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Several years ago, we inherited a piece of heaven: 350 acres of pasture and timber and rocks on Lake Charlotte, a spring-fed basin in the Madawaska River Valley, tucked away so far from civilization that it barely makes it onto a map. Our very own front-row seat to a sparkling unspoiled lake amid the pines.

The nearest town is Rockingham, a remote hamlet about 180 kilometres north of Peterborough, where there are nine or so souls, a historic church, a converted general store, a few log cabins and some cows.

Were we lucky? You might think so considering the scarcity of developable lots and skyrocketing land prices in cottage country.

Trouble is, though the rocks and trees have been in my husband's family since the 1850s, tough land-use regulations preclude us from building anything permanent on the lake. It's a tent or something on wheels for us, and my utter disgust for bugs pushes us toward the latter.

So we give ourselves a trailer challenge — one weekend and $10,000 — and head out to the lots.

At a high-end dealer north of Toronto, we quickly learn that wheels have been reinvented for a new generation. There is, for instance, the "executive" trailer with solid maple cabinets, stainless-steel appliances, en suite bathroom and gas fireplace. There are things on wheels with rooms that contract and expand with a push of the button. Not to mention the built-in latte maker and Jacuzzi tub. Why scrimp on amenities in the wilderness?

My favourite is a log cabin on wheels, completely done up in a bear-and-moose motif just in case you would like a little boost to give you that feeling of true Canadiana. This model starts at $60,000.

We don't see any trailers more expensive than our off-wheel home, but we do see a couple with much nicer bathrooms. We note that this could depress us, but we don't let it get us down.

To get depressed, we visit a guy a little farther north of Toronto who we found on the Internet, a specialist in used trailers — and I mean used.

At this place, "needs a little work" means get the hell out of there as fast as you can and don't look back.

Let's just say that for $2,000 you can get something that would make Bubbles on Trailer Park Boys shudder.

Here we have the dark night of the trailer-hunter's soul: Maybe it would be better to forget about the whole thing and just look for a cottage to rent for that special week — the one after the black flies have gone and the mosquitoes haven't quite. That would buy us time to look for a piece of land we could build on.

As part of this exercise, I speak to some real estate experts in the area.

Cathy Pitts of Remax Country Classics Ltd., in Combermere, a town of about 1,100 that bills itself as the "Playground of the Madawaska Valley," has been watching cottage country creep northeast from the Muskokas for years and knows what this is doing to the price and availability of lakeside land.

"We got busy about five years ago in Combermere, then in Barry's Bay about four years ago," she says. Now the getaway land rush is heading through the Bonnechere Valley (a river over from the Madawaska) almost to the Quebec border.

In the past four years, she has seen a typical lot of less than an acre on a medium-sized lake increase in value by as much as $20,000 year — and that's if you can find one.

On a 90-kilometre stretch of the Madawaska, which starts from its headwaters in Algonquin Park and makes its way through Bark and Kaminiskeg lakes, she knows of three lots for sale: one at $189,000, another at $84,900 and the third at $64,900.

The last two are bargains because they are in the reeds, which means no beach for swimming.

"With the baby boomers, there's not enough land left in Ontario for everybody who wants country," she says. "This isn't five years ago, where you could afford to wait for the right property to come along. It's just not there. That's sad to say, but that's reality."

Sylvia Tatarski of Queenswood National Real Estate in Barry's Bay, about 18 kilometres north of Combermere, confirms this reality.

On Kaminiskeg Lake, for instance, 150-foot lots are selling for $135,000 to $150,000, up astronomically from several years ago. "The reason," she says, "is that we just don't have the vacant land; most of the lots have been utilized." She expects bidding wars as the summer heats up.

Numbers like these — for that one week in August — bolster our resolve to use what the fates have provided us.

At Bob's trailers in Oakville, we settle on a 25-foot 1987 Fleetwood Cimarron with new parquet flooring, new fridge and extra sleeping space for grandchildren, just in case we ever have any. No bidding war. And it only leaks a little bit! The asking price is $4,800. We offer Bob $4,000, but he says no way. We offer him full price if he will do the repairs. He doesn't have time for this repairing business, but he offers to sell us the trailer for $4,600. We accept.

Then he agrees to fix the leaky vent and ceiling panel for $250. (We never were very good negotiators.) We take on a broken window and missing door panel ourselves, or rather my husband does. This is worth it just to see the rare sight of this man with a toolbox. But when Bob makes it up to the roof, he redefines the little leak as a major rupture that could cause a collapse in the first major snow. This repair will now cost $1,200. (Like I said, about our negotiating skills.)

Then we get Erik, a friend of Bob's with a one-tonne Chevy, otherwise known as a "Big Dooley," to tow this contraption 350 kilometres to Lake Charlotte. It's a bit of a schamozzle getting it to fit just right on the land we've cleared, but then finally it is all in place. Our front door — panel repaired — is facing the lake with its little sandy beach.

We agree to worry about electricity and chemical toilets later in the summer and settle down in our bug jackets to sip some wine and wait for the loons.

Don't try to find us. There is no cellphone service in these parts, and Rockingham seems to be the last place on earth that hasn't made it into Mapquest. This is not a place where celebrities arrive by floatplane and families bring a staff along on holidays.

My friends are making jokes about trailer trash, but let them laugh. There are no Wal-Marts or Starbucks on the horizon. And it is likely that the urbanization accompanying the northward march of cottage country is likely to leave us behind, at least in our lifetime.

People with winterized family cottages, motorboats and Sea-Doos can go ahead and smile smugly. We'll always have Rockingham.