Driving Fire Route 93. Are you sure this is a road?

Who on earth decided this was a good idea for a road? Fire Route 93 snakes around the west and south end of Lake Kasshabog through low lying flood zones, around huge rocks and over impossible cliffs. I think it must have been surveyed by a moose. The late, great Ron Jones told of all-night trips from Toronto with the kids sleeping on piles of blankets in the back seat while he and his wife did what they could to keep each other awake. They’d arrive at 4 AM, load the boat and head off for another weekend in paradise. Exhausted, they'd turn the now wide awake kids loose and hit the sack. I’m sure by the time they turned off the main road they were indifferent to the rutted two-tracker that bounced them over the last few miles. Probably helped keep them awake. Thirty-some years ago when we first traveled West Kosh Lake Road to that magical first view of the shimmering blue lake the road was a twisty two-tracker, and I loved it. I was proud owner at the time of one of the ugliest cars ever made; an ‘84 Subaru Legacy wagon. Its color was a truly bland shade of purple they called Harvest Mist, and homely though it be, it was mechanically beautiful. Among its many virtues was a button on the dash that raised the suspension up a few centimeters for extra road clearance. Kind of gave it the cache of a swamp buggy. The ‘Roo was all business. Skidding and bouncing around rocks and over hills, branches scraping our sides, was glorious. Annie just kept her head down and yipped now and then when we’d bottom out in a swale, or hammer through a field of level-five pot holes. To me, West Kosh was a fun ride through the woods. There was something so primitive about it; the promise of something even wilder at the end of the ride. I mourned when they widened, flattened, and straightened it out. Why, I thought, did they have to civilize the road? Isn’t civilization what we’re here to escape? But I grew accustomed to the newer, smoother, safer West Kosh. I’m afraid it even made me go a little soft. So I wasn’t ready last Monday when I drove Fire Route 93 in my Volvo sedan. The Volvo does not have a button on the dash. It is a low-slung, road-hugging sports sedan. When Fire Route 93 saw us coming it could only grin and lick its chops. As we dropped into FR 93 we passed a sign which read something to the effect of “risky business beyond this point”. I didn’t need a sign to tell me that. A double-rutted muddy trail studded with scrapes of ice lay before us and all I could think was, is this really a road? Never mind, I’d come this far so I ignored Annie’s whimpering and pressed on ever deeper towards an unknown point of no return. There is a point, like swimming halfway across the lake where you may as well press on. The day was sunny and dry – would I do this in the snow? What if it was raining? Obviously some people do. There are those hardy souls who live here and take for granted that running to the store for coffee cream means putting chains on the old pickup. And some days drinking their coffee black. Onward into the ever-narrowing bends, the beauty of a winter woods climbing the cliffs above. Frozen marshes and sleeping bush far below waiting for Spring. One of the thrilling aspects to this form of off-roading is mounting the peak of a hill. Where FR 93 can’t go around the contours of the ravines it scrambles straight up and over their sides. In many places you come to the top of a climb where the nose of your car points skyward and you can’t see the road in front of you. You see treetops, blue sky. This is a time of high anxiety. If one could only assume that the road continues straight for a few more yards that would be fine, and had I not already been tossed side to side by sudden switchbacks I might have been happily ignorant of the many possibilities that could lie ahead. I wasn’t, nor was Annie who now sits, staring in a catatonic state, saying nothing. However, I could read the thought balloons floating about her head remarking upon me and my stupid errand. Passing another peak the road begins to seriously deliver on the promise of the sign we passed with even steeper ups and downs and ever deeper ruts and pot holes. Someone has tried without much success to level the pot holes with gravel. The down slope is too steep for that to work, and “Oh look! Yonder lies an icy left turn at the bottom of the hill. And yonder still comes a big white pickup truck". We slow and cower as close to the edge of the road as I dare. Annie is white lipped, gazing at the steep drop below. The truck never slows, slides past without a pause, and we continue on. Our destination is Mark Jones’s place on Fire Route 93 A. If it’s even possible, Fire Route 93 A is rougher and ruttier than 93, but we get there and with all immediate danger behind us Annie finally lets go. Hurling a magnificent stream of invective at me she gets out of the car and flashes her dazzling smile as Mark comes to greet us. All Is calm now; we have a pleasant visit, we drop off a new trolling motor for Mark to install – the totally worthy purpose of our trip – and then we hit the road again. The trip out was less exciting than the drive in, the sun was high and the sky was blue. The road gradually widened and by the time we reached the trail head of FR 93, Blue Mountain road, and West Kosh looked pretty good. Familiar, predictable, civilized. I felt a renewed appreciation of how easy we have it. Drive over good roads, load a boat, piece of cake! As we retraced the treacherous passage in, I pondered the designation, Fire Route 93. Fire Route, really??? Visualize a fire truck with sirens screaming, lights ablaze, in full emergency mode hurrying to your burning cabin on FR 93. And be glad it’s not me driving!