New Hampshire White Mountains

The early morning hours on the road allows calmness to settle in as the direction is set, not on a GPS, but the intelligence  of her mind, keeping track of three routes, glancing at maps as the hours roll by not illegal in this state as it isn’t a technical hand held device. Lush trees border the roadways like perfume their essence molds the photo in one’s mind of all the beautiful New England images.

Gorham, NH is a strip of fast food joints, several gas stations hovering in a valley bottom. Night sets in early as I do my reconnaissance work up and down valley roads to find campground, trail head, and the warden station for information. By nightfall I am settled in after calling home to reassure myself that all will be well.

Three days of hiking ensue. Not sure who engineered any of the trails in the area but switchbacks must not have been invented, or perhaps not an acceptable means of contouring the mountains, because each trail teaches my body how to lift ones leg over heaving rocks. Walking up river beds describes the terrain, the only relief is a couple miles of walking over large tree trunks. The first shower doesn’t wash off the sweat but pierces the skin as liquid stones reaffirm the day’s work. No amount of vista can overcome the pain, or perhaps the stupidity of doing it for another two days.

The ridge walk is spectacular as it illuminates 4 ranges of mountains. The notion or concern of travelling alone on these trails wanes as each day more and more people gather at the trail head, does anyone work in this country? Hiking alone, and yet listening attentively to each person, couple, and family brings a sense of community that I won’t be left on the mountain if a storm comes through.

The vertical might not seem impressive, yet my legs are a true sign that constant lifting up and over rocks for miles has put some marring on my body. That long with my back that screams at the bottom of each trail. The meager stretching I try to do comes to no avail as I climb down into the tent, without my guide, as Hal was always the first to enter, to ward off daemons, ghosts and boogie men, is not around. Lying prone seems to bring the least agony yet after night 7 not even that can diminish the constant drone that my age is catching up with my spirit.

Rain was the least of my problems the last night when a sign posted bear sightings in the campground with large letters asking patrons to put their food away. I couldn’t sleep, no amount of Dermot Healy was going to slow my brain down. I brought bear spray into the tent as my mind relished all the terrible mauling of the past decade. Why wasn’t my deep breathing working? Would the beast give me some warning or simply bounce on me, would he knaw at my head or do they know to go for the jugular? Ever leaf that rustled and there were plenty sprang the body to a sitting position getting ready for the attack.  I eventually rolled up the sleeping bag and got into the car and with back pains twitching with every position I tried to manoeuver into I went back to the tent and slept. Here I thought I had good mind control, nature proved otherwise.

Acadia National Park

A neighbor decided since he was getting up the entire campsite might as well join him. Banging his doors, 5 - 6 - 7, 8 times, then clanging dishes, banging fry pans and mumbling loud enough for all to hear. When I rolled over for the umpteenth time and got up, it was 7:00 that means he had to have started his shaking at about 5:30.

As the eggs were frying another neighbor blew his propane canister and as the temperatures dropped quickly he threw it into the forest……I was surrounded by brilliance. I gave him an extra one I had and they are forever indebted to me. What they don’t know is that it often comes around when least expected.

The trail up Cadillac Mountain was strewn in cairns, weren’t allowed to make your own, as the sign posted many times, yet I must admit the blue stripes on the rocks and trees were welcome company when my legs were going off route in the flat scrub strewn highlands. I got up top along with the masses that had driven, found my oasis to photograph, no panoramic view and started heading down a different direction just for some interest. Upon return in the campground a woman in the adjacent site was painting. What a lovely calming appeal that was to have lunch by. I didn’t disturb her watched from a distance and admired her discipline.

I drove down the highway to Seal Cove, Northern Bay and Southern Bay and ventured a drive along the coast, jumping out of the car every few kilometers to gawk like the rest of the inmates at the fight going on, or in our case the beauty that lay ahead. The juxtaposition between the fishermen and the wealthy that had come here to get away from it all was quite unique. I ventured down to numerous harbor and watched the men load their catch onto trucks and turn my head to look at a 5000 square foot home. It all seems so odd, I wondered if those that come 3 times a year have ever been to the wharf and chatted with these men, and know of their lives.

Returning to the campsite in dark and disliking the flavor of my dinner. I ventured over to my neighbors who were in the midst of boiling 3 lobsters, baking corn on the fire and fixing up the fancy meal for a campsite. “Here taste the Riesling we bought and have some lobster.” I declined on both but sat with them for 2 evening of laughter. I’d never tossed my head back so many times in times in laughter and when 10 o’clock came around, quiet hours, our laughter  only got louder. We discussed everything under the moon about marriage, religion and law. They had 3 girls and one of them named Catherine, was on her 6 child. They laughed in utter wonderment, why would anyone have 6 kids.  Not enough alcohol if you ask me, or they must be Mormon, Catholic, or Muslim, none of them fit the bill.

