50 AMP VISION QUEST

The Bay of Fundy 

The entrance to the Atlantic or Maritime Provinces of Canada for us lies just north of the border with Maine.  The crossing is at Calais, Maine into St Steven, New Brunswick, both small towns.  Towing Tank, our Jeep, we went through the customary inquisition during our turn at the international turnstile.  I’m unsure what exactly caused it, but the border guards decided to search our motor home and Jeep.  Instructed to pull over to the side where all 57’ of our motorcade could be inspected, two security guards came out of a concrete bunker style building complete with bullet-proof vests on and hand guns in their holsters.  We were instructed to exit the vehicle while they conducted a fairly complete search.  I heard a crashing sound as one of the guards opened a cabinet that contained some CD’s.  Having shifted during the drive up to the border, they came crashing down on to the driver’s seat and on to the floor.  There they sat until we were given permission to continue on our way, ok to explore Canada.  I suppose the whole ordeal took about a half an hour.  We wondered to each other as we motored through the streets of St Steven what gave the border guard reason to detain us?  Was it a look in my eyes she picked up on that said check this guy out?  Was it something I said in answer to her stream of questions?  Was it just a random exercise that they perform on every 10 RV’s?  Who knows, but we passed the audition. 

Our first stop was Fundy National Park.  This entire bay, Fundy, is world renowned for having the highest tidal swings on the planet.  We began to experience these massive tidal swings in northeastern Maine, but they were to only increase as we ventured north into the Bay.  Fundy National Park is set amongst steep hills that fall into the Atlantic below.  The little town of Alma, NB catches the National Park at water’s edge and serves as the outpost for the folks who want a little bit of civilization with their Park experience.  Alma is tiny, though.  There, in town, you can surely feast on seafood, Lobster primarily.  Pick out your own and cook it back at camp or have it served up to you...almost any way you want to get it you can get your lobster right off the boat.  How about a lobster, bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich?  They got it in Alma. 

One afternoon we checked out the 5 or 6 little restaurants that operate in Alma and chose the one we thought looked most authentic.  Our choice was right on the ocean, the beach as it were, the Alma Lobster Shop.  No fancy moniker needed, this place calls itself exactly what it is.  This rocky and boulder strewn beach could be walked on during low tide while at high tide it was under a good 20 feet of ocean.  We sat on its edge and literally feasted on a $90.00 serving of Lobster, Shrimp, Mussels, Clams, Scallops, corn on the cob, potatoes and Lord knows what else that I cannot quite recall right now.  What I do recall is how fresh and exquisite the food was.  Here we were, sitting outside on a wooden picnic table eating a feast fit for kings and queens, watching the tide literally fall before our eyes.  As we have so often, we thanked the Good Lord above for his grace and benevolence on our travels. 

On another afternoon we stopped in at one of the other local restaurants that happened to have a hotel attached, or perhaps it was the other way around.  Nonetheless, this time we went for the Clam Chowder.  I can say without equivocation that they served the absolute best chowder I have ever tasted, bar none, full stop, period.  I believe it was called the Alma Boathouse Restaurant.  I have a feeling that all the little eateries in Alma serve wonderfully prepared food.  You simply cannot source the seafood any fresher.  The fishing boats that deliver the seafood lie at anchor just yards away.  In fact, The Alma Lobster Shop sends out its own boat.  They own it.  They find it, they catch it, they bring it in, and they cook it.  It’s been an eternity since we actually went to the store to buy Lobster so I can’t compare prices here to what I might be used to paying but an average 1 ½ pounder would set you back about $26.00.  That’s buying it live right off the boat.  You might also pay around $26.00 or more for a prepared Lobster Roll on the bun.  It ain’t cheap even here where they catch the critters. 

In Alma Harbor the Lobster and fishing boats have to go to special extremes to tie up.  They can only leave during high tides as the sea recedes so much that the boats are literally left high and dry during low tides.  The captains have to maneuver their boats on to special blocks when they tie up so that when the tide leaves they don’t roll over on the dry land.  That, is a sight to see...the boats high and dry up on blocks one hour and floating the next. 

Fundy National Park lives up to its hype, its designation as a National Park.  It’s a wondrous place, set amongst the hills and ravines that dive into the ocean.  Several streams flow out of the park and empty into the bay and they make for superior hiking along their banks.  The most famous of these is called Dickson Falls, and, as the name indicates, the little stream

 

In Alma Harbor the Lobster and fishing boats have to go to special extremes to tie up. They can only leave during high tides as the sea recedes so much that the boats are literally left high and dry during low tides. The captains have to maneuver their boats on to special blocks when they tie up so that when the tide leaves they don’t roll over on the dry land. That, is a sight to see...the boats high and dry up on blocks one hour and floating the next.

Fundy National Park lives up to its hype, its designation as a National Park. It’s a wondrous place, set amongst the hills and ravines that dive into the ocean.  Several streams flow out of the park and empty into the bay and they make for superior hiking along their banks.  The most famous of these is called Dickson Falls, and, as the name indicates, the little stream produces a number of nice waterfalls that you can experience as the rivulet pulses and dives through the heavy canopy of trees overhead.  There are other hikes that trace along the bluffs overlooking the sea.  Even if the temperatures rise to the 80’s, the cool ocean breezes that are a near constant here offer you the most perfect balance of sun and temperature.  Forsaking any notion of conformity I planted myself on a bluff near the parking lot of the swimming pool ( Yes, there is a solar heated swimming pool in the park! ) and got out my guitar and played for an hour or so, Diane obliging me.  Such inspiration for me… A few other campers who were bound for the pool stopped and lingered for a while.  I was grateful no one complained about my playing.  Folks from all over the world come here and we met a few and conversed in one form or another of English between songs that I played. As Mark Twain once said, and I may be paraphrasing here, 

“ Travel is a sure cure for prejudice.” 

A bluff on the edge of a parking lot in such a place with guitar in hand will bring out the curious.  Music is truly the international language when words unknown fail to be heard.  We all know it in our hearts whether it beats in 4/4, three quarter time, 2/4, 5/4, or no time signature at all.  It unites us in joy or sorrow, stark or surreal, somber or ethereal tones. 

There are many hikes or trails here in Fundy.  Some follow the bluffs along the coast and are rugged even for the healthily fit.  Some others delve deep into the deep green forest alive with diversity.  One that we chose to make took us deep into a ravine where small waterfalls cascaded.  Dickson Falls is located along this hike and its one of the treasures of the Park.  Soon after embarking on the hike, not long after you enter a deep forest, you begin a sharp descent into the verdant coastal forest.  Stairs lead you down, down, and down again into the ravine.  You begin to notice that the forest changes as you dive deeper.  The earth becomes carpeted with mosses and ferns in shades of rich, deep green unseen where the sun shines in full.  Shafts of sunlight that break through the canopy of trees carry a slight fog upward as the moisture in the ravine evaporates in the warming of the day.  The sounds of the forest give way to the music of the water as it courses over rocks and roots along its way to the series of little waterfalls at the bottom of the ravine.  Moisture fills your nostrils carrying the divine earthen tones of things alive and flourishing.  Here, you feel most alive.  Here, you feel most a part and piece of this planet.  Here, you can feel the Creator’s presence most profoundly.  To deny that Spirit would be a lie. 

A short distance from the Dickson Falls Trail you can drive down to a covered bridge that spans the mouth of a small river that empties into the Bay.  Stopping near the bridge and walking about is a treat.  The bridge itself is a gem.  Its subdued cardinal red paint contrasts with the green hillsides that lead down to it.  The bridge is offset a tad.  One portal is higher than the other so that it slants just slightly uphill or downhill depending on how you enter.  The cross beams inside reveal the size of the trees that this place can produce when left to grow.  Below in the river the remains of an old wooden trestle lie on the river bank.  The wooden supports lie stacked like a Jenga puzzle growing greener each day with moss.  As the river rounds a bend a few hundred yards downstream it disappears from sight yet you can hear the waves of the Bay greeting the freshwater as it returns to its larger Atlantic home, the mother of us all.  Light from the reflection off the vast Bay floods the vista, again, in contrast to the darker earth tones of the forest upriver.  We stood there for a while reverently without speaking.  You want to take it all in, but in truth you cannot.  But, if you can spirit away some small bit of this experience in your soul you are the better for it. 

Our campground in Fundy National Park was a fine one.  We always prefer government land to set up camp on. Given space is more ample than RV parks for sure.  This one is no exception.  We had a decent amount of privacy in our site and the ambient sounds of the other campers was minimal.  The international flavor of the Park’s visitors carried over to the campground we were in.  French, the second most popular language here, was highly evident.  German could be heard now and again as could Mandarin (guessing here), and other languages that sounded Eastern European to my ears.  It must be a challenge for the Camp Ground hosts here to communicate with the campers.  We began to notice more and more, and reminded each other on how clean the folks here in Canada are.  Where we would pick up so much trash off the ground in Arizona through our daily routines, here there is nary a speck of trash.  Serious dedication to recycling is very evident wherever we go in Canada thus far.  Different color trash bags are used universally to indicate just what kind of refuse you are depositing.  Clear blue for recyclables, for instance.  Separate trash cans are spread out for different kinds of trash:  Recyclables, compostables, garbage, clean paper, cardboard...it’s all supposed to be separated and collected apart from each other to make the best future use of.  I gotta say, the Canadians are miles ahead of Americans on preserving the environment.  Nor did I hear anyone complaining about how trash is dealt with here.  It’s remarkable to us.

