Miramichi Pumped Up

A four way stop led me 50 ft. to Barry simply to ask for 2 locals. He was a recovering drug and alcoholic, and he laid it on. I got his life story in 11 minutes, then the history of the town in about 9.  I turned on the gas to give a hint, but I felt God saying, hold up, he’s got some yarn to tell you. God was in his 12 step plan along with his yearning for intelligence. “This is what crack addicts crave once they recover, knowledge, intellect and maybe a relationship. I am working with young men now that need my direction. Guidance I get from God." I was pumped up. Don't we do the same thing everyday at work.

The Canadian Country books found on coffee table are made in New Brunswick. I thought Quebec had beauty until I got lost on purpose and went inland away from the blue ocean, farmed oysters and cemeteries overlooking the inlets, dotted with cottages, vineyard, long grasses shading sand dunes,  blueberry farms and grey herrings.

No photos can do justice, to hues of mauve, pink and pumpkin cotton candy clouds softening the early evening sunlight. Undulating roads rising and falling 200 meters with barley, wheat and grass rolling down in  perfectly kept maintained farms to the shores of the river inlet coming from Bouctouche or heading upwards to the highlands in shades of iridescent lime. The cerulean waters rippling gently pulling the landscape to completion. I couldn't pull over there were no stores, no gas stations, my mind couldn't absorb the splendor. I was awestruck, spellbound and know Alice didn’t have it that good, in Wonderland.

Ever met a sucker, your reading her palms right now. A photo and a write up in N.B. magazine got me to Miramichi, the locals and back roads kept me there. Numerous small communities make up this wonder. I drove into Chathem this morning full of anticipation. The BMO was broken and the market I’d so anticipated with bountiful cornucopia of vegetables was 5 stalls strong and a young guitarist, still warming up at 11:00. I walked up and down the river looking for something, anything to hang onto because the 7 shops in town weren't rocking my boat. I crossed the river to Newcastle and met Jenny, a local walking home, who told me her history of the town in 25 minutes.

With a Timmy’s in hand she spoke of her childhood days when 5 mills worked the river, pointing 50 ft. from where we stood to the bridge that used to raise to allow the large ships to travel upstream 5 kilometers for lumber. The Finnish company that bought all the mills had no tolerance for disputes, when the workers went on strike in the 1990's, they dismantled all five mills within one year. Lumber and fisheries are infamous world over here for their progressive techniques of the time. We covered politics, education, economics, and problems with what we are doing with the Natives. We should have been in Charlottetown this week-end assisting the premiers. I ambled down to the historic park, made up of plaques and four shops, all veering on closure for the season. I returned to the Basilica twice, it was that magnificent and then visited all four Cathedral in all four quadrants. Sitting in each I felt the absolute power of God or the caffeine from my first coffee in a week. I couldn’t leave, there was something pulling me to climb another street.

There was Kate and Larry, almost waiting for my arrival, a couple married at St. Patrick’s Cathedral in Nelson, one of the four towns, that made up Miramichu. He a nurse, she a teacher and their home, which overlooked 2 acres of cemetery leading down to the church. What the heck was I doing living in Calgary. How long would it be for me to realize, small town is my gig and the more French the better. They took me on an allegorical tour of their town, both growing up in different sectors. I felt so blessed to be listening to their narratives, this trip that began so poorly was turning into a historical rich venture, not even google could match this.

I left them and ventured to Douglastown and then to Nelson where I learned the local history.
Long prior to European settlement, the Miramichi region was home to members of the Mi'kmaq first nation. For the Mi'kmaq, Beaubears Island, at the junction of the Northwest and Main Southwest branches of the Miramichi River was a natural meeting point. The Miramichi became part of the French colony of Acadia, about 1648, Nicolas Deny, Sieur de Fronsac, established a fort and trading post, Fort Fronsac. In 1757 French general, Charles, Deschamps de Boishébert et de Raffetot brought hundreds of French refugees to establish a camp, on Beaubears Island and Wilson Point. The Expulsion of the Acadians. You can visit the island to view the history of the rich ship building that existed for centuries in the area. Perhaps this explains the Acadians fervency to preserve their heritage.

