We are both astonished that my
original predictions that the ride would be 4200 miles and that it would take
us until mid-October have proved correct.
I very much want to get the stories of this amazing adventure down
before another part of life overtakes us.
In the next few days, as we come off the trip, and visit my brother and
his wife in Maine, I hope to get the story of the journey completed. As we drive back to Wyoming, I will continue
to post, as we transition from one state of being to another.
The first thing we see as we leave Ridgetown and head to the
north shore of Lake Erie are wind turbines.
The tall, elegant towers with three 80 foot propellers are sprinkled
across the horizon as far as we can see.
The second thing we see are
protest signs saying “No Wind Turbines” and “Health Studies Before Wind
Turbines.” The third thing we note are
the large number of solar arrays at almost every farm. These are the size of small billboards and
most are permanently fixed to capture the sun’s southern rays. These
three things move in lockstep across all the way across Erie, a source of much
conversation and contention with the people living in very southern Ontario.
We are traveling through Canada’s horn of plenty. While there is certainly plenty of corn and
soybeans, there is also an astonishing array of everything else. Anyone who lives in Detroit knows that this
part of Canada is famous for its tomatoes, but there are also huge fields of
potatoes, broccoli, cabbage, raspberries, strawberries, peas, beans, and
carrots. We see fields that look like
giant stands of dill, which takes us a few miles to figure out are asparagus in
its seed phase. Throughout this part of
the country, there are tall, airy barns nestled in groups on various
farms. We can’t figure out what they
are. They’re not for animals, nor for
grain, nor for root storage. We finally
put two and two together when we see a farmer out harvesting in a field of tall
plants with huge leaves. The leaves are
shorn off the plant, but the plant is not uprooted. These are tobacco plants and the buildings
their drying sheds.
All of this speaks to the peculiar microclimate on the north
shore of Erie. Plants typical of the
Carolinas (like tobacco, magnolias, and tulip trees) can grow here because of
the moderating effect of the lake.
Suddenly, several things make sense.
I had never understood how Detroit could have had huge cigar rolling
industry at the end of the 19th century. Also,
we are seeing many grand Victorian mansions on the farms of this region. Tobacco was THE cash crop in this region for
many years, and the source of much wealth and immigration for the whole area. It is much diminished now; the fields of
tobacco have been replaced by more healthful substances, but the many drying
sheds speak to the size of the former industry.
We are riding on a road known as the Talbot Trail, which has
been an established road since the early 1800’s. When most of Canada was wilderness with far-flung
forts, a visionary entrepreneur built a road from one end of Lake Erie to
another, providing settlers with access to the lake and the best road in the
region. He also received land from the
government every time he brought in more people (200 acres for every settler
who bought 50 acres from him!). He soon
became known as the Baron of Lake Erie.
When the rest of the surrounding area, whether in the US or Upper Canada
(as it was called) was still raw frontier, this northern-most reach of
Carolinian forest had farms, ports, and towns.
Just by chance, we stop at a cemetery snuggled into a small
hill. We note that it is called Ford
Cemetery. We wander about for a few
minutes, looking at the hand-carved limestone and marble markers, and note an
oddity. Nearly every gravestone, along
with the person’s name and dates, says “Native of Argyleshire, Scotland.” There are MacColls, Ruthven, McCallisters,
Campbells, Camerons, Forbes, and Fords.
The earliest graves date from the 1820’s; the most recent, 1958. We wonder if these are the forbears of the
Detroit Fords and if Talbot recruited whole villages to take up residence on
the Talbot Trail.
Our first port of call is Stanley. (Yes, that Stanley, of
Stanley Cup fame). It is a deep port
that sits about 150 feet below the Talbot Trail. It began as railroad port, bringing coal from Pennsylvania.
There are cute shops nestled along the cove
and two ways to walk to sandy beaches on Lake Erie. It is late September and the tourist season
is mostly over, but there are quite a few couples our age on the streets. We are staying at the Kettle Creek Inn, where
we have a reasonably priced room if we agree to eat in their restaurant. The food was excellent, both morning and
night.
Because there were so few customers, we were able to have a
long conversation with the waiter, an exceptionally slender and vivacious
fellow. He told of his mother’s bicycling
adventures. She is in her 70’s and currently
on a long distance trip in South Africa.
Other trips had taken her to Istanbul, to Alaska, and all around
Canada. These were supported trips, to
be sure, so she didn’t have to carry all her gear, but even so, this group of
elder riders were covering 60-70 miles a day in some times rugged conditions to
far-flung parts of the world. We were filled
with admiration---and a little bit of jealousy.