Hopewell Cape 

The iconic place to go here in the Bay of Fundy is Hopewell Cape.  A short drive north from the National Park through gorgeous farmland and forest it lies.  Small hamlets appear every few miles where neat and tidy homes, some a hundred years old and more, are gathered.  Arriving at Hopewell you begin to feel the huge appeal this place has for folks from all over the world.  We saw a couple of tour buses pull up and empty out their seniors. We arrived before noon and were able to park without too much trouble, it being a weekday as well.  They tell you when you pay for your admission ticket that it is good for two days.  That’s in case you have to leave before seeing the tide at both high and low tides.  To do so in one day would obviously require a good 6-8 hours.  We timed our visit to coincide with low tide.  That’s the most dramatic effect here, though renting a kayak and paddling around the coast during high tide when all the previously dry sights are under 30-50 feet of water was a serious consideration for us. 

Hopewell Cape, or Hopewell Rocks as most people refer to it, is a place that is difficult to believe.  You don’t want to trust your eyes as you have never seen anything like it.  The ocean’s edge is a long bluff some 100 feet high, give or take, from the sea bed below at low tide.  Over the thousands and thousands of years since the ice sheet has melted the sea has carved all sorts of caves in the bluff below.  Statues of ocean sculpted stone stand in defiance of the returning waves, some 50 feet tall or more.  It’s an other worldly place that is, in fact, a reminder of how remarkable our world really is.  Steep steps or a gradually descending walkway both lead to the ocean floor below.  At absolute low tide the ocean recedes several hundred yards away from the shoreline. Closest to the ocean is floor of the seabed is a muddy trap that a few kids revel in stomping around in while their parents scream at them to get out of the mud.  Fifty yards or so closest to the bluff you can walk about on solid ground damp with salty water but without mud.  You trail along the bluffs for a quarter mile or so and marvel at the spectacle of pillars of rock that during high tide are hidden away.  Caves that you can explore at low tide are full of cross-currents and totally submerged during high tide. 

Along the ocean floor we walked and marveled.  Heidi and Dash were in tow with us and they even seemed perplexed and excited by the prospect of being here.  I’m certain that the smells of the fresh sea floor were overwhelming their senses as they sniffed their ways through the now dry underwater caves and pillars.  You know you’re in a very unique place when you hear many different languages being spoken and few people look like you.  That is part of the marvel of Hopewell, too.  The power of the place unites us as people, as humans. Everyone shares in the wonder and comes from all over the planet to witness the Earth and the Moon dance to gravity’s mysterious magic. 

How can this be? How can the ocean do this?  Why does the ocean do this?  Why here?  The questions that fill your mind and you expound on to those around you pour forth in amazement.  Saying that this place defies your sense of reality is an understatement.  Yet, it is most real.  It is a place where the power of physics and gravity can be seen in its most operatic setting.  As in seeing the Grand Canyon, Yellowstone, or Yosemite, perhaps even Crater National Park, the over-sized drama of the place overwhelms.  It stays with you in a primordial way. You leave with more questions than answers.

Prince Edward Island 

Long about the 6th of August we trundled ourselves in our roving Conestoga, Nell, off to Prince Edward Island. The drive across New Brunswick to the bridge that connects the island to NB is serene and relaxing.  Gentle hills undulate up and away from the highway, green with mid-summer fullness.  The temperatures these days are nearly perfect, mid-70’s to perhaps 82 degrees or so, though up here they measure in Celsius.  I’ve got a grasp on the kilometer thing but the Celsius math eludes me so far.  The highway, as are most roads in Canada, is in fine shape without the monster potholes we’ve battled through Michigan and New England.  Approaching PEI you either must ferry in or cross a long 8 mile bridge to reach it.  We chose the bridge as our means.  Such an engineering marvel this bridge is, and the Islanders are quite proud of it.  Going into PEI the bridge is free of charge, but returning is another matter.  Days later when we left PEI we had to pay something like $65 Canadian to cross the same bridge.  I wanted to take the ferry to leave simply to try something different but there had been a fire on one of the ferries and they were backed up for weeks with reservations.  I can’t quite figure out the charge for leaving and not for arriving,  I wonder if it has something to do with the two Provinces, one capitalizing on the travel while the other doesn’t? 

I couldn’t find availability at any Provincial or National Parks in PEI so we chose to stay at a private campground called Twin Shores.  Good choice it was.  Typically, I try to plan out where we are going and reserve places ahead of time.  These days on this long summer’s trip I am not.  Diane persuaded me to play it by ear so to speak, leaving things to the wind and the wisp of fortune.  Twin Shores presented itself just that way. 

We drove north across the Island for an hour or so.  The roads were almost all two-lane ribbons traipsing along through some of the most perfectly ordered farmlands interrupted now and then by small towns.  Potatoes seem to be planted everywhere we turned.  The familiar corn fields of the Midwest were ne’er to be seen here.  The potato plants have little blooming flowers on them and present a really pleasing scene as they roll off over small hills and vales away from the roads.  Potatoes are a big deal here.  These folks are extremely proud of their potatoes.  They love to serve them in every restaurant we visited, often covering them in a thick brown gravy and cheese curds.  They call this stomach-stretching dish, Poutine.  Me, I don’t care much for it.  It’s way to heavy for me to eat as a side dish.  Maybe as a main dish I could do it.  Don’t get me wrong.  The PEI potatoes are something different and special.  I loved them.  They are more dense than your Idaho variety and they take longer to cook, but they are really special.  We bought several bags of them during our time here.  You ask yourself, when was the last time you considered potatoes special? 

Twin Shores is a massive complex.  It straddles a small peninsula and features two beaches, one with red sand, one with white-gray sand.  The red sand beach is not very good for swimming and such as it’s somewhat muddy while the beach itself is only a few yards wide.  The other beach is divine, however.  One of the big draws to the National Park just down the street is their beach and we did visit there one day.  But, I must say that the beach at Twin Shores is much better.  It’s wider, longer, and is not as crowded as the National Park beach.  Now, when I say beach you automatically think swimming, right?  When I say Prince Edward Island you have to remember that I am talking about the North Atlantic. (Think Titanic) This water, this ocean, should be frigid, right?  Who’s going to swim in it, especially when the air temps are in the high 70’s, maybe 82-83 degrees?  Amazingly, it’s not too bad.  Cold...yes.  Swim-able...yes again.  In fact, some of the rivers in Missouri that we float are colder. The Current River, is colder for sure in my estimation.  The Canadians revel in the “warm” water of north PEI. They think they’re in the Caribbean.  Whereas Diane and I would dash into the water, dunk our heads, come up for air, let out a “Whoa” in exclamation, hang in there for a few minutes and then escape to the sand, these Canadians float around in the ocean all day long, oblivious to cold temperature I think. 

The folks at Twin Shores do everything they can think of to provide a complete Summer vacation for their visitors.  Most of the folks who come here seem to come back year after year.  When we finally left after several days the first thing the staff did was ask us if we wanted to reserve next year’s visit.  There are a zillion kids here, riding their bikes all over the place, having a blast.  Teenagers hang out at the ice cream stand all through the early evening.  There are movie nights twice a week.  There are arcade games complete with prizes for collecting winning tickets at the arcade contests.  There is a restaurant with actual good pub food.  There are bikes for rent, even golf carts for rent, which I noticed a lot of families had.  You name it and it seems the good people at Twin Shores have figured out a way to bring it to you.  Oh, did I mention there is a good driving range? 

The grounds are huge and although you are packed into your camping spot pretty tightly, there is a ton of space to wander around and get away from the hustle and bustle.  A walk over to the Red Beach is a good way to get off by your own self for a while.  You can look out over the small bay there and see the Salmon farm out in the ocean.  If memory serves there is an Oyster farm there as well where the small river joins the ocean.  For being such a huge complex with so many folks we really enjoyed our time there.  It is run extremely well and as such is an annual pilgrimage for hundreds, if not thousands of Canadian families.  Lifelong memories are manufactured here. 

As we toured around the countryside we began to notice the churches.  They seem to all be white, wooden, and wonderfully conceived.  Some are grand structures that reach linearly towards Heaven with impossibly steep steeples.  Some are small yet all of them seem to be wooden and white.  I snapped pictures of some of them as they were so pretty to gaze at.  One particular church very near the Twin Shores Campground featured concerts that they called Ceilidh’s (pronounced kailies), a Celtic jam session, or hootenanny so to speak.  Unfortunately, the next one up was after our scheduled departure from the campground.  Ceilidhs began to appear advertised by flyer stuck on telephone poles and shop windows at various meeting halls and churches.  We’ll definitely have to make some of these.  The folks up here in the Maritimes are largely either Celtic, Acadian, or French. PEI is no exception. 

