There was a time when I believed that all roads in Ontario had been designed with a straightedge.
How else to explain the tyranny of the grid pattern, where roads run straight and true to the horizon? But then my old motorcycle-magazine boss, the late Bruce Reeve, told me to pack an overnight bag and meet him early the next morning. Bruce said we were off to ride great roads. I didn’t believe him. I should have believed him. He was always right.
Non-motorcyclists (yes, there are such people) think that all we talk about are motorcycles. But we know that’s not true. What motorcyclists talk about when we get together is where to ride. And where Bruce took me is one of the great places to ride in the province. And I’d been telling my El Camino compadre Jake Hudson about these roads for so long I either had to shut up about it or drag him along for a ride. I chose the latter.
A good starting point for a loop though The Highlands, as the region is dubbed, is the town of Haliburton. Jake and I convened on one of the best days of the summer. The temperature was in the low 20s under clear skies and the forecast for the next three days was sunshine perfection.
From Haliburton, we took the 118 northwest to the 35, and then rode north to the town of Dorset. Eighteen kilometres is hardly a hearty run at the onset of a trip, but El Camino’s mantra is that no espresso machine shall be passed, and
so our first stop was at Dorset’s Pizza On Earth (that’s wordplay on “peace on earth,” though we didn’t get the joke until it was explained to us). The wood-fired pizza smelled astoundingly good, but we’d just nicely digested breakfast, and so after cappuccino we saddled up and headed for the Dorset lookout tower.
I’d climbed Dorset tower in the past, but it’d been a few years, and since this was the 100th anniversary of the original tower,
I’D CLIMBED DORSET TOWER IN THE PAST, BUT IT’D BEEN A FEW YEARS, AND SINCE THIS WAS THE 100TH ANNIVERSARY OF THE ORIGINAL TOWER, IT WAS TIME FOR A REVISITING.
Lake of Bays and Kawagama Lake—from 30 metres up—never disappoints.
Half the day was gone and we’d hardly ridden enough to warm our engine oil. Time to do something about that. After refueling in Dwight, we rode east on Hwy. 60 through the bottom tip of Algonquin Park. As we approached Barry’s Bay, I’d anticipated a sleepy hamlet. I was wrong.
The town, at midday, was bustling. And on the main street we spotted what you rarely see anymore. A proper used car lot. With very old cars. I was partial to the 1957 Mercury while Jake was drawn to a crusty 1947 Ford. We fell into agreement, however, that hand-painted lettering on the doors of old tow trucks is eternally cool.
When you travel, you learn that every town on every road makes a claim to exclusivity. And the quirkier, the better. In the case of Barry’s Bay, it’s that the test pilot for the star-crossed Avro Arrow aircraft retired to the town and opened a guest lodge. The Arrow, which is subject to more conspiracy theories than JFK’s assassination, was a 1950s Canadian fighter jet killed on the eve of its production by the Diefenbaker Conservative government. Cue the political skullduggery, as at the time, the Arrow was considered the most advanced fighter jet in the world.
The next roadside attraction, in the town of Wilno, is far less politically charged than the Avro Arrow debacle. Wilno’s claim to fame is that it was Canada’s first Polish settlement. Which means one thing: perogies at the Wilno Tavern. We ended our day at the Best Western in Pembroke, and before we rode south the next morning, we trolled around town checking out the murals Pembroke is known for. And it was then that Jake and I shared a sinking feeling—a feeling that struck us both at the same time.
While refueling the day before in Dwight, I was distracted by a rare KTM RC8—the company’s only true superbike—in the gas station’s parking lot. I just had to show Jake. But Jake and I don’t multitask. We struggle just to do one thing at once. Which is a round-about way of confessing that we rode off without paying for gas, which left Jake red-faced as he called the station with a credit card to make amends.
From Pembroke, we worked our way southeast toward the town of Calabogie. But instead of relying on know-it-all GPS
navigation, we went old-school style. I looked at a map of the region over breakfast, committed the route to memory, and rode off. In the Palaeolithic period, back before the smartphone, this is how I navigated. I could hold a dozen turns in my head at once and travel three-hundred kilometres confidently without needing to reconfirm the route. Those days are gone. Ten minutes outside Pembroke my mind drew a blank—technology has rendered my mind incapable of functioning the way it once did. But I didn’t worry. No turn is a wrong turn when you have the day to kill and great roads at your disposal. Eventually, after a circuitous route that had Jake wondering if I’d lost my bearings (or my mind) we descended into Calabogie on twisty, challenging road 34.