My mind was reaching its threshold, with enough energy to visit a winery en route home. 25 years ago I cycled through France picking grapes in Bordeaux for 2 season and meeting Francoise etc. Here was Serge, a duplicate, and his wife Denise Maury, a Frenchman and a local Acadian who met in Greece and lived part time in Bouctouche, N.B. and part time in France, and made wine from grapes, blueberries, strawberries and elderberries. It was like meeting an old friends, they poured, I drank, with conversations flowing from family affairs, to local life, their journey, the Acadian community, to living in the poorest province? If this was poor, they needed a reality check, most roads were smoother than a babies bottom and homes far larger than in Quebec, but that was earned under the table Serge said on the sly. This was feeling all to familiar to B.C. 

“Kathryn we have camping for customers that drink too much, they can dine with us and rest the night.” What a grand idea, as I took my sips gingerly knowing my bed was miles away. Cycling in France was magical for me, friends met me throughout Europe and we sought out “Camping a la Ferme” which translates to camping on a small farm. I sought out families that offered this experience, to become part of their appendage for a night or two. Within an hour the three of us had become friend. I sauntered through the vineyard with a glass in hand feeling so absolutely grand. They guaranteed me work on their farm if I ever needed a day of labor. They both have worked at the University agricultural sector and invite people to experience WOOFING - you work 4 hours a day for room and board and get the afternoons off. Okay Hal I think I found the job for the winter.

 

Going It Alone

What is she thinking, perhaps her mind was temporarily suspended in the cloud, no not that one, the other one that truly exist, the one you see, you feel it when it rains. Just came back from town feeling out, in, sideways, upside down, and backwards all at one. Her best pal has flown into chaos at home with a leaking pipe. Her sister’s house flooded yesterday, is there any synchronization out there.  

Seated at the kitchen table listening to the fridge grown, bump, burp, acting like a man, without the farts. She is certain pack racks have moved in and goes outside to check the side of the house.

Books are comfort, so the library is the obvious choice to seek shelter in 28 degree. Cookbooks, of course, none in the house, the colorful creations bring hope. Dvd’s for a girl that might watch 3 movies a year is a big stretch. The oldies and goodies that have long been yanked off the shelves are here – Sideways – Driving Miss Daily and a French favorite, along with 3 novels that are a little deeper than – Eat, Pray, Love she started and finished last night at 4:00 am., when she couldn’t sleep.

Filling wholes like sealing holes on a leaky bottle that only 10 digits can fill before you’re out of luck. Her heart craves knowing, being with someone that knows her every move, mood, living without judgement. A gulf, an abyss the size of China divides them. Her head is just above the water level breathing in rasps, unhinged from its unit.  Yet, she imagines his eyes lighting up when he watches the sun set holding hands, eating lobster with a hammer, jumping into frigid waters, and sipping cream ale stout. That’s what keeps her going, a knowing of a harmonious love that is never changing.

Laundry hung on a line, floors and dishes washed by hand, and buying fresh vegetables at the markets. Feeling so absolutely appreciative for an experience of a lifetime, and the people who made it happen.  Giving up morning coffee, beer and Hal’s favorite’s cheezies, and feeling like a rogue wave has hit her on day one. Meeting local on evening walk that yearn to tell you their story.

Marcel a man of 5’2” was so honoured to tell us about his life and that of his father that when we asked to photograph his old gas pumps, he gave us a tour of a garage that is 40 yrs. old, that has been moved three times on the same property. Every licence plate in N.B. since 1940 is hung on an overhead beam along with all provincial one, in every color imaginable. A rainbow of color illuminates the jukebox – it was in pristine condition exuding crystal sound melodies that only vinyl records can produce. White flower gas signs with 4 original pumps, cream yellow, ranging in age up to 60 years old adorn the corners of the garage. Every inch of each wall is strew with faultless memorabilia from the past. And of course the babes selling premium oil, as Marcel calls her the Guard, stands over all operations, and looking like she has had a few herself. Then he tells us of the history of the town.

