June 26: My trip to Regatta Island begins in the heart of the city. After some 30 minutes of backstreets and stop signs, I arrive at the bottom of Highway 400 where it feels like the journey actually begins. More than a dozen lanes wide, and hemmed in by factories, truck terminals and the occasional incongruous townhouse development, “the 400” is usually jammed with traffic. I join the northbound stream and hope for steady progress. Steele’s Avenue is the boundary of the City proper, and further north, I enter the Greenbelt where our corrupt Provincial government is turning valuable and productive farmland into housing estates and highways. The views across these rolling open fields always reminds me of how beautiful southern Ontario can be, particularly during the Summer months, when the crops are fresh and verdant.
After an hour or so, traffic slows at Barrie where “the 400” veers off toward Georgian Bay and points further north. Highway 11 takes over and becomes narrower – only 2 lanes in each direction – and it enters a strip of small gas stations, boat repair shops, and antique stores with driveways onto the highway. These are relics from years past when Highway 11 was “the only way north”. They reflect a time when a lot of commercial use was out along the highway to take better advantage of the passing traffic. There is now a median barrier separating north- and south-bound lanes, but I remember a time when here was no separation between the four lanes, and it seemed that every summer there would be an horrific crash as someone tried a left turn across on-coming traffic.
After passing through Orillia I reach Severn Bridge where the Canadian Shield suddenly appears. Granite outcroppings and pine forests crowd the road like a gateway to cottage country. Roadside businesses give way to thick forests and traffic thins out a bit more. Shortly after, we finally reach Bracebridge and the marina for a quick ride to the island. The transition from fully urban to resolutely rustic feels complete. But is it ?
When I bought the island, several well-meaning friends pointed out that I was “an old man” who would be completely alone for long periods of time, and, if I were to fall or have some other accident, it would be impossible for me to get help. They asked that I carry my cell phone at all times. This seemed to be a reasonable thing to do, but I was reluctant. I’m not a dedicated follower of technology, and the thought of being tied to the phone was unpleasant, so training myself to put the phone in my pocket was initially a bit hit and miss. After a while it became much more routine, and there’s the problem: I am never really “alone”.
Like so many people, I have become sensitive to the way the phone pings and vibrates with each new e-mail or text. I reflexively check to see what’s happening. I check the Weather Network several times each day. News is available at the touch of a screen, and I can search building materials and hardware from the dock. Where this type of search might have involved my increasingly temperamental laptop in the City, I now literally have the world in my pocket.
To be sure, there is a degree of convenience in this and there is security in knowing that help may be at hand should I need it. But the trade-off is that I now feel more tied to technology and the habitual screen time that it implies while I am on the island than I ever did while I was in the city. I can be totally alone and immersed in nature, yet I am repeatedly driven to technology each day. I know this has to change; I don’t wish to be pinged and buzzed while I enjoy Regatta. So in the next while my objective will be to limit screen time and resist the reflexive checking the phone for messages. Instead, I’ll be listening to the Loons and Mergansers for a much more important message, one that’s worth the journey north.