The trip had started uneventfully enough. Both of our older-model XL250 Hondas were loaded with the necessities for a two-day, off-road motorcycle trip. Among other things, Frank’s bike carried a rare vintage set of naugahyde saddlebags (the nauga, I believe, now being extinct). They were jammed with running shoes, his paperback novel, dry socks, swimsuits, towels, assorted pieces of dry clothing and, most importantly, a couple of rolls of toilet paper. My XL sported a tankbag as well as a crudely built carrier loaded with sleeping bags and a backpack containing spares and food and water.
Our destination was my hunting camp located just south of Bancroft, Ont. Between here and there lay the old railway line and some of the best trails a couple seasoned riders could fit into two days of scenic riding.
After the compulsory photo session and farewell greetings from family and a gathering of neighborhood urchins, we quietly set off on our first overnight off-road journey. We’d done lots of day trips on the railway line, but this was our first attempt at packing gear to spend a night in the bush.
Barely noticed by some grazing cattle, we paddled our way across a couple of freshly plowed fields before reaching the railway bed. From there it was steady riding straight north, with lots of rest and chat stops as we wound through over-grown bush, across semi-dried creek beds and several washouts.
Our first stop on the itinerary was the Marmora Mine. Now closed to through traffic, it was one of our favorite stopping points. This large open-pit mine once supplied iron ore to points around the world. It is said to be more than 850 ft deep, 500 ft of which is crystal-clear water. The old mine provided a panoramic view of the villageof Marmora from atop the tailings, and the lands surrounding the mine were laced with trails making a natural motocross course. Gradually, nature was moving back to reclaim a landscape that man had carted away in trucks and railway cars.

Medication run
On this trip we couldn’t stay for long and we continued on the trail north of Hwy 7 until we reached the hunt camp around suppertime. After checking things out and serving eviction notice to mice that had taken up lodging, we decided to continue along the trail and head into Bancroft for supper and the liquid medicinal supplies required to help us through the night. Once there we enjoyed a great hot meal and the chance to set on something for a few minutes that wasn’t bouncing around.
Upon leaving the restaurant, the beer, er, medicinal supply was loaded on the back of my bike. A light sprinkle had started, so we decided to run the highway back to camp. As the rain quickened so did our pace, and it wasn’t long before we were flat out, one behind the other, with me tucked in behind Frank in one of my best road racer poses. Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I picked up the first sign of flames rocking out of Frank’s left saddlebag. I could see clearly that the bags had shifted against Frank’s now hot muffler. I began to wave frantically and motion for him to pull over, but to no avail. Frank was now in his zone, focused on the road ahead. Since we were both already flat out and my speedometer was bouncing around at an incredible 65 mph, my only hope was to tuck in and wait for an opportunity to pull up beside him. It wasn’t long before the chance arrived, and when finally alongside, I waved and pointed until Frank’s attention was diverted to the rear of his bike. A look of total amazement came across Frank’s face. It was as if he briefly had to admire the beauty of the flames now licking as far back as his taillight.
Frank finally pulled over to the side of the road, just as the bottom of the saddlebag let go and its treasured contents spilled onto the side of the highway. I pulled over about 30 ft behind Frank and watched a display I shall always remember. Several little bonfires set up shop, now scattered along the shoulder of the road. One fire engulfed the rolls of toilet paper we had packed. Another was melting a running shoe and yet another consumed Frank’s paperback novel. Other fires ate up items that were now unidentifiable.
Frank sprang from his bike and began what appeared to be a cross between an Indian rain dance and the Highland Fling, trying desperately to put out all the little infernos and salvage what was left of the supplies we had been so careful to pack.
He had about half of the fires stamped out, when he stopped with a confused look on his face and looked back at me. He couldn’t understand why I was engulfed in laughter. Through teary eyes and the onset of stomach cramps caused from deep belly laughter, I managed to point to something directly behind Frank.
Slowly turning around, Frank looked to see a large government sign that sternly warned: “Only You Can Prevent Forest Fires!”