Calabogie. Just the word makes me feel good. If Ontario had a competition to determine which community is its motorcycling mecca, Calabogie would be firmly in the running. It’s the epicenter for some of the best roads in the province. To the south of the village runs the 511 with
THE NEXT ROADSIDE ATTRACTION, IN THE TOWN OF WILNO, IS FAR LESS POLITICALLY CHARGED THAN THE AVRO ARROW DEBACLE. WILNO’S CLAIM TO FAME IS THAT IT WAS CANADA’S FIRST POLISH SETTLEMENT. WHICH MEANS ONE THING: PEROGIES AT THE WILNO TAVERN.
its dramatic elevation changes. The 511 also leads you to Calabogie Motorsports Park, a sublime road-racing track where you can fulfill your knee-dragging desires. But before we rode anywhere we required fortification—lunch at the Redneck Bistro, which, mercifully, isn’t as redneck as its name implies.
To the east and west of Calabogie runs the 508. Eastbound the road follows the Madawaska River—roads that follow rivers rarely lead you astray—and to the west the road becomes nothing less than one of the great routes in the province. By the numbers, the route from Calabogie to the town of Griffith is 54 kilometres by roads numbered 508, 65, and 71. But most call it by its other name: Centennial Lake Road.
At its eastern terminus, the road has glorious, beautifully sweeping corners that don’t require you to break the
speed limit to have a glorious time. (While we’re on the subject of speed, the road should be treated with respect. Trucks hauling fishing boats are common. As are ATVs, two-legged hikers, and four-legged critters of all kinds.) The beauty of Centennial Lake Road is that its complexion is constantly changing. From tight corners in dark woods to gently sweeping turns in open meadows that run down to blue-water lakes, the road has it all. Fifty-four kilometres doesn’t seem like much, but at Griffith you’ll want to
stop, refresh, and prepare for the next leg of the trip.
Highway 41 is a welcome change of pace after Centennial Lake Road. Gone are the tight, technical sections and in its place 41 has open vistas and long, sweeping corners. And while motorcyclists should never be
CONTINUING WESTBOUND ON HIGHWAY 28, THE VIEW RETURNED TO SOMETHING MORE FAMILIAR—THOUGH NO LESS DRAMATIC. THERE’S A WILDNESS TO THE NORTH THAT SOUTHERN ONTARIO CAN’T MATCH. ROLLING FARMLAND IS PUNCTUATED BY ROCKY OUTCROPS AND THE HIGHWAY IS EXCEPTIONALLY SMOOTH.
less than fanatically vigilant while in the saddle, 41 down to the town of Denbigh is a light appetizer for what’s to come— the unexpected Highway 28 northeast to Hardwood Lake.
After Denbigh, 28 drops headlong into a deep valley, and the views are reminiscent of those from Cape Breton Island’s Cabot Trail (excepting the ocean, naturally). I’ve done this road late at night in a car, on the way home from Calabogie’s racetrack, and I don’t think there’s a darker, more lonely stretch of road this side of the Mojave Desert. In the daylight, however, it’s far from foreboding. Unless you’re stuck behind an 18-wheeler in a low-gear slog up one of 28’s endless hills. There are very few places to pass on the road, and I’ve seen agitated motorcyclists ruin a sublime road because of frustration and impatience. Here’s a tip: the road has a number of safe places to pull over. Take a break. Stretch your legs. Take a photo or two. And then, when the road’s clear, head on your way. And someday, I hope, I’ll even take my own advice.
Continuing westbound on Highway 28, the view returned to something more familiar—though no less dramatic. There’s a wildness to the north that southern Ontario can’t match. Rolling farmland is punctuated by rocky outcrops and the highway is exceptionally smooth. Bancroft, the last town of any size before our return to Haliburton, has the feel of a frontier town— but a frontier town with a great restaurant: The Granite. You can’t miss it. You’ll ride right past it as you continue on the 28 west of Bancroft to meet up with yet another worthy road.
From the hamlet of Paudash, the 118 led us back to Haliburton. But don’t rush it. It’s one of the route’s great roads. Especially where it winds along the north shore of Loon Lake. Very few motorcycle routes rival the highlands loop. You can feel exceptionally isolated one moment and then pop out into a town with useful amenities. Like espresso. And good hotels. Or, if you’re the rugged type, campsites. You really can’t go wrong.