

The road was built in the Great Depression of the 1930s. Maybe that was an omen. In the beginning it was good, with jobs for workers when jobs were scarce. This east-west slash through the woods and bogs of eastern Ontario soon sprouted motels and restaurants and gas stations. But even in its heyday it was tough to make a living out here. And the heyday is long gone. Most travellers between Ottawa and Toronto now use newer multi-lane highways to bypass the region and its one-lane-each-way road. Is it any wonder so little remains?

#3 Rust Bucket Heaps It could never happen in the city. There just isn’t the space. But out here when your car gets old and dies you just shove it off the end of the driveway or push it out into a field. Why? It takes money to haul old cars away, and besides, you never know when you might need them for parts. And who knows, maybe someone who wants your Mercury wagon for a demolition derby will come by and give you a few hundred bucks.

#17 Grow-Op Hotel Bob and June Graham were looking to buy a business when they drove past the closed down motel in the mid-’90s. They low-balled an offer. They got it for one-third of asking. But the work was endless. They had a five-year plan but sold after a year. The new owners struggled and it closed, again. Bob, curious to see what’s become of the motel in the years he’s been away, peers through the busted back door. Black plastic blocks the windows and bulbs hang from makeshift wiring. “A grow-op,” says Bob, without surprise. He walks back to the car where June is waiting. She hasn’t bothered to get out of the car.

#31 Nightmare Motel The floors of the Land-O-Lakes motel have collapsed into the basement like the wood-paneled funhouse of a nightmare. What’s odd is that it hasn’t been looted. It doesn’t need to be. It’s been raided by time. Insulation pours through the ceiling like sand sifting from an hourglass. “Happy Vacations” is spelled out on the check-in desk but letters are missing, like teeth knocked from a mouth. A sticker of a fish clings to a fridge. A typewriter sits on a bed. And then it’s gone, plowed under by a bulldozer.