End of the Road

The skip in their step gave them away before their accent. Hardy folks, rugged coasts, and the most northern part of the island is Meat Cove, this is where I met Teri and Ramsey. I lovely elderly couple from Wyoming, cycling Nova Scotia. The last 8 kilometers of road from the Bay of St. Laurence are unpaved, potholed, mud ridden with 15% grade hills, lots of them. A whopping town of about 100 ft. housed one campground pushed up against the mountain, a kayak shop, and an internet shop/café closed for the season and two Inns. I parked my car and was looking for the trail head when this couple approached me on the street and asked if I had any food. I paused for a nanosecond before responding that they had come to the right place.  They had pre-arranged their entire vacation on the internet not taking into consideration distances, knolls, inclines, road composition and off season hospitality, there was no food. The Inn they were staying at didn’t have a host, just a simple note. “Leave the money and enjoy”….I convinced them to stay another day and eat…they looked famished. I thought some rest would do them good, and heat, as the temperatures had dipped considerably in the last day and their down jackets were out. I took off to do some hiking and joined them later for a cup of tea before heading south.

The quaint looking town of the Bay of St. Laurence with an inland and pastoral fields had a reputation that the RCMP deal with to this day, drinking, drugs and facials for free. Up the road White Point was another tiny cove with a hike to the end of the easterly tip. Past many miles of cracked roads, potholes to sink a car, and more mud laid Neil Harbour, it was magical. Walking the photography are hard in these Atlantic Provinces as none of them have sidewalks and few have shoulders on the road. I’ve used my emergency daily whip out the camera and take a shot. I met Larry a local fisherman down by the wharf and he was filled with stories of the high seas. About 70 in age, he’d lived here his entire life, as has his father, his grandfather and great grandfather, coming over from Europe to make a better life. The generational depth is hard for us nouveau westerns to grasp. He spoke in decades, 5 of them, and how fishing had changed. “Nat, nat as gaud, as last year (10 years ago), nat the times are getting hard…The kids don’t want to fallow us auymore, nat a gaud life. I love it mind you, buut it isn’t for everone. See heir nets, they be old ones, nat the new square ones, need to fix them for next season. Keep the wife happy when I’m out at sea, wintar is hard with both of us in house.” I nodded in agreement, not having any idea what that is like. He ventured down the short wharf and into his boat.

That night I made it to Ingonish just in time for the heavy rain and 4 degree temperatures. Set up camp and headed straight for the Keltic Lodge. Picture a diminutive Banff Springs with large couches and arm chairs dressed in tartan colors and Celtic patterned rugs and patrons sipping hot toddies and nibbling on delicacies that the white gloved staff are serving you. I sat at the bar with a couple from Halifax and sipped cranberry juice while listening to Robert Macgregor singing folksongs beside an inglenook. All was jolly until I returned to the tent and froze my petunias off. All the woollies in the world are grand but the cold temperatures make falling asleep rather cumbersome.