Why he asks the government allows Jamaicans to come in, they invited them because they claim the locals were not taking the jobs at the fish factories, and the smoking plants. They do seem unfamiliar in a predominately white town, to think about it she feels out of place too. His arms reach up and show the shores, the multitude of boats that used to graze these waters, and now this wharf is down to 5 boats. “My father and I used to peel muscles from the rock not far from here, then everyone came, out fished them, and the American’s that won’t buy our lobster at $3.50 a lbs., no they won’t go higher than $2.50. Meanwhile her mind is reeling, $2.50, anywhere out west it would be $12.00 to $25.00 and that isn’t in a restaurant. He calms himself down as he sees his wife on the nearby porch listening, she will return with camera in hand.

 

Webbed Feet

We were at odds with one another and I was the cause. I wanted him to go before he had to so I could figure out if this was going to work, while he was here, ask him questions, directions, whether he thought my ideas were crazy. Was this all wrong, walking along the pathway that was named – The Coastal route – in the Bay of Fundy, seeing more wood than anything I had ever experienced out west. Three layers of green canopy engulfed us with moss, grass, leaves, needles, shrubs and evergreens. Whirling through ideas, what to purchase, what to photograph, being slept deprived, holding on to let go, was replacing my immediate joy with sheer, raw, unprocessed fear.

Beauty had long since left my eyes, the wondrous windy road to Fundy is filled with magic. Quaint town hosting historical trains, planes and automobiles, even a St. Hubert which had eluded us thus far, and tourist’s shops hosting Acadian flags, and everything red, white, and blue of the region. Cinnamon Soul Café captured my heart, in all the angst I was feeling the word soul, soothed out what Bridget Jones called the bubbly bits we all hang onto. Besides cinnamon spice conjures - steaming rolls in the morning, dashes in Indian meals to sweeten them, sprinkles on your cocoa,  muesli, and of course on a latte.

Scents of ocean salt we had become accustomed to were now acerbic on my nose. Hal bounced along the trails admiring the long grasses, like mermaids hair wrapped around rocks submerged in the water. Red wet soil coated our feet as we waded out for a kilometers into a low tidal pool towards the opening of the ocean. Hal walked barefoot, a $200.00 massage for free. Webbed feet would have enticed me any other day, today I needed the reassurance of dry, stability, a pillar to lean on. These red waters travels for hundreds of kilometers up into Moncton tidal pools, famous for the height differences that occur daily. Words fight in my head and I pressed to remain quiet.

 

 

Cap Pele - Mere Observations

You might think The French (Acadians) and English mix like oil and vinegar, yet here, life is truly serene. We were minutes late for church this morning when I couldn’t help but notice the men at the back, making small talk, not listening to a word of the Lord, nor the priest and dictating a spot for us to sit in. I felt like inviting them to sit with their wives at the front of the church, but I digress. The priest’s message read in French was vibrant, yet looking around, there were no kids, no laughter, no life, 60 was the mean age, and they looked it too. The priest spoke of his journey, like that of Paul, and all of us, the roads both rocky and smooth that we venture in life. I felt an immediate connection to him. We were in and out in 47 minutes, the parking lot was empty in 6, we timed it while swatting mosquitos that had entered the car and got our blood. They must have been waiting for church to get out to attack, like the unwed women to the bridal bouquet.

