South of Picton
Exploring The Wilds Of Prince Edward County
Recently, I went on a day ride through Prince Edward County with some friends. We stopped along the shoreline of Point Petrie for a break and I was so impressed with the scenery in this unpopulated part of the island that I vowed to return again soon on my Ural for a better look. The sidecar rig is better suited to off road excursions and would allow me to explore trails that my Harley couldn't hope to navigate. My friend and fellow CMC member Tim agreed to come along on his V-Strom and at 10:30am on Wednesday 22 Aug 07, we met at the Tim Horton's in Picton to launch our trip. It was a pretty dismal looking day and we both wearing our rain gear, as the drizzle had only stopped an hour earlier and the roads were still wet. However, the forecast for the remainder of the day was supposed to be overcast with little chance of precipitation so we were hoping that it would stay dry.
We were surprised to see our fellow CMC 002 member Bill (aka: ACE), who showed up in the Tim's parking lot to wish us well on our journey and to give us some tips and pointers about the southern end of Prince Edward County. ACE grew up in the area and knows the county well, so we reviewed our basic route plans with him and chatted a bit before heading out of town. After a quick stop at the Black River Cheese factory for some essential supplies, we headed down CTY Rd 13 towards Long Point, at the southeast tip of the island.
We rode through Port Milford and South Bay, gawping at all the picturesque scenery, homes and cottages along the way. Somewhere along the way we passed a sign that read "Ostrich Farm" and I just couldn't resist a u-turn to go back for a closer look. But there were no ostriches in sight, so we rode down the driveway over to a large outdoor workshop where I could see a few people inside working on a car. My cheery "Hey, where's all the ostriches?" was met with a few seconds of silence before one of them answered "They're all gone". There was a long pause while the three of them stood there and stared at me, so I asked "Gone? Where to?" The oldest took a step away from the car and started to polish a wrench with the rag he had in his pocket and said, "Had to kill them". Another long pause, more stares. I looked in the mirror for help from Tim, but he was parked at an angle facing the roadway, being very quiet, and it suddenly dawned on me why... we had wandered into Redneck Country. I took a closer look at our surroundings and became aware of several rusted out pickup trucks, a couple of boats, a few dead cars, old engines, transmissions and other evidence of vehicular homicide lying about. No banjos, though. Yet. I tried once more to get a conversation going by asking "Really, why's that?" And the answer that came back was "Mad Cow Disease". More pauses and stares. I should have left it at that, but I just had to ask what Mad Cow disease had to do with ostriches and was rewarded with a blurb about how the slaughterhouses had filled up with cattle when the borders were closed during the whole Mad Cow era and they couldn't get anyone to slaughter the birds for them. Pause, stare. What he didn't divulge was how the birds were finally killed, but by now my survival instincts had kicked in and my brain issued an urgent memo to my body to vacate the area ASAP. I made some pleasant small talk about a freshly painted sport bike they had parked in the rear of the garage ("It's a Yamaha Seca with a Hannigan fairing"...pause, stare...) while I frantically kicked the Ural into reverse and fired it up. I wheeled the rig around in a sharp three-point turn and took off for the safety of the paved road, with Tim close behind.
Once clear of the Banjo Zone, we settled down to a steady pace and enjoyed more scenery as we headed down towards Long point. We ducked into the Little Bluff Conservation Area for a short break and to remove our rain gear, as it was now starting to get warmer and it looked like the rain would hold off for a while at least. We parked under the picnic shelter just for the heck of it and let Hector out for a pee and a romp around the area.
Tim had been here before and was quick to point out a very unusual tree that was literally hanging by the roots over a very tall cliff. I made sure Hector was well back from the edge and then took a cautious step onto the trunk and peered down... WAY down. I am not normally afraid of heights, but all kinds of red flags popped up in my head and I carefully backed away onto more solid ground. That tree has survived years of wind, storms, erosion and other attempts to dislodge it over the years but I doubted that it could maintain its tenuous grip on the cliff edge with a lardass like me leaning against it.
Tim, lighter and braver than I, stepped up to the challenge and took this photo through the tree roots - believe me, those rocks are a lot further away than the photo shows! I retreated to safer ground and let Hector romp about and water the bushes for a bit longer before mounting up and heading back out to the road.