Within about 10 kilometers (6.2 miles) of our campsite is the home place of the famous Anne of Green Gables book.   This book, the main characters, and this location complete with the original house in the story are some kind of national shrine in Canada.   We noticed women and girls from all over the Canadian land come here to see the house and the museum.  They walk around the grounds in awe and wonder and have broad smiles plastered on their countenances.  Some of the young girls who come here buy the straw hat with the red pigtails attached and dance around the grounds pretending to be the principal character in the story, the author.  Other, older girls and women chat it up with each other talking about their favorite scenes in the book and where they came from to get here and how old they were when they read the book and on and on.  Having not read the book we took in the scene like human sponges, amazed at the effect a book can have on young readers.  Our grand daughter, Ella, is an avid reader and we thought she might enjoy the stories so we bought her a copy. Diane actually read it first, being careful not to bend any of the pages, since we have months until we see Ella again.  Diane was certainly piqued by the prospect of reading the book and she pretty much devoured it pronouncing it a great read even at our advanced age. 

Later that afternoon we lit out on what would become a recurring pilgrimage for us in the Maritimes.  Oysters...we craved Oysters.  Not just any old Gulf of Mexico Oysters. Northern Atlantic Oysters were our target, the saltier the better.  Just a bit south of Cavendish still in northern PEI and in a sheltered cove we found a wonderful little restaurant perched on the opposite side of water from the working dock where the oystermen and fisherman set out each day during the season.  They had a lovely outdoor dining area where you could relax in the warming sun, eat and drink, and watch the working boats along with pleasure boats come and go. Lingering here was easy. 

Ah...we found those Oysters, the Holy Grail of ocean delicacies from the bays of the North Atlantic Ocean.  We ordered a dozen to split.  They’re expensive these days.  You’re bound to pay anywhere from $3.00 to $3.50 a piece for them, a far cry more than we used to pay back in the day.  They’re getting scarce.  Even the American Gulf Coast Oysters are getting scarce these days.  But these babies are so worth it.  In an easy effort to really spoil ourselves and satiate our cravings for the treasures we ordered another dozen.  Sweet Angel of Mercy they were so divine!  We treasured each and every one and took forever to finish them off allowing their salty and precious taste to tantalize our taste buds.  These particular Oysters were farmed a mile away along another cove.  From what we can tell, natural oyster beds are not to be had.  Farmed Oysters are what you can find. But, don’t let that dissuade you.  These oystermen know exactly what they are doing.  Every care is taken to ensure the highest quality Oyster is delivered. 

Our mood became even more celebratory as the afternoon advanced and we cast caution and money to the wind.  We now ordered a dish of Mussels with home made bread to dab into the stock.  I thought I may perish right there and then from pure gustational joy.  Even the bread, brought to us just warm enough to let off a little waft of aroma, was sensational.  We made a meal for ourselves from the shellfish appetizers, happy as clams. Oh, did I say clams?  Yeah, I did. We ordered them, too. Now we were high gear and perhaps near salvational death by shellfish.  But, what the heck, you gotta go some way.  I’m here to tell ya, the seafood in northern PEI is killer diller, worth every Canadian dime. 

Finishing our feast, we began to see kids, perhaps 12 and 13 year olds, jumping off the nearby bridge into the cove.  The fall was about 20 feet or so and as each kid made the leap for life they would let out something akin to a Tarzan yell for good measure.  Girls as well as boys made the leap.  There must have been about a dozen of them gathered there.  It did my old heart good to see the kids breaking free and leaping even though I suppose it was a little dangerous.  The tide was going out and the currents underneath the bridge were fairly strong since the water was channelized there.  Nonetheless, off they went, the girls sometimes holding hands with their boyfriends as they cast themselves off into the great thrill of flight.  It so reminded me of the bridge jumpers back in Missouri.  The old steel trusses that cross so many rivers in Missouri often feature the cocky boys of summer daring each other to jump off.  I think so many of these daredevils imagine they are on the cliffs of Acapulco diving for their amazed onlookers and fans.  A few beers may be required to steady the old nerves and some Boondockers may also be needed to protect the feet from the perilous fall.  Yes, many a Missouri boy’s famous last words could well be, 

“Hey dude, watch this!” 

Fortunately today in PEI no last words were uttered.  A splendid time was had by all, including us as we basked in the glory of the just warm enough summer sun content with a fabulous meal. 

I mentioned the well-tended farms in this area, how they were verdant and bountiful in the summer sun.  Even with a short growing season the fields were full of life and reaching, reaching for the sky in full earnest.  Turns out that farmers markets are a big deal in PEI.  So many towns all over the US have the typical farmers market on Saturdays.  Kirkwood, MO where we lived for 30 years, has a good one that opened everyday during the week. But, on this island way up north they are an art form. 

We heard about this particular farmers market in Kensington and decided we would take it in on a Saturday morn.  Oddly, it is not outside, but rather, it is held in a large three story building in downtown Kensington. 90% of the booths are on the first floor, however.  Now, this turns out not to be your typical overblown produce sale. This...is a true farmers market.  Some folks specialize in meats while some feature vegetables grown in this rich island soil.  Exquisitely prepared baked goods, still warm from the oven can be had for a bargain.  Sandwiches are prepared on site, some grilled while others are prepared cold.  You can eat your way to oblivion here before you buy your first potato, which, by the way, you should do.  The potatoes up here are superb.  Dense, super flavorful, they take a bit longer to cook and seem to be more filling than your common Idaho spud.  Who knew you could get excited about potatoes.  Up here it’s serious business. 

Along with all the glorious food presented there are all manner of clothes, jewelery, knife sharpening, gardening implements, pot holders, hats, furs...(whew) for sale.  All of it is high quality, not low-quality “crafty” crap.  This is stuff you can seriously use. 

Diane picked out a load of vegetables that were bright, colorful, full of life and huge.  The tomatoes….have mercy...the tomatoes!  We bought all sorts of home grown food.  We bought steaks.  We bought lamb chops.  We bought bacon, real Canadian bacon.  The meat we bought had such rich taste, so very different from the meat you buy in supermarkets.  Words fail me in describing it.  We relished in the taste as we ate everything fresh without freezing any of it.  Often, we look back on that market and the food we bought and ate and wish we could return for more.  To this day, the blueberries I ate from that market were the best I ever ate in my life. Think about that.  Can you remember the best blueberries you ever tasted? 

Cape Breton 

Taking the long bridge across the bay we made our way east and north to Cape Breton.  This will be as far north as we travel on this journey.  We thought seriously about taking the ferry to Newfoundland but the cost and the time needed to do it right are too much for us right now.  We’ll have to save that trip for later. 

We decided to stop for the night at a Wal Mart, which we sometimes do when making a long drive between points.  We found a Wal Mart in the town of New Glasgow, nearing the unofficial entrance to Cape Breton.  Close at hand is the small harbor town of Pictou.  Here we began to really feel the presence of the Scots in this land.  Of course, New Glasgow, in a name, sort of says it all.  I engaged a man in the parking lot of the Wal Mart who approached me in a most friendly way asking about our motor home.  His accent was truly brogue-ish.  I had heard that the folks up here were very hospitable to travelers and this fella was surely evidence of that attitude. 

We took an afternoon ride over to Pictou on the ocean and found it authentic.  By that I mean that this little town has all the features and feel of an old Canadian harbor town.  Folks work the water here.  Fishing boats are lined up on the pier, each with a name painted on their bow evoking vivid imaginations of their origins.  While the Scots, and to as lesser degree here, the French have made this their new world home, families from India and Pakistan have immigrated here lately.  You see their influence in the food at the restaurants.  Shwarma Chicken seems to be served everywhere.  We picked out an eatery right on the little pier here and had a late lunch/early dinner and fed our growing hunger for Maritime dishes.  The restaurant was definitely Greek to begin with, but gave equal billing to the typical local fare as well as Indian dishes.  Oysters started our meal.  Glorious in their ivory shells, served on a bed of bright green lettuce, they did not disappoint.  We fairly gobbled them down. Haddock sandwiches were served up as well.  I simply love Haddock sandwiches.  Lightly fried with just the right amount of breading, laying in a toasted bun with just the right amount of tartar sauce spread evenly across the bread. ( you must toast the bun ) Whew! 

Leaving the Wal Mart lot early the next morning we pointed Nell northward towards the eastern coast of Cape Breton.  A lot of folks tell us that the western side of the Cape is their favorite, east versus west.  Searching for a place to camp up there was tough, though, and we could only find a vacancy in the National Park at Ingonish. I’m really happy that’s where we landed.  Driving up through Cape Breton on the eastern side is fantastic.  You skirt the northern shore of Bras d’Or Lake, a huge body of water that separates Cape Breton from Nova Scotia proper.  The Lake, so to speak, is narrow at points and wide at others.  Bays and inlets appear around every turn it seems.  Those fortunate enough to have homes along the shore are given the wonderfully ever-changing views this watery paradise. 

Often, the tribals of M’ikmaq First Nation Peoples have communities along here.  Their heritage is celebrated very positively I would say as an outsider looking on.  All of the road signs you encounter and interactive displays in the National Park are given in English, French, and M’iqmak.  All three get equal billing as it were. Mi’kmaq tribal members give presentations regularly at the National Park as well.  I’m unsure how the locals get on with each other here, but it seems that the First Nation folk are given much more appreciative forbearance than you might see in the US. Outside of being on Navajo land in the US Southwest I don’t recall languages of the First Nationals being given attention in America.  The M’ikmaq, or M’ikmaw are actually a confederation of 5 or 6 differently named and slightly separated by land formation sub-tribes who inhabited this peninsula/island when Europeans arrived.  Today, they go by their collective name more often than their original names for themselves such as the Potlotek, the Eskasoni, the Mebertou, and on.  Though I am unsure about this it seems to me that there is a movement by the M’ikmak to maintain their traditions simultaneously while they work mostly side by side with the Europeran descendants here. 