The eight building in town made up the village of Cap Pele. The library is my only connection to books, and the outside world, other than the fact the internet doesn’t really work, I feel like I am on the scene of the Beverly Hill Billie’s. What does work is CBC radio at the cabin, and I am hooked on. The Best of (As This Happens) was on and we were riveted with yesterday's story.  A Canadian man in his mid-twenties, proceeds to explain how he was stung on his scrotum by a bee, and from this experience he decided to research which body part actually hurts most when stung by a bee for a 1 min. period. You know where this is going. Yes, the commentator couldn’t seem to get off his penis, asking why and how, and where exactly on the penis he choose to insert the bee’s proboscis. She even asked him if he was circumcised and would the foreskin have to be pulled back or not? She was incessant, or perhaps incestuous.  Hal and I were in stiches laughing as the man patiently moved through all organs of the skin giving detailed accounts of the pain in each area. It is actually the thin layer of skin between our nostrils that is most painful, for most of you that are still visualizing the male genitals. 

The local entertainment was going strong at the municipal park last night as Hal and I got out of our car and sat on the benches alone. Rock, country, country and more French and English country was sang, never knew the Acadians were country folk. The dumbfounding part was 90% of the people sat in their car as if at a drive in theater and listened from the comforts of their car. We couldn’t believe it, for over an hour they sat cramped in backseats and front seats with windows rolled down, cranking their heads instead of walking a mere 15 feet to front row seats. These were people between 20- 60 yrs. old, those 80 and up were seated on park benches singing and clapping with us. My heart went out to the couple on stage and Hal clapped extra loud for those too lazy to do so. Although our legs were moving to the music, I wasn’t brave enough to dance in front of the crowd, as Hal might have been. I looked over at this wondrous man and tears welled up knowing I wouldn’t be holding his hand at events like these and the thought of going it alone was making less sense by the moment. It is truly amazing the depth of appreciation one has for another when separated. Blessing the time together has never been so poignant to me.

Saying goodbuy to the Gaspe

Hal sipped on a cream ale, savoring the last microbrewery of the Gaspe Peninsula. Heaviness set in as we began to realize his time was winding down. The mind plays tricks trying to appreciate the moment, breathing in the pungent scents as the ocean floor ebbs outward leaving raw remnants that didn’t escape out to sea. Our hands are held tight as my stomach clenches under the anticipation of a great adventure ahead and the reality that not all is aligned with the moon.

Green dots indicate scenic route. Quebec has won our award for best roads, picnic spots, clean toilets, hiking trails with appropriate signage, food choice prices (except for gas) friendly people, historic sights, diversity, romantic accents and ocean front campsites with wifi and gazebo’s that shelters us from the rain. It’s the simple things that become our beckons, the lighthouses all 11 of them on route, kept the car dodging onto back roads, our camera zooming, our feet plodding through red mud, sweeping through tall reeds, and taking on the Atlantic wind, simply to view buildings that has long been vacated yet holds such a allure, to those that love the sea.

Martin Sullivan was waiting for us with drinks in hand. Before our feet hit the ground he was up to his antics giving us the wrong address and having to redirect us past Frank McKenna home, 3 doors down, who wasn’t going to be hosting us. He was attending to heavy hitters putting out $500.00 a plate for some political dinner. Marty toured us down to his swimming hole, up onto red sandstone bluffs, along numerous paths through forests to watch blue herons at his father in laws home. Introductions to all neighbors and local dogs on right a ways, as he called them, which led us back to another ocean spot to watch the sun glide into the ocean. In silence we stood for a long moment realizing his heart was sinking at the thought of leaving too.

A Mixing of Cultures

They came in, like a wave of noise, chatting, yakking, nattering and their numbers were strong. I immediately closed it feeling my heart rate increase. Then another family came in to our space speaking English of all things, a Caucasian gaggle. After finally converting to French, how could they. Hal and I sat down and prayed and the cacophony grew. The tension was palatable forcing ourselves to enjoy the bounty of the ocean. Eyes were darting from table to table. One of the men was furious about something, the son about 20, was trying to draw his attention to lower his voice. Two Asian women cooked dinner for the mass, silently plunging greens and thinly cut meat into a single brassier within half an hour a wondrous smell filled the large hut where we were huddled in to avoid the deluge. One of the fathers prayed and the silence that followed was glorious. We prayed too and smiled at the faces of the children who looked on for approval. It just proves what a smile can do.