The road was virtually traffic-free and the scenery was great, so we motored along at a relaxed pace towards our first destination of the day - the lighthouse at Prince Edward Point, the furthest one could travel on the southeastern tip of the island. ACE had told us the last kilometer or so of road was pretty much impassable, but the Ural and V-Strom had no problems traversing it and we rode right out onto the shoreline when the road finally ended. Hector was happy to get out and splash around in the surf, while Tim took off down the shoreline to see how far he could get on two wheels.
After a few minutes of wandering around, I decided to join him and loaded a reluctant dog back into the sidecar. I executed a three-point turn, but misjudged the firmness of the shoreline and promptly sank the Ural's rear end up to the mufflers. A few minutes and lots of clutch feathering and Body English later, I had managed to pull clear of the soft stuff and get back onto firmer ground. The Ural left telltale ruts in the loose stones to mark our passing.
Tim hadn't returned from his exploring yet, so I attempted to go look for him. I rode about 30' along the shoreline until I came to this obstacle - a driftwood tree stump right in my path. I couldn't go to the left or I'd sink into the soft stuff again and the shrubbery was too close and too thick to the right, so I shut off the bike and waited for Tim to return. Hector started making indignant huffing sounds because he was cooped up in the sidecar again, so he was let out once again and immediately went bounding back into the water for another drink.
Hector and I had lots of fun poking about the rocks and debris while we waited, but I kept glancing up the shoreline every few minutes for signs of Tim... or his distress flare. Eventually he came ripping back with an impressive rooster tail of rocks, seashells and fishbones trailing out behind him. Clearly, the V-Strom held the advantage over the Ural in this terrain and I wandered off to sulk while Tim got his camera out for a few photos.
By now I was totally engrossed in all the dead, stinking fish and bird carcasses strewn about the area and was trying to figure out how and what had brought them there. This was to be a common sight whenever we stopped along the shoreline for the rest of the trip and it still has me puzzled. The fish were huge, possibly lake salmon and showed no signs of trauma other than from the birds picking at them. More disturbing, though, were the birds; it looked like some of them had simply exploded, as there were feathers and body parts all over with no obvious clues as to the cause of their demise.
Tim gave the driftwood log a poke, but it wasn't moving for anybody so we just relaxed for a bit and kept an eye on Hector, who was trying to sneak in a few bites of those delicious rotting fish corpses whenever he thought I wasn't looking. We discussed the dead fish and bird phenomena but neither of us could come up with a logical explanation as to why there were so many of them strewn about.
Tim remembered to take a pic of the lighthouse behind us before we saddled up and headed out on the next phase of the adventure; a romp down the back roads along the southern edge of the island all the way over to Point Petrie on the Southwest tip. Tim had been down some of the roads before, but that was two years ago so we were pretty much heading out into the unknown. Which was exactly what we wanted!
The plan was to backtrack a bit up Long Point Road and then leave civilisation for the wilds of Big Sand Bay and Gravelly Bay. As we turned off the main road onto Gravelly Bay Road, we saw the signs we'd been waiting for. This was gonna be good! We took turns taking the lead, switching whenever the leader passed by and indicated an interesting looking track off to the side. The follower would see the hand signal up ahead and then turn onto the indicated trail and take the lead as the other scrambled to catch up. It was a system that worked well and had the bonus effect of ensuring both of us got equally coated in dust.
Great fun. Until one particular trail, anyway. I took the lead at Tim's signal and rode in about 20' when it occurred to me that; a) the tracks were fairly recent, b) it was little more than a path across an empty field and c) it did not seem to be leading towards any building or other indication of human presence. With the memory of the Ostrich Farm boys still fresh in my head, I began to be concerned that we were about to blunder into someone's marijuana patch and get our heads blown off by a trigger happy Cletus. The tracks went deeper into increasingly thicker bush and I was just about to stop and plead Tim to turn around when we suddenly broke out into the clear. No pot patch, no booby traps, no rednecks, no worries. With a sigh of relief I carried on towards the now visible shoreline. We had to stop well clear of the waterline, though, when the tracks turned into deep, wide ruts that the Ural couldn't possibly hope to navigate without getting hung up. The ruts were too wide for the rig and the brush too close on each side to allow straddling them, so, after advising Tim to stay put, I dismounted and walked the rest of the way to see if Tim's bike could make it. The last 15' went up a 20 degree incline onto a narrow crest of loose stones and the soft shoreline was just over the other side. There was no way any two wheeler could hope to get up there, much less make a sharp turn and traverse the top of the crest.
