the longest stretch I have ridden in the wet. Of course the dachshunds are thrilled to see us, thrilled is perhaps an understatement.