As we made our way ever northward along the eastern coast we began to climb hills, small mountains, really. Vistas of the ocean, often crashing into the bluffs below, began to emerge through the windshield.  The road itself was exhilarating to drive if not a tad challenging.  They call this road once you get into the northern half of the Cape, the Cabot Trail, named for John Cabot, the Italian navigator and explorer whom history tells us was the earliest known European explorer since the Vikings to visit coastal North America in 1497.  Cabot sailed here under British sponsorship from King Henry VII. It was believed at the time of his exploration that men from Bristol, England had been to Cape Breton well before the 1490’s, some historians claiming 1470 as a date. Cabot, being sponsored by the King, made it official.  In 1498 Cabot returned to this area and apparently explored the coast all the way from Newfoundland to Chesapeake Bay.  His whereabouts after 1500 are murky. Some believe that he lived among the First Nation people in Cape Breton while others say he returned to England.  Still others say he died at sea.  What is known is that at least some of his men, missionaries, stayed on in Cape Breton living among the peoples there.  I like to imagine that some of his crew inevitably stayed along the coast with friendly Indians, intermarrying and living as the native peoples did.  Why not?  The land and the sea here was and is bountiful.  Much more so than Europe at the time. 

The campground at Ingonish is very nice.  It’s location is great for making day trips around the area.  Up the coast the Cabot trail continues and there are tons of sites where you can play along the bluffs where the full brunt of the North Atlantic crashes onto the rocks.  There are few beaches per se, but where you do find them you experience unparalleled beauty.  The seafood up here is terrific as well.  Once during a daytrip north along the coast Diane and I diverted down a lonely road off the Cabot Trail that led us to an outpost of sorts, a small RV Camp that also featured a small kitchen that served up Oysters. 

Up near the village of Dingwall, close to the northernmost point of the Cape, this camp, appropriately named, Hideaway Campground, treats campers to not only the delicious solitude of its environs in the steep and wooded hills leading down to the ocean where the Aspy River meets the sea, but also to the salty deliciousness of its own farmed oysters.  The owner and his stoic, Scottish wife farm their own Oysters right there in the Aspy River estuary.  If there are a half dozen other folk living out there in that area I’d be surprised.  For two bucks a piece you are served the most wondrous Oysters ever.  Right now, prices for Oysters up and down the coast are in the $3-$3.50 per Oyster range.  Diane and I savored not one, but two dozen of the prizes that afternoon while Diane sipped some nice local white wine.  We lazied around with the owners of the Park and talked about all sorts of stuff while we feasted.  What a great afternoon.  If and when we come back to this part of the world, THIS will be where we park ourselves. 

One afternoon Diane and I hiked out along a trail that followed the ridge of a mountainous peninsula that jutted out perhaps two miles into the sea.  It is a well-traveled trail that begins and ends at the huge lodge at the National Park in Ingonish Beach, just a few miles south of our campground.  I’ve stated before in these missives that this hike or that hike was among the very best I’ve taken.  Well, once again I’m going to repeat that oft said line of mine.  This hike is among some of the best I’ve taken!  Throughout the hike you traipse along high bluffs overlooking the ocean.  Being a peninsula you are given all sorts of overviews of the mountainous land behind you and and the bays framing the Atlantic’s restlessness.  Once at the end of the hike, 2 miles in, the trail stops at the end of the peninsula and you can sit for hours if you like to watch the tide come in or recede while it froths and foams over the rocky cliffs below.  The power of the spot is undeniable and fills your spirit.  You literally have to pull yourself away to return all the while regretting your decision to do so.  When you encounter parts of the world’s majesty such as this your mind naturally turns to grand thoughts spiritually led...your place in the Universe, your relationship with the planet, with God, with your loved ones.  We felt spiritually fed and tended to after this jaunty hike.  Writing of it feeds my spirit once again. 

There are several if not many whale-watching outfits up here all along both the eastern and western coasts.  We have been dying to see some whales so we embarked on a tour operating out of Ingonish Beach one evening near sunset.  Setting off in a rubber Zodiac raft/boat with a 150 HP motor we left the calm waters of the Bay and made our way along the shore of Big Smoky, the tall mountain that shelters the southern edge of Ingonish Beach.  It is so named due to the fog that encircles it a lot of the time.  We saw Eagles nesting and flying over head and we got closer to some seals bobbing in the waves closer to shore.  Some of them were relaxing as the Sun was beginning to set over the mountain.  The Sea was relatively calm that evening but we bobbed up and down over the waves for two hours nonetheless.  It was a grand boat ride, yet we saw no sign of Whales.  I think they have already begun to head south for the Winter.  The fellow who captained the ride told us they had not seen any the day before either. Disappointed that we didn’t see the Cetaceans up close and personal we still had a great time of it.  The scenery and the Atlantic were awesome to experience in this Zodiac.  I want to mention the color of the ocean here.  The water is generally very, very clear and you can see deeply into it.  Yet, the color when you look at it in its entirety is the most deep green/gray, a color I’ve seldom if ever seen in the wild.  It draws you in, it’s that immersively and deeply colored.  I simply love the tone, the color.  The white foam gathering where the waves occur, set against that green/gray tone is mesmerizing.  When you add the atmosphere of the Atlantic that surrounds you; the smell of the sea brought on by breezes born in Africa and brushing over the mighty granite of the cliffs and bluffs here, perfumed by salt and all manner of sea life, the laughing of the gulls overhead, the humidity of the fog that has begun rolling towards us, and the warmth of your loved one sitting close by in the rocking arches of the waves, it seems impossible that a moment could be more emblematic of the joy of, indeed, even the power of, living on this little blue planet. 

One of the primary aspects of our travel here and certainly one of the things I have anticipated the most is the prospect of hearing some great Celtic music.  Folks here hold dearly to their traditional ways and music is paramount among those folkways.  Cape Breton is truly home to some of the best Celtic music in the world due in large part to the talent and dedication of its musicians.  The MacMaster family is chief among the accomplished musicians who make up the scene.  Natalie MacMaster has toured the world with her fiddle and dancing enchanting everyone along the way.  However, there must be at least a dozen other MacMaster musicians in the clan as I see them posted on bills stapled to telephone poles and bulletin boards. 

On a trip to the eastern side of the Cape where the Celtic music is more or less centered, in the towns of Cheticamp and Margaree Harbor, and Inverness, these accomplished musicians play in the pubs and restaurants and public houses.  We drove over to the eastern side on the Cabot Trail, the only road connecting both sides of the Cape.  I searched and searched for places and times when we might catch their performances but time and again we seemed to be in the right place and the wrong time.  In Cheticamp one of the MacMaster clan was scheduled to play that night in a local pub but on that particular day we had to return back to the motor home to tend to the dogs.  Asking around town about the musicians we were told time and again that we either just missed a performance or that one was scheduled after we were to leave the area.  Timing is everything in music.  Back on the western side of the Cape in Ingonish Beach the National Park has a grand lodge set up along the rocky coast near the trailhead of the hike along the peninsula I spoke about earlier.  We caught wind of a musician who was to perform there one night so we booked it on over there so as to catch an earful of good music.  AS it turned out the gentleman was a folk singer/ guitarist who mixed popular tunes with some Cape Breton favorites.  He was good, sure, with a brogue off his tongue that could charm a serpent.  But...he wasn’t a fiddle player.  We would have to wait for another opportunity to get our fill of authentic Celtic music. 

Returning to the Cabot Trail several times during our stay at the National Park we enjoyed so much of what the land had to offer.  There is a lush and thunderous waterfall that we took a short hike to in the misty rain.  Beulach Ban Falls is its name.  A poem is written on a fading wooden sign near the trailhead to the Falls, barely legible as its type succumbs to rain and ice, yet I could make it out.

The Return 

In a world that's always knowing 

In a place that’s far away 

A boy decided he was going 

And left at break of day. 

He left behind huge cedar trees 

He crossed the dusty fields 

Made his way through city streets 

Full of yells and screeching wheels. 

He walked on through the frozen land 

And crossed the Miramichi 

Right by the beaches of red sand 

With scarcely a glance went he. 

Onto the mainland’s rocky shore 

By the light of the evening moon 

He crossed the causeway’s stoney core 

Whistling a bagpipe tune 

Through vale and forest he then strode 

Crossed bridges all alone 

Following John Cabot’s road 

The hills would take him home. 

And finally he slowed and stopped 

A tired and weary man 

By where the highland’s waters drop 

At a place called Beulach Ban.