So I turned around to yell back to Tim and damned if he wasn't RIGHT THERE behind me, walking up the hill. Scared the bejeezus out of me, he did. He popped up to the top and after a quick look agreed that we should just leave well enough alone and head back to the "road". We were both in awe of whatever vehicle had managed to make all those tracks, though, as the ruts carried on up the steep incline, onto the narrow crest and then down along the shoreline through lots of deep, soft rocks and sand. We never did find out what the destination was, but it's probably just as well (cue the banjo music). I stumbled back to the bikes and a patiently waiting Hector and away we went once again.
The "road" got pretty nasty now and it took a lot of concentration to keep the Ural from lopping off the exposed cylinder heads on some of the big rocks and tree stumps that kept jumping in front of us. It was a very technical, but very enjoyable ride and the Ural held up to all the thrashing and bumping and banging. Hector didn't fare quite as well, however - at one point the bike was shuddering so violently down a washboard section that he was unceremoniously vibrated right on up into the nose of the sidecar. Took him awhile to back out and pop his head up again and when he did I could tell he was not amused. He got a break when Tim signaled another detour off to the side and we were treated to another deep woods exploration on a somewhat softer trail.
Tim had remembered that two years ago this road led to a very secluded plot of land that happened to be for sale and as we rolled into the clearing we saw the real estate signs were still there. I took one look at the palatial Trailer Park Boys accommodations and I was hooked. We had found ourselves a patch of nirvana! My mind reeled with the possibilities of this location and as I babbled out plans for a CMC clubhouse, rally site, vineyard and home for wayward women, Tim just stood there nodding and smiling in agreement. This place was perfect - you could make all the noise you wanted and nobody would hear or care!
We spent some time walking about the area and marveling in the perfection of it all. There was a lot of potential, but also a few major hurdles. There were no services (in fact, there wasn't a power line to be seen for miles in this area), no running water, well or septic system. As each problem appeared, we discussed ways to resolve it and after a good half hour of talking we had everything covered except for two things - the lack of cell phone service and the atrocious roads leading up to the lot. The lack of contact with the outside world could be disastrous in case of an emergency, and the roads were pure crap and difficult to navigate in a hurry.
There was no way any two wheeler other than a dual-sport could make it this far. Low slung passenger cars were out of the question, in fact anything less than a 4WD pickup or Sport Ute wouldn't make it 1/3 of the way without tearing off its undercarriage and bleeding to death all over the rock filled ruts. But at least the Ural and the V-Strom could make it, so all was not lost. I told Tim I'd look up the real estate listing on the internet when I got home and see if we could negotiate with our spouses to go halvers on the deal. We'd probably have to drop the "home for wayward women" idea, though, but sacrifices must be made to achieve a dream.
After one last look at Nirvana Acres, we left and headed out once again for Point Petrie. I was in the lead again, but the Ural was kicking up so much dust that Tim had to stay well behind in order to get a proper view of the rough road ahead. If you look closely at this pic you can see the dust still hanging in the air from my passing. I finally realised this some time later and slowed down to let him by. Then HE was kicking up so much dust that I had to slow down... and poor Hector ended up getting coated from ears to tail with it.
Eventually the road surface became more solid and I wicked up the pace to catch up to Tim. I was making good time when there was a sudden, loud WHANG! and my left foot was none too gently nudged by something that thumped into the underside of the peg. The front wheel had thrown up one hell of a large rock and I immediately shut off the motor and coasted to a stop, fearing that it had smashed the oil pan to bits. But thankfully there was no visible damage so I continued on, a bit more slowly this time. Through a series of turns and forks in the road we followed a vaguely outlined route on the map, eventually hooking up onto Army Reserve Road, which runs due Southwest the last 6km to Point Petrie Road. By now I was getting an occasional whiff of something that smelled vaguely of the pot-pourri dishes my ex-wife used to fill the house with. At first I thought it was simply the scent of all the wildflowers that choked the roadside, but as we approached the outposts of civilisation again and the terrain changed from shrubbery to cornfields, the smell became more pungent. I was at a loss as to what it was until caught up to Tim at the intersection of Point Petrie Road. I happened to look down at the motor and saw a large sprig of what looked like cedar lying across the top of the very hot left side cylinder head. I flicked it off and the scent went away. I wonder if there's an invention there somewhere... the Motorcycle Air Freshener, perhaps?