Riverie aux Renard had the café, to close all others. Tucked behind a corner grocer a multi texture, orange colored room invited you to sit on any of the cushioned chairs not one matching, a mixture from her travels abroad for 3 years. Tens of painting, pictures and drawing uniquely framed led down a corridor and blocks of wood hanging about 3 inches square with faded photos of animals hung in a mosaic below several goat antlers. Then Madeline appeared, her smile warmed your heart prior to her hands welcoming us into her café. We gingerly stepped in asking if it was okay that we drank only a café. “Qui, bein qui, vein, prend us chase. Her youthful bounce into the kitchen gave us time settle in and look at the coffee menu. She was the perfect waiter, prying only enough to make sure your experience is what you expected and more. Her eyes light up a conversation asking how to pronounce English words and how to say certain words. Delighted to assist her, we found out she had resided in Banff and travelled much of the world in 3 years. The clothe hanging from the ceiling lamps was from Nepal, and India. The snail shells in the canning jars were local, yet the spices she used in the coffee, only with requests were from Asian and even the Orient. Then she spoke of University and her years there, she looked about 22. Satiated is not the word to describe how we left, having reached the end and yearning no more is.

The gently warn trail we followed along the coastal route to the Cape Gaspe Lighthouse and Lands Ends exceeded my expectations. Ocean waves crashing onto the shore below eroding the sedimentary rock that lay sideways my heart could be nowhere else. I have rarely thought to ask if he feels the same when we hike, but there is a sensations, like drugs that moves one foot in front of the other. A history engulfs us passing heritage home of families that have staked out terrain in any of the bays, it is called “Les Graves.” The last 100 straight up meets our eyes with a little amazement, we push onto to the oldest lighthouse and reach the end of the Gaspésie. 

 

 

The Scent of an Ocean on sensitive lips.

Our nostrils flared, our lips curled, all the while tears welling up in our eyes, inadvertently. Few things in the world are as nasty as the ocean bottom when more life has been beaten against the rocks and innards spewed as far as the eyes could see. Hal and I ran back to the car and locked the doors, blocking all smells from entering right, It took another 15 minutes to rid the smell from our old factory nerve yet in our minds it lingers today. Days later in N.B. standing in line at the bank several fish factory workers came in and that same smell rushed back into my mind like tossed salad. I fled the line and ran outside until they vacated the bank, image, 12 hours of that every day, never complain about your co-words bio.

If they won't have beach let them drink wine. Tucked away into the hills secluded from view was an Italian winery. 440 years old, this family has lived in these areas, the last Italian of the original families that came over in the 1700 century, and you think you look old. This winery couldn't boast of wine, since the Quebec government confiscated all their bottles from last year. They were over the limit of importing grapes from outside the region. Protecting or Prospering? Hard to know, as there are no grapes to be exchanged in the region so what do vineyards like this do, that can't grow enough. We were the first to arrive so the curator snuck us samples, then a full glass, it was divine, I would have bought a case. Instead  of wine an Italian grocery market was set up in the seller, where they were sampling, 4 types of extra virgins that olive oil must be hard to find now a days,  8 selections of balsamic vinegar mixed with essence of lemons, pimentos, almonds, and aged from 8-20 years. Olives, bright green rounds to soft black ones that melted on your tongue. An olive paste of tapenade that Hal was devouring one slice banquette smeared with a heaping helping, it was intended to be eaten delicately, slowly and savored, what to do with the uncivilized, laugh and run away. We came on empty stomachs and left laughing in the heavy rain.

Later on in the day Hal was now accustomed to having a second café, and his delicate lips couldn't fathom the lids many of the cafe's offered. He began decreasing his expectation of the coffee if the lids didn't match his expectation. I looked at his lips as we drove away wondered how truly hard life must be for him.