We understand why the wayward wanderer would stop here. We should, too, but for the sights yet unseen and the adventures yet to come that lure us on. To arrive here at this time and place we experienced:

• Crossing the Cape from west to east on the Cabot Trail, midpoint along the road, we reached our northernmost point of this Summer’s adventure. Coming all the way from Texas, Johnson City and Pedernales Falls to be exact. 
• Meeting the Gulf of Mexico at Corpus Christi, following the Gulf through eastern Texas, Louisiana, Mississippi, and Florida to Jacksonville on its eastern shore.
• Trailing the Atlantic along the coasts of Georgia, South and North Carolina. 
• Meeting the Appalachians near their southern terminus and making our way northward along its ridges and valleys to West Virginia. 
• Bearing north through Ohio to Michigan and Lake Huron’s shore through Canada’s southern border along Lake Erie’s fertile northern banks. 
• Crossing back into the US at Niagara Falls and climbing and diving through the Adirondaks, the Green and the White Mountains. 
• Bisecting Maine to reach the granite shores of the Atlantic with innumerable bays and inlets and hickory tough towns of the coastline. 
• Crossing the border once again into Canada at New Brunswick and witnessing the highest tides on planet Earth. 
• Crossing the eight mile long bridge and finding our way to the northernmost point of Prince Edward Island’s fertile farmland and bucolic beaches. 
• Running the isthmus between New Brunswick and Cape Breton to climb the mountains on its eastern shores where the Atlantic crashes and pushes the continent’s flank, ever-changing. 

Winding along this inspiring two-lane roadway climbing and diving through the Appalachian’s true northern terminus until we reach a plateau, a leveling of the mountains just north of a giant rift in the land that has been torn by tectonic plates as they drift ever so slowly apart.  It is here where our journey this year reaches its northern apex and we begin heading back southward again, eventually landing in old St Louis for a time and then on back to Texas at Austin to volunteer camp host for the winter and early Spring of 2023.  This is as far north as we will go on this chapter of the 50 Amp Vision Quest. 

At this point a thousand feet higher than the shoreline of Cape Breton we came to a barren, a place mostly devoid of trees save for the scrubby small evergreens that punctuate the wetland.  The soil is so very shallow, almost non-existent here. Water from the frequent rain and mists gathers on the granite floor to form large pools and narrow creeks.  Many of the Cape’s creeks and the small rivers claim this spot as their headwater.  Springs add to the creeks as they cascade down the sides of the hills until they reach their meetings with the Atlantic ocean.  From that meeting of waters their cycle begins yet again in the endless dance of this planet.  The music plays on. 

The National Park Service has built a wooden walkway around this barren so that you can see it without damaging it.  Maybe it is a third of a mile long in its circular pattern.  The walk lends itself to contemplation naturally.  The serenity of the place is near spiritual, at least on this day when so few travelers are here in the mist to experience its nature.  Diane and I are mostly quiet here. We read the numerous interpretive signs that detail the plants and interaction of all things natural here.  Diane, naturally, is most interested in the plants and the sparse yet colorful flowers that are blooming yet in Summer’s late sun. 

At some point along the way we turn to each other and remind ourselves how fortunate we are to be able to do what we do, to see what we see, and to be with each other to share such a time late in our lives.  Surely and for certain God has blessed our way together undeserved as we are, flawed as we are.  All the challenges, the struggles to make it his far in our lives, evaporates as the mist and fog do at midday.  We have this moment.  We always have had just this moment.  We know it.  Maybe on another day we will venture further north, perhaps to Newfoundland or hopefully to Alaska.  From this point, for a while, we will turn and head southward, ever so gradually and leisurely, back to our old homeland of St Louis.  There family and friends are hopefully happy to see us again.  We will be happy to see them most assuredly.  But that reunion is still some weeks and miles down the road. 

Southbound to Sidney 

In months and years past we have both planned and plotted our trips reserving campsites ahead of time as well as simply played them by ear, meaning, travel and stay as we go.  It makes me a little nervous to simply go without a place lined up in advance to stay.  Diane is totally comfortable with it.  I should be more like Diane in that regard...well, in many regards, actually, but with that said we lit out from our base of operations in Cape Breton at the Highlands National Park and headed south along the rocky coast towards Sidney.  The road is so much fun to travel as you climb and fall through heavily forested land.  Boulders as large as houses lay about as they have been set there by retreating glaciers tens of thousands of years ago.  It’s hard to fathom an ice sheet carrying these massive rocks but that’s what happened.  Rather than fight nature some folks have simply incorporated them into their landscapes, even their homes.  

Small towns appear and disappear behind us as we slow down our caravan while passing through them.  As we draw near to Bras d’Or, that grand “lake” that separates Cape Breton from Nova Scotia proper, we pass through several villages and settlements of First Nation M’ikmaw tribes.  They are prevalent here and mostly live together though it seems they are assimilated into the greater culture in a lot of ways.  In Canada we’ve noticed that the government seems to pay a lot of attention to First Nation peoples.  Road signs, for example, are printed here in English, French, and M’ikmaw.  Try printing road signs in Texas in Commanche or Pawnee.  I don’t think it would go over too well.  Nonetheless, here it at least appears that First Nation folks are somewhat appreciated if not at least tolerated, far different than our experiences about White/Tribal interactions in the western US states. 

We drove along the northern shore of Bras d’Or Lake for a while and finally crossed over where the Lake narrows making a bridge possible if not more economical.  We began to descend gradually towards Sidney on the eastern banks of Nova Scotia.  The weather, though cloudy at times and a tad windy, is near perfect, 65 to 75 degrees with overnight lows in the 50’s.  I took a quick look at weather in the US and being mid-August I can’t help but feel badly about the massive heat events that are taking hold there.  Anyone who still believes that climate change is fake news doesn’t have their head screwed on right.  The fisherman and Lobster men we talk to all tell us the ocean is warming up.  The Lobsters are heading for deeper, colder water these days.  Ocean plants, like Kelp, are growing thicker and thicker in their respective sea forests.  Seals are more prevalent than ever before as the water temps are more comfortable for them. 

We worry so much for our grandkids and their future.  Throughout my years I have donated a lot of money to environmental groups to help their efforts in my small way but until everyone takes it upon themselves to make a changes in the ways we live I’m afraid the inexorable march towards planet change will keep moving, like those retreating glaciers so long ago. 

Here, in Canada, the government has instituted changes towards that end that we can see from our limited perspective as we travel through the country.  For example, plastic bags at grocery stores are a thing of the past...gone, good riddance.  Waste is separated into categories with different bags for each type of waste.  Blue bags for recyclables, clear bags for trash, another kind for compostable, etc.  Everyone does it as far as I can tell.  No one complains, at least out loud that I can hear.  They just do it.  Attitudinally, the Canadians are more in tune with complying on natural issues.  Look for trash along the roads, which we do because we do as lot of trash picking in our little volunteer roles.  None, zero, zilch, nada.  The roads are clean as a whistle here. 

The US government, any government for that matter, can institute changes generally that can help ameliorate the climate problems.  They should.  They should have back in the 1970’s when we first figured out the climate was changing.  For goodness sake, President Carter put solar panels on the white house back in ‘76 as an example of what we needed to do.  But, the people’s attitudes and actions must change radically now, too.  Until that happens the climate issues will only get worse.  We hate that our grandkids and their kids might not be able to experience the beauty of the world as we have been blessed to do.  We are happy to see that the US Senate and Congress have passed the President’s measure on fighting inflation.  In that broad measure there is a lot of money designated to fight climate change, creating new jobs in that sector as well.  It’s not enough, not by a long shot. If you ask me, each and everyone of us is going to have to somehow kick in money, time, initiative, and compliance to turn this problem around.  There is no time left.  There can be no delay.  We either follow science and change our behaviors now in they way that we must or I’m afraid the planet is going to make life nearly unbearable for our children and grandchildren, and their children.  Nothing is more important now for all of us as people.  The planet is changing for the worse right before our very eyes. 

Ok, enough of that. But, I don’t apologize for my rant. 

Back to Sydney, Nova Scotia, August 15, 2022.  While I was driving southbound Diane looked up places we could camp or park near Sydney so we could visit there.  Mira River Provincial Park emerged on our radar.  We found a campsite there fairly easily and it was not crowded in the least.  Mira River is a pretty park set in the woods along the banks of a broad river that meets the sea down near Sydney, a scant 10 miles or so away.  The sites here are spacious with nearly full grown forest surrounding the place.  It’s quiet and peaceful, however there are no electric amenities so we needed to run our generator at times to keep our food from spoiling.  We were in a good location to strike out and see what Sydney had to offer.  Funny thing, though.  There were warnings in the park not to get into the water to go swimming due to Blue/Green Algae detected in the water there.  This was brought on by the water becoming unduly warm during the heat of Summer.  It would seem that this global warming is affecting the environment even way up north here. 

Our first foray into the local scene was go on a Puffin Tour.  We motored back to Bras d’Or lake near its northern mouth with the Atlantic, again, on the eastern flank of Nova Scotia.  Gathering around 7:30 AM at the dock we dressed in layers as it was still chilly out and we knew that out on the ocean it would be cooler.  As we boarded the converted fishing vessel we eased into our seats and lifted the old glass windows in their ancient wooden frames from the their fastenings and stowed them so they wouldn’t break or get in anyone’s way while under steam.  Now, we could feel and fully sense the sea, as well as see better.  A very experienced Captain was at the controls easily maneuvering us through the channel and out to the islands where the Puffins hung out. Amazingly, not 5 minutes into our boat ride, a Bald Eagle swooped to within 20 yards of us and scooped a fish right off the surface of the sea.  I actually caught it on my camera on video.  I saw it coming.  I saw the Eagle circle and start to dive.  The video, like the live event, is pretty magical. 