We arrived at the shoreline along the west edge of Point Petrie and promptly blazed our way out onto the rocky beach, a little down the trail from where we had stopped the previous Sunday. The winds and waves were a little less intense on this side of the island, but it was still pretty choppy. I was going to try and coax Hector into the water for a much needed swim to wash all the dust off him, but the rocks were too slimy and seaweed covered for him to get solid footing so he didn't get much more than his dainty little paws wet. So we had a short Black River Cheese break while we decided what to do next.
As we talked I noticed Hector wandering away over to the treeline, presumably to water the bushes again. But, nope, he was following a scent trail to another tasty pile of rotting fish. He tried the "selective hearing" routine on me when I called for him, but his canine instincts picked up the note of seriousness in my subsequent calls and he reluctantly came back. Tim and I decided to explore the shoreline trails to see if we could find a more suitable swimming location and we saddled up once again.
The trail split in two directions shortly afterward and we each headed down a different leg. Tim then decided to sprint back a ways to get a picture of his bike next to a large, prominent tree and it was a few minutes before he caught up to Hector and I. By this time we had already mapped out much of the remaining trails and were on our way back to find him when he appeared around a bend just ahead of us. We did the "What do you want to do?" "I dunno, what do you want to do" routine for a bit and then I wheeled around and headed back down towards the shoreline again.
We rode over to another location I'd spotted and it turned out to be way better than the previous one. We did the "dramatic bikes in the water" photo op and then rolled them forward onto drier rock. Hector was let out once again and this time I was able to coax him into the water, as this spot was sheltered from the wind and had a not so slimy surface for him to walk on. But he was reluctant to fully immerse himself in the water for some reason, and it took a while before he was finally wet enough all over to have washed off most of the dust.
It was now close to 2:30pm and almost time to begin the trip back home, but we still had some time to spend wandering around. The sun almost poked through the clouds a few times and it was warming up nicely, but not enough to convince me to join Hector for a swim. So I made a cell phone call to my sweetie and told her we'd be home soon, then finished off the last of the Black River cheese and cookies. I had lost sight of Tim, but it turned out he was busy stalking through the treeline taking pics of Hector and I to pass the time.
I guess my call home was longer then I thought, as Tim was able to cover a lot of ground between photo shoots. But I was busy telling my sweetie all about the fantastic cottage we'd found on the remote southern edge of the county that was for sale and kind of lost track of time for a bit. After I hung up, the three of us explored the shoreline a bit and found more evidence of blown up birds and fish carcasses. A clue to the bird deaths was found in the form of a spent shotgun shell close to the remains of a Cormorant. Could some people actually be stupid enough to spend their off hours shooting birds on a public beach?
Eventually all good things must come to an end and it was now time to load Hector in the chair and begin the journey home. I took a look at the Ural and couldn't help but smile; it had done everything I'd asked it to do today without complaint and it looked good seasoned with a thin film of Prince Edward County dust.
Tim followed us out of Soup Harbour, apparently riding one-handed as he took more photos of the Ural rig bobbing along in front of him. Hector, exhausted from a day of romping, swimming and gourmet tasting, was stretched out on the floor of the sidecar and not the slightest bit interested in sitting up and sniffing the air like he normally does at low speeds.
We had one last romp down a tree-covered trail and we were back onto paved roads and heading for Picton and the Glenora Ferry. Hector was racked out and sound asleep for pretty much the entire 1-1/2hr trip home, not moving much except for when we stopped outside of Bath for a pee break. Tim had already split off for home by this point, so we carried on through Kingston and back home, arriving just after 5pm.
Hector had supper and then promptly flaked out on the dining room floor afterwards, but even though I was tired from the effort of slinging an 800lb Ural around all day I was still hyped up about the trip and the visit to Nirvana Acres. I enlisted the help of Angie to track down the listing of the lot and anticipation quickly turned to disbelief and disappointment when the info was located. The sellers want $120,000 for it... this irregular shaped, under 4 acre lot with NO services whatsoever, located down a very rough, seasonal road in the most remote part of the county. No wonder it hadn't sold. Reluctantly, I had to let the dream die. For now, anyway.

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