I’d
like to ride Italy’s Stelvio Pass. Or along California’s Pacific Coast Highway. Who wouldn’t? But there’s always a catch to those dream rides—time and money. My kid is going to summer camp next week. And relatives are coming two weeks after that. And the week in between is when I re-shingle the house and garage. But I want—make that need—to get away from it all. And I know you do, too.
Yes, you can ride familiar roads close to home. But local is limiting. The familiar doesn’t make you feel like you’ve been away. And sometimes you need to see something new. Something that jolts you out of your routine. But with just three free days to spare, what’s a man to do?
Pulling into the town of Tobermory on an August afternoon, the answer to my dilemma began to take shape. Tobermory is at the northern tip of the Bruce Peninsula, 100 km north of Owen Sound and 300 km northwest of Toronto. But Tobermory, with its rustic harbour and small-town charm, isn’t our destination. It’s the stepping off point for a journey to a place I’ve never been—Manitoulin Island.
My travelling companion Jake Hudson asked why I’d never been to Manitoulin Island. After a long silence, I couldn’t answer. And I truly don’t know why. I’ve lived much of my life no more than a half day’s drive (or ride) to Tobermory. And I love riding on ferry boats. And as soon as I walked onto the top deck of the ChiCheemaun, I knew I should have made this trek a long, long time ago.
Long before the ferry reached its docking port of South Baymouth, I realized the appeal of Manitoulin Island, paradoxically, isn’t about the land at all. It’s about the water. Leaving Tobermory on the ferry, the colour of the water is like nothing I’d witnessed: in the shallows a tropical teal, and, where the bottom drops out of the lakebed, the colour turns a Great Lakes black. It’s as if the tropics came north and
MY TRAVELLING COMPANION JAKE HUDSON ASKED WHY I’D NEVER BEEN TO MANITOULIN ISLAND. AFTER A LONG SILENCE, I COULDN’T ANSWER.
ropes an inch in diameter with which we attempted to secure our bikes. We made a mess of it, as shoelace tying represents the entirety of our knot-making skills. We hoped, instead, for calm seas—and our hopes were rewarded.
As we sailed north, I remained on deck and scanned the waters. To port was Lake Huron and to starboard Georgian Bay. And then my eyelids began to droop. Blame it on the deep, soothing thrumming from the ferry’s engines. When I woke from my nap (taken, inelegantly, on the floor of the cabin beneath a row of plastic seating) it was because we were preparing to dock. Which meant a mad dash into the bowels of the ferry to begin the process of undoing three dozen knots in my tie-down rope while being scrutinized by those clever enough to have packed ratchet straps.
It’d been a long time since I’d had the experience of riding new roads—I’d forgotten the thrill of the undiscovered. That is if we could just get out of the gas station to do some discovering. I was ready to mount up when I turned around and saw Jake eating ice cream. And while I’ve never been one to become fixated on protocol, every experienced rider knows ice cream stops are determined by consensus. We either all scream for ice cream or we all carry on. I explained this to Jake. He returned a blank look as ice cream dripped off his chin.
Finally, finally on the road, we rode the matter-of-factly named Government Road to Providence Bay. If you’re travelling with your kid on the back of your bike, Providence Bay’s white sand beaches are a must see. And the water, warmed in the shallows by the sun, felt tropical on my feet.
Reluctantly, we left the waterside perfection of the beach and followed the 551 to M’Chigeeng, where we caught the 540 up to Little Current, the largest settlement on the island, and the point at which the road leaves Manitoulin for points north. But not yet. Over microbrews at the Manitoulin Brewery, we hatched a plan.
During yesterday’s ride, we stopped at Bridal Veil Falls in Kagawong. I was expecting knee-high falls on a pleasant river. It was the underestimation of the trip. Water cascaded overtop a limestone rock cut 12 metres to a deep pool below, where a dozen swimmers dipped in and out of falling water. And, as advertised, the falls
appeared as a bridal veil. Many motorcyclists, and I count my number among them, stop at attractions, have a look-see, and carry on. Not this time.
Our plan, hatched at the brewery, involved heading back to Kagawong for a dip beneath the falls. We found a shop on the main street of Little Current and Jake, keen consumer that he is, bought enough clothing to replace his entire wardrobe while I bought a bathing suit.
Backtracking to Bridal Veil Falls, we donned our suits in the changerooms and descended the stairs to the bottom of the falls. A note to the wise: if you do what we did (and you should) arm yourself before the trip by packing a cheap pair of water shoes. Your feet will thank you.
The sensation of swimming next to a torrent of falling water was fabulous. Jake and I backed into the falls and the pounding on the back removed the strain from hours spent in the saddle. And then it was time to go.
Crossing the 100-year-old swing bridge in Little Current brought our Mani-
DURING YESTERDAY’S RIDE, WE STOPPED AT BRIDAL VEIL FALLS IN KAGAWONG.
I WAS EXPECTING KNEEHIGH FALLS ON A PLEASANT RIVER. IT WAS THE UNDERESTIMATION OF THE TRIP. WATER CASCADED OVERTOP A LIMESTONE ROCK CUT 12 METRES TO A DEEP POOL BELOW, WHERE A DOZEN SWIMMERS DIPPED IN AND OUT OF FALLING WATER.
toulin Island adventure to a close. But that wasn’t the end of our trip. We were just warming up.
I hadn’t spent much time studying the map prior to this trip. Intentionally. I wanted to be surprised by what I’d find. And no road surprised me more than Highway 6 from Little Current up to Espanola. Crossing Birch Island and running past Whitefish falls, Highway 6 is far different than the pastoral farmland that typifies Manitoulin Island. With significant changes in elevation and with dramatic rock cuts lining the road, it was the most engaging road on our trip.
Refreshed with fluids and with our machines refueled, we hopped on the Trans-Canada Highway and made for Sudbury. If you haven’t been to Sudbury in a while, you really should give it another look. It’s a lot more than you think it is. Firstly, it’s green—it doesn’t look like the moon, as folklore would have you believe. And it has great restaurants, caffeine-rich coffee shops, and the fabulous Science
North, which is as good a way as any to spend an afternoon.
And because Jake is a keen follower of the Group of Seven—and A.Y. Jackson in particular—he insisted we ride west of Sudbury to the Onaping waterfall, made famous by Jackson in his 1953 painting. And because we all love a mystery, Jackson’s painting, which had been hanging in a Sudbury school, was stolen in the 1970s and never recovered. It’s out there somewhere: yard sale people, keep your eyes open.
Before Jake and I headed south and home (and because it was conveniently on our way) we stopped at the French River Visitor Centre. One of the seminal routes in Canadian history, the French River was a thoroughfare for voyageurs, fur traders, French explorers, and, of course, indigenous peoples. And the French River is beautiful. The Visitor Centre, an architecturally stunning building just off Highway 69, is an ideal way to check out the river’s significance. And just behind the building
is a suspension bridge that spans the river. It’s impossible not to stand overtop the water and imagine what it must have been like to paddle a canoe down these waters long before the arrival of European settlers. I looked over at Jake. He wasn’t on his phone. Now’s my chance. “Jake, maybe we should do a canoe trip down the French River.” Jake looked at me with horror in his eyes. “How about a jet boat?” said Jake. I dropped my head. I think my next trip north will be a solo one.
16TH ANNUAL
SUNDAY, AUGUST 11, 2024