The woman who owns the tour company took control of a mic and regaled us with stories of the area’s history and natural features while she gave us lessons on Puffinry.  As we approached the very small islands where all the birds lived she would point out the Puffins so we could follow them.  They are shy birds and quite small.  I had thought they were going to be much larger, say, like a Penguin.  No, they are smaller than a Robin these Atlantic Puffins.  But, their colors are large to say the least.  The tour owner told us that Puffins spend their entire lives on the water only leaving the ocean to nest and hatch their young.  They poke holes in the rock of the island with their beaks and make their nests in there.  After birth and in just a few days, when the chicks can fly, the mother Puffin simply leaves the chicks to fend for themselves.  Somehow by nature’s design they fall into the water and figure everything out that they are supposed to do.  I was amazed at how fast they can fly.  They’re little bullets they are. 

On out on the small islands there was quite a lot of other life as well.  Gannets, which we had never seen before, were pretty prevalent.  All manner of Gulls were laughing and cackling as they flew overhead thinking we might throw some bits of food out for them.  Seals bobbed in the water close to the Island.  Some basked on the rocks soaking in the sun.  One unfortunate seal lay on the rocks with a huge gash in its side, the victim of a shark attack.  Along with the seals who have lately been increasing here due to the warmer water come Great White Sharks.  This poor fellow must have met up with one who undoubtedly attacked from beneath.  That’s the Great White’s style of attack, swoop up from the depths below as the seals are looking up.  It was a sad sight to see, this poor seal with the gash in its side.  He may have died since we last saw him.  The wound looked very serious.  But, that’s the way it is our here...eat or get eaten. 

Making our way back to the dock the current in the ocean had reversed itself and was flowing strongly the opposite direction as when we left.  An old fisherman in overalls and a red and black checkered shirt stared out at the water, as if he could see the fish beneath the surface.  He cast his rod with three feather lures out as far as he could and jerked the rod, reeling it back up between each jerking motion.  He brought his rod and line all the way back to the dock and sure enough, two Mackerel were on.  Flipping them casually off the line and into a 5 gallon bucket in one motion, he cast again as far as he could out into the current. 

"Canada high tide, ya know.” he wistfully said as glanced over at me.  He knew I was watching his style and how he went about his fishing. 

“ Yeah?” I said in a questioning way. 

“That’s when you catch ‘em.  High tide.  No sense fishing for Mackerel any other time out here.” he replied. 

“I didn’t know that, thanks for the tip” says I. 

“High tide...the smaller fish are in the water then, stirred up in the current.  The Mackerel know that and they come out for dinner.”  says he with perfect sense about it. 

So, we talked a little while longer.  Nothing in particular and everything in general. 

I know how to fish for Mackerel now.  I know what a Puffin really looks like and how fast they can fly.  I know how a Seal gets attacked by Sharks, and I know a little bit more about Nova Scotia. 

I might have mentioned earlier that Diane and I, throughout our travels up the eastern seaboard and into Canada, search out fresh seafood.  We love it so and getting to eat it so fresh, right out of the sea is a real treat. We caught wind of a little restaurant in Sydney, a small unassuming place on the waterfront next to the dock where the ferries set out for Newfoundland.  The area, the neighborhood, is classic waterfront with docks and boats getting repaired and in dry dock, and the smell of fish and salt aromatically lingering in the breeze.  It was as if we were in an ocean humidor.  The neighborhood is diverse, folks of all manner of origin out and about working, playing, eating, living. 

The name of the little restaurant is “The Lobster Pound”.  As advertised by word of mouth they serve fantastic meals there.  Oysters, of course, were on our minds, along with, for me, a seafood pasta dish that crossed the border unto Heaven.  Angels figuratively sang as I relished the meal.  Diane’s meal was just as extraordinary, being a Salmon fillet from local waters.  An aspect of this restaurant that caught our attention was the decorations they concocted from sea glass.  We were amazed at how much sea glass they had collected and how perfectly it suited the room where we dined.  If somehow you are in Sydney docks on a warm and breezy summer night, take a meal at the Lobster Pound.  If I ever get the chance, I will return for sure, for sure. 

South of Sydney, perhaps 20 miles or so, is the now sleepy village of Louisburg.  However, it was once a bustling town with a fort that protected the French interests in the New World Not much goes on in Louisbourg now.  There is a dandy little farmer’s market on Saturdays with maybe a dozen stalls.  We met a young woman from the Czech Republic who sold some jewelry at the market.  Her main concern in life at this stage was helping to stop human trafficking.  She told of her involvement and told us stories of some of the women she had helped.  She told us that Nova Scotia was a hotbed for the disgusting business.  It made our hearts ache.  It’s an amazing aspect of traveling as we do it.  You walk into a farmer’s market in a little town in Nova Scotia and you meet a woman totally dedicated to curbing and stopping human trafficking.  You are touched ever so deeply. Meeting all the wonderful people that we have over these 4 ½ years on the road, vagabonds as we are, is the thing that we didn’t anticipate fully.  Surely there are monsters in the world disguised as humans, but there are so many, many more who restore your faith in humanity. 

Fortress Louisbourg 

Out on the edge of town, surrounded by rocky shoreline, lay the reconstructed period Fortress Louisbourg.  The Canadian government invested heavily to recreate this fortified town to period exactness, circa 1713.  Due to its location being so advantageous for fishing the M’iqmaw originally had a permanent village here for quite some time antecedent to the French arrival.  Once the French began settling here other Europeans to a lesser degree followed, participating in the lucrative trades to be found.  Some were sailors, some servants, some freed slaves.  Among them were Africans, Irish, German, and Basque peoples, not to mention the M’iqmaw. Louisbourg was an French fort with a strong international flavor.  Louisbourg is the largest historical recreation in North America.  I implore you.  If your travels ever take you near here you must make time to explore this place. Give yourself at least half a day if not a full day for it. 

Louisbourg is not just a recreation of a fortress.  Villagers, military, crafts-people, cooks, tribals...all the roles and people who filled the day to day life of the early 1700’s at the Fortress are present and accounted for in full period and role perfect costume.  The sensory experiences are exhilarating.  The sounds of the farm animals. The blasts of cannon fire that occur with regularity signaling to the townsfolk that important time-lines throughout the day have been reached.  The smell and ambiance of open hearth fires and salty sea breezes mix amicably. Townsfolk converse in French to each other but revert to English (mostly) when they address you.  The construction of the buildings and fortifications is so exact you find yourself exploring every nook and cranny to find nuance in the utilitarian way in which it is constructed.  You become immersed in the culture of the time, more so than any other historical recreation we’ve seen, save perhaps Williamsburg, VA.  I like Fortress Louisbourg better, however. 

The French and English, primarily, were struggling against each other for control and possession of the New World in the 1700’s.  Never mind that First Nation tribes had lived on the continent seemingly forever. Louisbourg was a former fishing outpost for the French, a small village, and it was fortified and manned by soldiers in 1713, intended to be the first line of defense for French settlement inland.  There are some inherent weaknesses in its location which ultimately led to its downfall at the hands of British colonialists from far south not once but twice.  It was constructed so as to defend against naval attack.  However, high ground lies outside the fort and land based attacks were easily directed at the Fortress.  In both 1745 and 1758 the English overtook the French here and eventually tore the fortress down reducing it to rubble.  You can still see the actual remains of some of the original Fortress.  But, for the 45 years it stood and the townsfolk and soldiers lived together Louisbourg was a busy, almost cosmopolitan outpost. 

Diane and I arrived in the afternoon here one Friday on a beautiful and warm day, perfect for walking around and exploring.  The vistas up and down the narrow streets of the town really give you the sense that you are in a French settlement.  Some buildings are humble wooden structures where shopkeepers and fishermen lived. Others are stately and ornately, architectural masterworks built from the ample surrounding forest and rocks from along the coast.  The costumed characters mill about doing their daily chores and duties as if you really are in early 1700 Cape Breton.  We couldn’t help but snap photo after photo of the buildings and the townsfolk as we explored.  Fortress Louisbourg is not a Disney-esque conceived reconstruction.  There are no endless aisles of souvenirs to bring home with you.  The concept and the execution of the French New World circa 1740 are near perfect.  The blasting of the cannons is pretty cool, too, if truth be told here by me. 

Now, on the day we visited Louisbourg it just happened to be Canadian National Acadian Day.  We, being ever so deep in Acadian Country, were in the right place at the right time for some high quality musical entertainment. That evening there was a concert planned in the Fortress with several groups of musicians.  Naturally, we took advantage of our good luck.  Racing back to our motor home around 5:00 PM to take care of Dash and Heidi, we beat a retreat back to the Fortress in time to catch the concert which began at 7:00 PM.  The sun was now below the tree line of the surrounding forest.  The sidelong angle of the setting Sun cast the most elegant shades of gold upon the sides of the buildings in the town.  Strong, angled shadows reached out from the corners of the homes and shops.  It was one of those moments that you wish you could bottle up and save for those days down the road when you need some inspiration in your life. 

There were 5 groups performing that evening, each with a different slant on Acadian music.  To kick off the show there was a group of 20 something year olds who blended the traditions of the old style with their original songs. They were energetic and their rhythm was very strong.  Their fiddle player was no slouch and he tastefully blended the bluesy Pentatonic scales with the triplet infused reels of old-school Acadian melodies.  They sang is very good harmonies led by a young lady who sang lead rather hauntingly in her stylings. 

