These are essays by some of our country’s best writers designed to give you an intimate portrait of what Canada—our Canada—is about. We also post special multi-media features (video, audio and slideshow features) here.You are welcome to cut ‘n paste these (for editorial non-advertising use only); just be sure to follow our useage guidelines.
OneWheelDrive’s many roads of Canada.
In his 8th post, motorcycle road warrior Neil Johnston travels through the giant expanse of Ontario and lands in folksy, friendly Manitoba.
Starting in Toronto, ON, Johnston rode east to the end of the road: Cape Spear, NL—the easternmost point on the continent! After that, the only option was west, so Johnston aimed his trusty Ducati Multistrada at Vancouver, BC. He just zipped through Ontario, landing in Manitoba.
A road warrior-scribe, Johnston is sending CTC his observations and YouTube videos from his adventure.
VIII. Inuksuks and Dreamers: Ontario and Manitoba
For reference, Ontario is large enough that when the provincial government decided to protect 222,000 sq km (56 million ac) of boreal forest from development in July ‘08, comparisons were drawn. For example, 222,000 sq km is equal to the entire roadless area of the US, the size of the state of Minnesota or, for the global mindset, Uganda. Of itself, Ontario is a long ride, and I’ve been told to brace for boredom. But travel always surprises.
Leaving Sault Ste. Marie, ON, Highway 17 traces Lake Superior’s shore where rock meets water with gentle curves and the occasional vertiginous climb. Group of Seven trees struggle against prevailing winds, waves crash against rounded grey and white outcroppings of the Canadian Shield. It’s grey, hard and spectacular.
The climb, though: take a cold morning and make it colder. By the time I reach Wawa, ON, on the far side of Lake Superior Provincial Park, the temperature is six degrees C (43 degrees F) and falling. I keep hoping for a roadside Mark’s Work Warehouse stocked with heavy poly-pro long johns. That will have to wait; here the 17 is sparsely beaded with small service towns and miniature inuksuks.
Used by peoples from Alaska to Greenland primarily as markers for navigation, these forms of stacked rock have been my constant companions as I cross Ontario. Whenever I feel low, I glance up the highway’s stony embankments, and there is an inuksuk. Fancifully, I imagine these signs of the traveller are the work of a lone soul wandering Highway 17 by foot marking his path.
More likely, this meme has been propagated by travellers stopping on the roadside, climbing embankments and assembling their contribution to road culture. Yet, given the sheer number of these stone human forms, I haven’t spotted anyone building a single inuksuk. They’ve become a minor mystery and constant comfort, imbued with the magic of knowing other travellers have been here—a thought to keep me going though the rains.
Water, the enemy, is implacable. It seeps, it worries, it builds a beachhead of dampness before marching in courtesy of gravity and wind. The gloves give way first, a growing dampness that after two hours becomes a sopping wetness. Make a fist and water runs out of them. From there, water conducts itself up the sleeves of the jacket and toward my core.
The rain pants hardly put up a fight.
Water? This is the stuff that built the Grand Canyon right? What chance do our failing rubber seams have? None; after an hour of rain, my bottom half is thoroughly cold and soaked. Crossing Ontario is feeling intrepid.
In Nipigon, ON, I debate getting a hotel room, wringing myself out and settling in for the night. I conjecture that I’m at the cold-wet threshold, where I can’t get any wetter or colder. I should know better.
A roadside sign reads, “Terry Fox Highway of Courage.” A young man with bone cancer and an amputee, Terry Fox ran 5,373 km (3,339 mi) on his Marathon of Hope, starting at St. John’s, NL, on April 12, 1980, and ending 143 days later just northeast of Thunder Bay, Ontario. Fox was forced to stop the run after his cancer metastasized, resulting in tumours in both his left and right lungs.
Suddenly my own “marathon” seems trivial.
On the advice of a reader, I leave the 17 and follow the back road 11 through to the 622 and onwards to Whiteshell Provincial Park. It’s a scenic route, full of undulations, greenery, rain, hail and small, off-the-beaten track stops.
Atikokan is a rough-worn town of winter-broken pavement and run-down buildings. Across from a closed SAAN being replaced by a Bargain Shop, I stop at the least offensive-looking local café.
