NOTE: Kathy has already done EXCELLENT recaps of this trip on Facebook. These blogs from my perspective are not meant to supplant, but to complement
DAY ONE: Woodstock/Waterloo - Parry Sound - Britt - French River - Greater Sudbury
This trip has been on the docket for almost two years. It was supposed to be last year's undertaking, but inflation deflated that trip somewhat. We still had a great time, of course. But Manitoulin Island has been calling us. Kathy's been on the Island once, but never visited Sudbury; I've been in Sudbury fairly often over the years but have never seen the Island at all.
Kathy came to collect me and we were on the Road by 8:30. We made good time taking the backroads North, planning to meet up with the 400 north of Barrie to avoid a section of freeway she's never driven on and never had a good experience with as a passenger. It's not Toronto, but the 400 through Barrie can be hairy, especially on Fridays. Half the population of Ontario seems to sift through on their way to the Muskokas and points north, and the road isn't built for the load it takes. Kathy herself is a country girl who much prefers country roads. So I was a bit surprised to hear her musing to herself, working up the courage to tackle Barrie.
And she did it! Maybe gripped the wheel a bit tighter than usual, but didn't even break a sweat. I know she's proud of herself. I'm proud of her, too.
Because she conquered this route, we passed a lifetime landmark for me.
It may sound silly, but this particular road sign is iconic, talismanic, in my life. I own a T-shirt replica of it. It's been here, just north of Barrie, as long as I can remember. The right sign beckons, denoting Ken's Childhood Route To Relaxation, Refreshment and Reverence. My dad is up here. So is a landscape, starting just north of this bridge, that has always spoken to my soul: rocks, trees, lakes, loons, wolves, and air that feels alive. (I've come to believe it is alive, but I don't usually admit that in polite company.)
That sign to the right has subtly changed over the years. It used to say "69 NORTH Parry Sound Sudbury". The 400 has been expanding both north and south for much of my adult life, and highway 69 will someday be relegated to the dustbin. But regardless of what it says, this sign has always, for me, marked the beginning of The Good Times.
Braving Barrie got us into Parry Sound on time to meet up with my father and stepmom at Tailwinds, which is one of my dad's favourite places to eat in town. (Menu link: be aware all prices have increased about $3 from what's shown). It's right on the dock and getting there was its own adventure, given how Parry Sound bustles at this time of year.
We had sought to eat here last year and found it closed for lack of staff. The situation hasn't improved overmuch: it's open, but they're hiring for all positions and the need is urgent. We waited over an hour to be served. In this instance it wasn't as frustrating as it might otherwise have been, because we had the chance to catch up with each other and watch the floatplanes take off, the Island Queen pull out, and the sun dappling the water.
They were also out of five or six menu options. But the food (we had clubhouse sandwiches) was delicious. Thank you so much, Dad and Heather, for yet another Memorable Meal and the chance to see you.
From here, Dad and Heather went south and we continued north, stopping momentarily in Britt so I could show Kathy my dad's old homestead. It's an AirBnB now, charging as much per night as it might have rented for per month when it was built, and it was crawling with people, so we didn't even stop. But we've finally completed, I think, showing each other our Meaningful Locales, and Kathy was charmed by this village on the mighty Magnetawan. (Well, it looks like a mighty river at Britt, anyway, about a mile wide.)
Continuing north, I was surprised to find the 400 has extended down from Sudbury all the way to just north of Grundy Lake Provincial Park, leaving about 68 km of highway left to twin. It made this part of the trip all new to both of us. The road was smoother than a baby's butt (something that could not be said of any road in Sudbury itself) and we marvelled at the amount of work that goes into carving a highway out of the Canadian Shield. There are places the cliffs flanking the road are 100 ft or higher.
The numerous bridges over the rivers that dot the landscape here have been modernized, making them safer but robbing them of character. Such is the case at the French River. But the old Highway 69 bridge is still here, and so is this incongruous cable suspension bridge, the longest snowmobile bridge in Canada.
It dawned on me before I even really set foot in the room that upon checking in three minutes ago, a charge had been levied to my credit card that was nearly a dollar less than the rate I'd booked. My immediate assumption was that a mistake had been made: we'd been given a suite for one night instead of the standard room I'd booked for two.