Sleep came easy each night, the last night I’d stayed in town to meet some artists. No I have no connections, it was Art Walk Night, and some of the patrons had invited me for wine and cheese chez Michelle. It was glorious to meet the real deal rather than their compatriots. Many of them claimed to have moved from the big cities to this community to practise their arts and they supported one another.

 

USA - sounds big as it looks

The Great Blue Heron that had evaded my lens was standing patiently as I drove by and pulled over. I decided to forgo the camera, just observe. I’ve never seen an animal move so smoothly, patiently choosing with poise each step, then piercing the ocean to capture its contents, a fish.

I left without waking with fog and clouds shrouding the light, it felt earlier than it was. Elsie saw me showering, I waved and then thought, how bazaar. Blinkers I just realized I left my nighty. The miles melted away once I’d found the route for St. John. Lush forests of red, auburn, yellow, orange, burgundy, saffron, and gold yelled for your attention in front of the evergreens, jealous as all get up. I wanted to pull over so many times, but cars, lack of curb appeal, and the running gauge and time kept me peddle to the meddle. My innards were shaken by the brilliance of their hues. They can’t be real, they aren’t real, and no photo can possibly do justice. A revolt should be held so all Canadians can take time off work in October to see these forests. We’ll follow the Chinese, take up the banner, I don’t know if Canadians can do it without rioting, 100,000 of us on parliament hill?

St. John’s was a luge ride, twisting, winding roads to enter its gates. Then a huge drop off with 3 cruise ships in harbor, along with barges, cruisers, and yachts on this grey day. Just when my eyes want to divert to the scenery the road zips up a steep incline and jets you back onto the freeway past mills and lumber yards.

I was surprised by the distance, from one end of New Brunswick to the other, by the time I hit the border I was done. My arse was killing me, the onslaught of questions was laughable, she was one bored customs officer, and the price of gas, 25 cents less a gallon 5 miles down the road but everyone comes across to fill up…I’d been had.

I can lump all the American’s together, professional to Dunkin Donut servers, munchkin’s. Love em all, they are simple folk, happy folk, and just down right pleasant to be around.

Thought I would relax on the coastal route like I’d done in Nova Scotia, then the miles, hours and exhaustion came on about 2:30. The coastal route which was covered in trees and no views of the ocean was wearing me out. I reached Bar Harbor with the other 2000 Yanks and couldn’t believe my time alone was truly done. Hal and I had spent virtually 2 months on deserted roads. This was my fear, concern, plight, consternation and angst, what to do with all them others.

I fought through the throngs in Bar Harbor and kept driving to the Acadia National Park at the bottom of the peninsula. “3 camps sites left” the blonde says calmly as he starts punching in numbers in the computer. I wanted to kiss him, my heart doesn’t skip a beat for the first time in an hour. I set up tent and want to sleep, but my backsides needs a rest so I walk, along the coast admiring what else… the trees.  

Now sitting in my car writing this ditty because darkness comes early, the bugs are still a pest even in the cold temperatures, there are no shelters, no showers, and as I look around the entire campsite looks like night bugs aglow, everyone is sitting reading in their netted tent or playing cards, few are having fires and everyone is in bed at 7:59. What am I to do, the battery is going to die. Off to bed to read yet another glorious chapter of Dermot Healy – Sudden Times – a must read for the Irish in all of us.

 

Friends

Friends – 10 minute poem to be continued

When there is no more, you cut to the core….

That what friends do. When the roses fade.

I’ll remember you.

 

You see through fear, tear,

say little to none

yet stay by  my side when times are wrong.

I’ll remember you.

 

You are true blue

There are none like you

Make tears of joy

I’ll remember you

 

Dear sweet friend

I have thought ill of you

Yet God brings shows me truth

I’ll remember you

 

Seeing your sight, brings vision

Where blindness lingered.

I’ll remember you

 

 

Peggy's Cove

Highway 333 was a familiar road to far too many foreigners during the Air Swiss Tragedy. Pulling over to take photos of small inland waters with sail boats, fishing vessels, lobster and crab traps all came to an end when I came upon the site. Stunted spruce with mere boughs etched northward away from the storms at sea, low lying shrubs didn’t dare to grow too high for fear of being attacked by the climes, and the fog that hadn’t lifted left a desolate chill. I was by myself reading the large stone blocks erected to thank the men and women of Peggy’s Cove for their tireless efforts to reach the air craft 11 km. off shore and to care for the families that came to see where their loved ones had died.  To think it could have made an emergency landing yet needed to dump fuel and didn’t make it back to land. Tens of people are still haunted by the experience of what they found in the far off waters. We pray God will bring them Peace of mind, heart and soul.