CBC, the thin thread that connects rural Canada, plays on the radio. This is the other Ontario, the one you don’t see from the highway. One of thin coffee, thick potato bacon soup, worn plywood, cracked vinyl, faded photos, taxidermy fish, faded photos and laughter.
Two tables over, a senate of seniors debates the upcoming election. The waitress jokes and teases the regulars. Atikokan is strangely friendly, and the coffee and small talk keep coming. A local couple eyes the Ducati through the front window, then stop on the way out to ask, “What is it?”
The two reckon there hasn’t been another bike like the Italian “Adventurer” through town before. On the way out of the coffee shop, an elderly woman in a pink-and-white parka tinged with grime stops me on the street.
“That’s a very odd-looking motorcycle. Where have you ridden from?”
Through dark sun shades over glasses, there’s a twinkle of laughing eyes: “You must have a lot of energy.”
“Not any more”, I respond.
There’s a dry, frail laugh, then she pauses, leaning on her cane. A flicker of embarrassment plays across her face and she asks if I could walk back to the restaurant and get the door for her, “It’s quite heavy.”
Before I close the door behind her, she puts a hand on my arm and says, “Enjoy your trip.”
I smile; the Ducati awaits.
Just when I think Ontario the “massive” is never-ending, a sign heralds Manitoba.
About 130 km (81 mi) east of Winnipeg, along the southeastern edge of the Manitoba-Ontario border, lays Whiteshell Provincial Park. A shotgun blast of small lakes in the Canadian Shield and boreal forests, the road through Whiteshell has a valuable commodity for a man on a Ducati: corners. Despite warnings of rough roads, I point the Multistrada up the 44.
Every kilometre I ride, the weather is incrementally improving. The sky clearing. The temperature creeping upwards. The air dryer. The Multistrada capers and larks as the 307 winds along lakeshores and marshes. This is a sign-off from the non-linear school of road construction, before the laser-pointer-straight causeways of the Prairies.
A series of establishments and homes scattered along the 307, Seven Sisters Falls is not a buzzing metropolis; small town might fit, but community has a better feel. I almost ride past Jennifer’s, but a multitude of beat-up Manitoba-winter-scarred cars, trucks and minivans signals something popular.
According to a sign out front, Jennifer’s has reopened only the day before and is “OPEN all winter.” The implication being that life is seasonal here.
The quaint exterior gives way to a spotlessly clean, cheerfully yellow painted interior that telegraphs friendly, tidy, sensible efficiency. There is no hint of greasy spoon about the place—and then I open the menu.
The lead item is Exotic Soup, a daily creation and flavour safari. Alligator, octopus, kangaroo, elk, frog, quail… numerous zoological unfortunates share the billing. The rest of the menu is as deliciously outrageous, although the farmers around me are tucking into schnitzel. An elderly woman asks about the quail. Other travellers listen to the specials wide-eyed. Incongruously surrounded by mud-caked vehicles, Jennifer’s is a foodie outpost on the edge of the Prairies.
Jennifer and her husband, Chef Joez, have just reopened after a year travelling in Canada and the US. Undoubtedly, the more innovative cuisine of both countries played a role.
The baby octopus and vegetable soup is slightly sour, fresh and flavourful, featuring infant mollusks tender enough to cut with a spoon. My biggest regret looking over the rest of the menu is that I’ve but one stomach to fill.
Jennifer is from Montréal, QC, and Joez is Slovakian. This restaurant is the result of an ongoing passion, vision and love of each other and the industry. Light conversation brings the topic around to “why here”?
“It’s affordable,” responds Jennifer. “We can follow our dream here.” For many, the Prairies are about oil-boom avarice in Saskatchewan or Alberta; it’s heartening to meet people like Jennifer and Joez, who follow their hearts rather than dollars.
Pointing the Multistrada westward, I hope this is a new “theme” of the Prairies. Well, that and sunshine. The temperature is climbing, and on the outskirts of Winnipeg, I stop to pull the liner from the new Ducati jacket—for the first time this trip I’m too warm.
About OneWheelDrive.Net: OneWheelDrive (OWD) is a passionate, sincere and humorous online motorcycle magazine focusing on the sport, sport-touring, touring and adventure motorcycling markets.
Photo credit : Victoria Island, Northwest Territories © NWTT/Terry Parker
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