The next day was much like the first. After we climbed out of the port, we cruised
along the Talbot Trail among hundreds of wind turbines, a big variety of
vegetable farms, quaint little farming towns, and regular views of the shining
blue lake. The geese are flocking; it is
not unusual to see groups of 200 resting in a quiet bay. We also see sand-hill cranes, which are so
unexpected, our reasoning goes something like this: “Did you see those big
birds? Are those geese? No, that’s not the way they fly. Are they swans? No, too skinny. Are they herons? The necks aren’t folded. Oh my god, those are cranes! What are they doing here?”
The next port of call is Port Rowan. This is a far less touristy place than Port
Stanley. Adjacent to Long Point, a sand
bar that extends 20 miles into the lake, it is an important flyway, a World
Biosphere Reserve, and a major shipwreck site.
While doing laundry that night, I study the map of the point’s many
hundreds of wrecks which date back to the 1600’s with the Walking on Water
right up to the 1980’s. Lake Erie is so
shallow, and its winds so ferocious, it is easy to imagine wind powered boats
being thrown upon that sand spit over and over.
We are staying at a bed and breakfast, whereupon discovering
that we from the US, the hosts declare themselves Loyalists. We note that we
had seen a “Loyalist Cemetery” up on the road, and thus begins a long
explanation from our host John about his wife’s Sharon’s genealogy. Her family were members of the original
Massachusetts Bay Colony, which he says, “Makes her related to everybody in
America.” When faced with the American
Revolution, her branch of the family chose to stay with king and moved up to
Hamilton, Ontario. He is a bit
pugnacious, and likes to dispute. One of
the first things he says to us is that they are Canadians and that means like their
taxes and services, unlike Americans, who don’t like taxes and don’t want services.
When I talk about Point Pelee as an international birding
destination, he actually pooh-poohs me, and says, “Point Pelee is nothing
compared to Long Point. More species and
more birds come here than any other spot in Canada.” The next morning, they join us for breakfast,
and we get into a long conversation about health care. We mention how great it is that Canadians
have guaranteed health care for life.
John, who appears to have Parkinson’s, tells a long, angry story about
his difficulties getting the medical care he needs. He touts American medical care as much
superior. Wes later describes him,
accurately, as “Mr. AuContraire.”
We like the little town, however, especially enjoy walking
the shore amidst a glowing red sunset.
One of the cloud formations shining in the dusk looks like a bird in
flight. It is a quiet, peaceful, welcoming spot in
this former fishing village.
The ride the next day is much more challenging. The little ravines that take water to the
lake have opened up and become steep valleys.
It is a quick, bumpy ride down, and a hard push up, over and over. The problem I began having with my knees
after the sprint to Ridgetown has not abated.
It has gotten worse. Each pedal
up the ridges produces a sharp, shooting pain.
Even though the hills are not long, I often have to get off my bike and
push it, because the knee pain is too much.
By the time we get to Port Dover, I am hobbling on both
legs. We had planned to move on, but after
having a great lunch, seeing that this is the biggest destination port on the
North Shore, and worrying about my knees, we decide to stay. We wander the shop lined streets, and end up
at the extensive sand beach, where a few brave souls are swimming and splashing
in the decidedly cool waters. We get a
tropical drink at a beach bar, where they have planted palm trees in the
Canadian sand, and listen to Jimmy Buffet on the speakers.
It takes a long while to get lodging because it is a
weekend. We get a little cabin not too far
from the beach. The landlady is not available.
She tells us to let ourselves in and she will settle with us in the
morning. It is a fairly wretched little
place, lurking behind a beat-up historic house.
It is much smaller than most motel rooms, but it has full kitchen and
tiny sitting area crammed into its small space.
The full size bed barely fits into its room. It is not inexpensive, but at least it is
clean, and we actually have a pretty good stay.
The next day is begun at the Tim Horton’s, where I can use
the Wi-Fi. I still have no phone service
and need to secure our next night’s lodging for this Saturday. We encounter the Canadian version of the men’s
coffee klatsch. Wes has a good time
entertaining them, while I work on the blog.
Our push out of town, with the apparently requisite way-lost
backtrack, takes us away from the resort end of Lake Erie. The next two days give us a glimpse into the
work-a-day world of working class Canadians, but that is a story for another
day.
-------------------------Posted from Cornish, Maine
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