Next up was a threesome who song authentic songs from the days gone by accompanied only by acoustic guitar, and that sparingly.  Even after all these centuries the melodies of these old songs fill our soul with joy to hear.  Some lamentingly sad, others effusively upbeat, the group did a great job of raising the spirits of the old days through their authentic music.  At the end of their part of the show a local dance school brought their girls out to step dance to their finale.  Throughout the show at intervals these girls came out in full costume (looked Celtic to me, but I’m not the style expert) and danced various routines to the music.  It was delightful.  Everyone clapped in time along with the musicians and dancers.  Happiness personified ruled the evening.  Now, straight ahead, I’m certain that Scottish and even some Irish styles were part of the evening’s music even though it was National Acadian Day, and as such, a day dedicated to the French who were run out of Canada by the British. Yes, the old French songs were prevalent throughout, but often the more recent blendings of Celtic and French melodies prevailed as well.  You will find that throughout Cape Breton.  Those cultures and peoples whom once were such vapid and strident opponents on the battlefield have almost lost all their vindictiveness towards each. 

A great example of this new cultural blend of styles is perfectly stylized in the playing of one Ashley MacIsaac, fiddler par excellence.  Mr MacIsaac is a world-renown player of traditional fiddle tunes.  However, when I say traditional, I have to point out that to the strict traditionalist he is an anomaly.  Oh, Mr MacIsaac can play and does play straight ahead tunes the way they were handed down for hundreds of years.  He knows them all, I think.  But, when he gets midway through a tune he often improvises on the melody.  The melody and tune may turn rock and roll for some measures, or blues infused, or skip from Irish to French, and then Cajun accented. He’s as veritable stew of styles he is.  Some of the fiddlers up here, the MacMaster clan for one, dance when they play.  Often, their dancing is as good as their fiddling.  Mr MacIsaac can as well.  More often, though, he will bend is knees as if they are made of rubber, bend forward and rock back in forth with the motion of his extravagant bowing.  He’s a sight to see as well as hear.  He’s the whole enchilada.  Being of Scottish descent Mr MacIsaac made it a point to address the crowd and let them know his full appreciation of the Acadiana.  I heard him speak on the mic in French to them, or maybe it was an Acadian version of French, I’m not sure.  At one point as he introduced a trio of Scottish fiddle tunes he said to the crowd, 

“ Now, I’m going to play some Scottish tunes for ya that I played when I performed for the Queen down in Halifax.  But, I don’t want you to get mad at me.  This is your all’s day and I love that.  I got nothing but total respect for my Acadian brothers and sisters.  So, forgive me for this little intrusion of Scottish tunes, but I just gotta play ‘em.” 

The crowd loved it and I saw the folks around me who spoke French nodding their approval. 

The finale of the concert featured all the acts on stage at once along with the dancers as they played the long version of an old French tune.  This brought us all to our feet, clapping in perfect time in support.  What a great night of music. 

As we slowly walked back through the streets of the village all the lights from the stage faded and we were out there on these ancient French streets with the approving stars in the dark night. 

Halifax, Nova Scotia 

At this point in our Canadian Maritime journey we have abandoned any pretense of planning where we will camp in advance of our travel.  We very roughly have ideas where we will head after each successive stop now. Diane likes the vagabond’s way of spontaneity.  Now, in my later years I have become more of a planner whereas when I was younger I favored Diane’s notion of devil may care travel.  I think I must have changed during all my years of corporate work structure, endless spreadsheets and the like.  Heck, I still keep a detailed spreadsheet of all our expenses.  But the truth of it is I’m deep down a random kind of a guy.

So, I said all that to say this...our next stop was Halifax, NS.  This was the first big city we have seen in quite some time, though big is a relative term here.  We’ve heard from folks up here that Halifax is a great city, very diverse and very much a port city on the North Atlantic.  We were totally intrigued by the idea of coming here. Cultural immersion in the local scenes is very high on our list of travel to-do’s.  Halifax seems like just the perfect place to get us some of that culture.  We hitched up Tank, our Jeep, and off we drove south over rolling hills to Laurie Provincial Park.  I was able to find a campsite here fairly easily.  Laurie is a nice place, nothing really unique to speak of, clean, quiet, adequate, affordable.  We didn’t plan on hanging around the Park much so we didn’t need it to be much more than a good and safe place.  It was that. 

Halifax fits the bill in terms of being diverse.  All sorts of folks seem to be out walking around downtown.  It feels very international here and we heard several different languages being spoken by folks on the street.  We saw a cruise ship pulling into port and perhaps some of the folks out walking were on that ship, now out for a stroll.  You won’t find a forest of high rises here in Halifax.  Four, five, six stories is pretty much the vertical push.  There are loads of boutiques and even more restaurants downtown. 

Diane reminded me that way back in the day I had an offer to come to Halifax and work.  It was right after Sight and Sound Distributors closed its doors and my 15 years there came to an end.  I needed to reinvent myself and find good work to support the family.  I was getting good at running call centers and a search firm contacted me to put me in touch with an outfit in Halifax that needed a General Manager.  During my phone interview I found myself relating extremely well to the interviewer who would be my boss.  We seriously considered the job, moving to another country, and raising our kids there.  How different our lives would be today had we done that. All our grandchildren may not have ever been born.  Perhaps Suni and Eli, our children, would have married someone else, maybe never married.  The what ifs roll on and on through your mind. Who knows? Quien Sabe? 

Our first venture in Halifax was to be the National Maritime Museum on the waterfront.  What a grand museum! All things nautical and quite a lot of things Halifax are on display here with excellent interpretive signage and displays.  On the ground floor there is a grand hall with dozens and dozens of sailboats under full sail, their diversity in uses, both commercial and pleasure fully explained with accompanying pictures and dialogue.  Your mind will set sail here as well, at least ours did, with flights of fancy, the sea breeze blowing in your face as you tack your boat.  One can daydream, right? 

One of the larger displays was directed on the great fire in the harbor on December 6, 1917.  They say that there was an explosion that was the largest in pre-atomic history and large protions of the harbor were incinerated.  A French cargo ship carrying high explosives collided with a Norwegian ship, the Imo, in the Narrows part of the harbor.  1,782 people were killed in the blast, the resulting fires, and flaming debris hurled skyward.  9,000 other souls were injured. 2.9 kilotons of TNT all exploded at once.  All buildings within a half mile radius were totally destroyed.  The community of Richmond was virtually eliminated from the planet.  The pressure wave from the blast blew trees into splinters and bent steel railroad rails into pretzels.  I cannot imagine what that pressure wave would have done to a human body.  The explosion changed Halifax forever and it is remembered and displayed in reverent, yet detailed manner here at the museum. 

Having just toured Fortress Louisburg in Sydney we decided to see the other side of the story so to speak and tour the Citadel.  The fort is from the same time period as Fortress Louisburg more or less, built in 1749.  It is built high on hill perfectly overseeing the city and the harbor down below.  From this vantage point defenders could bomb the hell out of any ships attempting to enter the harbor and attack the city.  It would also be nearly impossible to overwhelm the fort with infantry as you would have to climb that great hill in full view of the defenders above safely ensconced beyond massive walls.  The fort itself is built in a star shape, typical of European forts of the era.  The shape gives numerous shooting perspectives and angles for the defenders and enhances the already impressive defensive- worthy position of the fort.

The Citadel was rebuilt three separate times, with each reconstruction adding to its already imposing and massive footprint.  The museum inside provides you windows on all the important time periods of its usefulness, all the way to around 1906.  Soldiers march around in perfectly tailored and period correct uniforms and do daily duties just as they would have back in the day.  Guns are fired imitating shooting practice and now and then a cannon booms out over the harbor below.  All of the various rooms in the fort, lacing through the structure like honeycomb, are intact and outfitted just as they would have been hundreds of years ago.  Soldiers walking about provide details of life in those days and easily answer questions for tourists and visitors.  I found them all to be very knowledgeable.  It was so interesting for me, being so caught up in the history of this land, to see the French and English fortresses compared to each other.  This fort, The Citadel, sits separate from the town below with just military personnel housed behind its walls.  Fortress Louisburg served as both fortress and town with the local citizens working side by side with the soldiers. 

The Citadel was never attacked during its entire history.  I can easily see why.  I think it would have been nearly impossible to take it by invasion.  So, it served its purpose perfectly. Its intimidating nature held any thoughts of invasion well at bay for centuries.  By doing so the Citadel helped the British keep supply lines open to England and gave them a huge advantage in their fighting for control over the New World. 

As our afternoon tour of the Citadel ended we found ourselves down below back along the harbor proper looking for a nice place to dine.  Truth be told we are spending a lot of money on our tour of the Maritime Provinces, more than I’d planned on.  Keeping a budget each year based on the prior year’s expenses and in anticipation of our travels for the coming year I have lost hope of staying within this year’s allowances.  What the hell...we can go back to work later on in the year and stay working for 2023 to make up for it.  Right now we are living, Diane and I, doing what we have dreamed of for so long. 