I left Kathy to relax -- she'd earned it -- and journeyed back down to the front desk. That took a lot longer than it should have. For one, I've never had to walk so far from an elevator to reach my hotel room. I punched "1" in the elevator but did not find myself in the lobby, which flummoxed me -- we had JUST used this elevator to get from the lobby to the fourth floor, where the hell did the lobby go? Did I inadvertently take some other elevator? I was sure I hadn't, but my surroundings insisted I'd screwed up. This is my normal state of existence and I very much didn't want normal for this four day trek.
I scurried hither and yon, smelling but not finding the indoor pool, feeling like I was stuck in the Overlook, just waiting for a dog-man to open a door and say "nice party, isn't it?" Lobby, lobby, pin the tail on the lobby, here, lobby-lobby-lobby...
EXIT door giving on outside. Maybe I can navigate better externally. If I just walk around this building long enough, I'm sure to find the place we came in. Sure enough, there it is. Why do you have to do everything the hard way, Ken?
The unreality washed over me some more as the clerk informed me there was no such room number as 441. "Okay, seriously, I don't think I'm in the Twilight Zone here. Here's the key card I was just given, it says 441 on it and opens the door to a suite marked 441." The clerk shook her head and the universe fell into place. "Oh, I'm sorry, I misspoke, " she said, and I took the opportunity to ask here how I'd gotten lost so easily and what elevator I'd taken. "Well, we only have the one," she said, and Rod Serling started orating in my head again. Then I figured out what I'd done: assumed "1" was the ground floor like it was in virtually every other building in North America (in Europe, the "first" floor is what we call the second floor).
Here, the "first" floor is actually the basement. Lots of standard hotel rooms down here, so I wasn't tipped off.
I triple checked with the clerk that no mistake had been made and went back up, the easy way this time.
It's by far the biggest room I've stayed in exluding Disney, but it's not a full suite, in the sense there's no kitchen, only your standard nuker/coffeemaker/bar fridge. A sign on the door informed us the maximum rate for this room per night was more than twice what we'd been granted for two nights.
We settled down to some of Kathy's delectable chicken Caesar wraps, which are getting to be a traditional first-day road trek meal. Yummy.
Tuckered out from the trip here, we crashed early and found Ken's only nitpick with the room. To be fair, it's an issue present everywhere that isn't my own bedroom. The A/C unit was on the far side of the suite. No matter how wide we swung the bedroom doors open, the cool didn't make it in and, more critically for me, neither did any air movement. I have to remember to pack a table fan and aim it right squarely on me.
The bed was reasonably comfortable. The shower was, as I'd hoped, a typical Travelodge shower, which means it threatened to blow me through the back wall. I LOVE that: it's great on sore muscles.
DAY TWO: Greater Sudbury
Up early today to meet Kathy's nephew Bennett and his partner Max. They'd suggested a breakfast place new to me: Jak's Diner. It bills itself the "best breakfast in Sudbury" and it understates its case significantly. I'm confident this is the best breakfast place in northern Ontario, and no, I don't have to try any others to make that statement. The food here was hearty and exquisite. I had a Monte Cristo sandwich with a fruit salad side, surprising Kathy and myself both.
The company was hearty and exquisite, too. Bennett at 19 has grown into a strong provider/protector type who will never forget his roots and who carves his own routes through life. We hit it off easily with Max, whose running commentary on Bennett, Sudbury and life in general was sweetly sarcastic.
Bennett and Max, with Kathy being Kathy in the centre
Bennett gave Kathy's 'side chick' a once over (she'd had several issues lately) and pronounced it roadworthy even if it wasn't a pickup. He then gave locally informed directions to Onaping Falls, cursing the roads he helps construct the whole time. Yep...whackahole.
Armed with Bennett's directions, we ventured to Onaping Falls,
As usual, there is a hiking trail allowing a closer view, but it was off limits for us round people with misbehaving sciatics. No matter: this is one of the most accessible falls we've found. A wheelchair with good tread would have little issue.
Onaping, Cree for "vermillion", was made famous by A.Y. Jackson of Group of Seven fame:
This is a gorgeous site, and we had it mostly to ourselves. I remain amazed at how quickly the water smooths from a boil at the base of the falls to a pristine pond not three metres away.