I had no right to feel what was washing over me but it came, perhaps age, gives us perspective that life isn’t infinite, and that once a human is gone, there is no replacement.  We move on but their gift to each of us lives on only in memory. I text my family back home to feel connected.

The tight winding road heavily shrouded with trees gave way to the open ocean down the road about 10 km. Washing billowed on the lines, a patch quilt of colored homes, several art shops, always a church, and a B and B made up the one kilometer twisting, turning road. I met Fred fixing his netting by his boat. He chatted, I listened, and his dog barked...incessantly, I left.  Sitting on a bench I admired this tiny hamlet of 20 homes in peace for some time. THEN….without notice, like I deserved so sort of announcement, not one, not two, not three, but 9 buses assaulted my tranquillity.

What it is, with the wind at my back, and the sails at my front, I looked out to the tubby boat transferring customers from Dartmouth to Halifax, when I looked yonder, I saw three ships come sailing, come sailing in, come sailing in. I saw three cruise ships come sailing, come sailing in in the morning. Like Putin, without a real invitation they simply impart their ways until he leaves. Point Pleasant Park, Pier shops, restaurants, the Bishops landing, and plenty of space to rest, roam, run and yes, dance along the wharf that stretches to the naval docks km. away. Up and down the streets I clamored to the Clock tower, Central Square, the Trade Center, Civil …., the Cathedrals, to Dalhousie and St. Anne’s University, and lastly to the Hydrostone where the explosion of 1917 brought a somber end to my day.

Expecting a historical site, a park, something, I entered a yarn shop and asked about the history and was given a pamphlet about the explosion. A few placards exist but nothing to say that thousands died, thousands more lost their sight and that it was the largest know disaster in Canada. The boutiques, restaurants, cafes, book and gift shop along with the infamous Starbucks have replaced the existing area….is that progress?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Northern Hospitality

What do you say when someone cleans your car inside and out without you knowing it. There is no recourse, no comeback, the deed is done and your left gob smacked silly in gratitude. A break after camping allowed me to see another side of Cape Breton, the lazy morning visiting friends for hours at the local café and sitting, coffee in hand, watching the yachts come and go in Baddeck. My body ached to move yet my mind was valuing these precious moments, listening with absolutely no agenda and not in control of what laid ahead in the day. What most westerners forget, myself included, is that easterners and more poignantly Maritimers have perfected the sport of friendship. A sense of belonging, having purpose and value, knowing if one blunders and mistakes are made, there is someone there without advice or judgements.

We rolled from one back road to another visiting friends, dangling our toes in different waters of the Bras D’or Lake and for me learning about my friends back home, what really went on in their youth hood. What really got me going was coming back to Big Bras D’or changing into my swimsuit and yelping quietly as our bodies pushed against the currents and weeds. Never having masters the gift of plunging into cold waters, I waddled back and forth on each proceeding rock until my belly, and then like a scared child reaching out to his mother my body squirmed into the liquid. Once in, confidence soars, as if I was born with gills, except if sea weed touched me, we swam up current and floated back down several times watching ships pass by. Dinner was late, conversation was great, and I told to head to Glace Bay.

It wasn’t at its best the day I didn’t see Glace Bay. Sheets of rain whipped at my windshield while tree branches feel onto the highway and byways, forcing the semi in front of me off the road, and I followed suit. My gut was wrenched with knots and what I could see of the harbor was bleak. I thought to wait it out and ran into a café, soaked to the bone within 15 ft. Never having experienced this before, I thought hard about asking Hal to move to this part of the country that I have so yearned to return to. Lush landscape, wondrous harbors and colorful yachts, ships, and fishing vessels were not to be seen. What I could see clearly were ships being flung to and fro damaging hulls in the protected harbor. What would Halifax bring?

Hal had buddies from his young adulthood that permitted me to grace them, and it didn’t take long for stories to evolve, divulge, that my husband party and drinking habits have diminished from his past. The virtuous, religious, conscientious man, has altered his state. Blessed with honesty, integrity and humor the Button’s relished my appetite. The husband was originally from the Rock and his father used to send him pork scrunching’s and salted cod, and the story goes that few and far would partake in this delicacy, but Hal was in there licking his fingers. Kindness and generosity radiate from their home and I thank them for allowing me to learn. Halifax was a marvelous gift.

I was also blessed to visit my parent’s friends and learn of their lives, then and now. Moving from childhood memories to new marriages, their work, loves, fears and joys. A lunch at Saltie’s delighted our palates and my ears. I feel very honoured to have met new friends and old.

 

 

 

 

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.