We found the Bicycle Thief restaurant right along the main street bordering the harbor.  There we were able to land an outside table under an expansive awning that shielded us from the on-again-off-again drizzle that moved into town.  Clouds and fog and light rain would come and go while bright sunshine would fill the voids between small showers.  The weather was fairly enchanting as we sat and enjoyed, what else...oysters and seafood dishes.  The waitress, a local lass, was exceptionally good at her job and provided perfect service, not too much, not too little, with a sophistication you rarely see these days in restaurants.  I asked for and went along with her recommendations...a special seafood pasta dish that rocked my world.  As I recall, Diane relished a lamb dish that was beyond reproach. 

You know, even living as we do, apart for the most part, of the world’s ever-increasing spin and velocity, the events of the day creep in and remind us how crazy things have become in the US and the world for that matter. The war in Ukraine blazes on now in its 6 month, the Russians committing ever more atrocities against the Ukrainian citizenry.  Mass graves have been found in cities that they captured initially and have now been liberated by the Ukrainians.  The Russian army seems in turmoil right now.  It is massive compared to the much smaller Ukrainian forces but they seem incapable of coordinating their attacks.  In other words, the left hand doesn’t know what the right hand is doing most of the time.  We hear that lately when faced with attack they are abandoning their tanks and materials and running for it.  However, they still seem to easily throw bombs at the Ukrainians often hitting civilian locations such as hospitals and schools.  Any notion or hope of the Russian Army having progressed morally from its past reputation for pillage, plunder, and rape, such as when they captured Berlin in World War II and 90% of the women there from 7 years old to 70 were horribly molested, is profoundly misplaced these days. 

We see this warfare on television and on line nearly every day.  We are not blind to what’s happening all around the world.  We feel the madness in the air sometimes.  It’s inescapable in the 21st century.  Even as we travel and take in so much beauty and kindness we are affected in our hearts and souls by the madmen’s evil.  But, right now we are on the harbor of Halifax protected the Citadel above us, seemingly holding the rest of the world at bay.  There we were, just the two of us again, simply enjoying each other’s company over wonderfully prepared fresh food in one of the most romantic locations you could ask for.  Halifax is wonderful.  I can attest. The Citadel is still protecting. 

Coasting down the Nova Scotia Coast 

Just down the proverbial road from Halifax lies the most photographed location in all of Nova Scotia, Peggy’s Cove.  This little bitty town of maybe 100 folks is still a functioning fishing village, though tourism is by far the mainstay of the villagers.  Peggy’s Cove is named for a woman who showed up one night more or less washed up on shore from a ship wreck just off the coast.  She went on to spend the rest of her days here and folks began calling the place, which formerly didn’t have a real name, Peggy’s Cove after her.  She must have been a real character, a real strong woman amongst these craggy fisherman and their hardscrabble families. 

We were to be no different than the tens of thousands who visit Peggy’s Cove every year.  Peggy’s Cove is iconically Nova Scotia, no doubt about it.  The lighthouse there feels the snap of the camera’s imaging constantly.  Everywhere you turn in the little town of curving streets there are perfectly arranged photo ops of perfect Nova Scotia scenes.  Brightly painted wooden fishing boats tied up to docks in narrow alley-like channels grab your attention.  Little houses of the fisherfolk and small shops, kept up in perfect order and painted all manner of grays and subdued blues, and muted yellows over the cedar-planked sides dot the smallish granite hills and boulders of the town.  On one of the longer gray-white granite walls in town there is a set of three sculptures or you might call them dioramas carved into the rock.  Complete with their own cast of characters and scenes, the dioramas portray the town’s fishermen idealized in their work.  One of the set of three has an angel spreading his ample wings over the fishermen seemingly protecting them from the dangers of the sea.  The work is very impressive to say the least.  Everywhere you turn your camera’s eye you see postcard pictures awaiting your clicking I phone’s lens.  The town is truly picture perfect Nova Scotia. 

We walked around the town one afternoon and sampled some Haddock sandwiches from one of the local stops, a walk up/carry-out eatery.  Fantastic!  The town is small enough that you can easily walk its length and breadth in an afternoon, or at least in one day.  That’s what we did.  The thing is, there’s so much to see and do in these parts that we were hard-pressed to take it all in with the time we committed to being here. 

We set up our motor home in the most ideal RV park around, King Neptune Campground.  King Neptune sits elegantly in Indian Harbor perhaps a couple of miles south of Peggy’s Cove.  The views from this camp are every bit as inspiring as those in Peggy’s Cove.  Yes, it is crowded in the campground, but we didn’t mind at all. It was that good.  Your view here is southwestward with the Sun setting in full view every evening.  Campers sit at the water’s edge in clusters every evening to take it all in.  We were no exception.  Now and then we would scan the horizon for the tell tale sign of the whale’s spout.  Though we caught the occasional seal in our binoculars we didn’t see any of the grand mammals out in the bay.  I think that this late in the season they are more out at sea than in the bays. 

Just around the corner from the campground there is a seafood market set up in an old barn-like structure.  Live lobsters and oysters can be bought at pretty good bargain prices.  These folks also ship lobsters all over to restaurants and other seafood markets.  New York City is one of the principal places they sell their lobsters.  We bought two live beauties (lobsters) and 18 oysters, locally harvested.  We don’t carry a pot big enough to boil lobsters, but the owners of the the campground lent us theirs for our dinner.  Saints above, dinner, prepared carefully by Diane, was out of this world!  I shucked the oysters and we had ourselves a meal fit for royalty, all fresh as fresh can possibly be.  Looking out over Indian Harbor from the shadow of our motor home while luxuriating on the bounty of the sea, brought to us by the local lobstermen next door was, at that moment, as close to heaven as one can get.

Down the little road a bit further heading back towards Peggy’s Cove is a beautiful spot on the ocean that serves as a memorial for the Swiss Air plane crash that occurred here some years ago.  Crashing out at sea 5 kilometers from the very spot, there were rescue and recovery operations set up here.  No survivors were recovered, though many bodies were.  They were taken to place across the Indian Harbor and buried there.  A beautiful memorial has been placed here carved out of the local granite, cut into a giant round circle, and standing on its end with inscriptions detailing its purpose of memorializing those who perished as well as the people who attempted the rescue carved on it. 

The place is a natural, grand, sloping field of large gray-white boulders interspersed with a kind of heather plant that grows thick as thieves.  Very few trees punctuate the landscape here on this field.  A few pathways cut into the heather lead about finally ending at the memorial sculpture.  It is so peaceful and serene here that Diane and I came out here on evening to take in the sunset.  We were all alone on the sloping field.  A lone kayaker paddled away off in the distance probably doing just what we were doing on dry land...witnessing the Sun’s daily passing through the magnificent clouds.  It seemed that within seconds of the Sun’s disappearance beyond the horizon it grew dark.  Twilight seemed absent that evening for some reason.  There we sat with Dash and Heidi, our little vagabond family until it grew so dark we wondered if we would find out way back to the Jeep. 

On another early morning I decided to head out to the same field solo while Diane caught up on her sleep.  I clambered up and down the boulders towards the edge of the sea and among the small tidal pools left over from the night’s high tide. 

The Sun was a brilliant orange ball emerging from the eastern Atlantic, enlarged well beyond its high- noontime size.  The sea was glass, as still I’ve ever seen it.  It lay motionless save some gentle rolling now and then over the shallows off shore a quarter mile or so.  The color of the ocean can change.  I’ve seen it jet black, I’ve seen it brilliantly blue.  I’ve marveled at how it can turn green gray in the afternoon.  This morning it was gold and pink with sparkling highlights reflecting this gentle dawn.  I caught a heron fishing in one of the pools.  I sat myself down and watched her from close by as she expertly and patiently hunted the small ocean minnows.  Over the course of about 15 minutes I saw her catch 5 fish.  Down her long gullet they went. She was so good at nailing these fry, her long neck shooting out like a spring had sprung it as her beak grabbed the little minions. 

St Margaret’s Bay 

You can drive inland around Indian Harbor and the larger St Margaret’s Bay for many miles in a grand circle. The bay appears and then disappears many, many times from your view as you drive along.  Boats tied up at bay appear all along the drive and within the bay.  Now and then small little beaches appear.  It is nicely warm by my standards, not hot, yet Nova Scotians swarm to the beach this weekend to enjoy the cold sea and the “hot” weather of 79-83 degrees.  Pretty little beaches a couple of hundred yards long with perhaps 50 to 75 folks happily sunbathing and splashing around.  On this day we didn’t join in.  We were sightseeing and taking in as many beautiful perspectives as we could, all framed in our mind’s eye for memory’s safekeeping as long as we are able to.  Photos augment the human memory so we snap as many as we can.  I say this little corner of Nova Scotia is as pretty as any place on this Earth, at least that I have seen.  It seems each round of the bend produces yet another picture post card view.  We like to get out and be in the world around us, but on this day we drove around carefree as birds on the wing, maybe the way our parents used to drive around on Sunday afternoons in the car when gasoline was cheap.  Of course, gas is not cheap in Canada, or anywhere right now. We pay the equivalent of $6.80 per gallon ( it’s sold by liter in Canada ) and driving is not cheap, but what’s a couple of gallons of petrol when this world lay before us in this moment we have together. 

Driving back towards Indian Harbor and King Neptune Campground we passed a little sign that advertised home grown produce.  We took the turn off the two lane blacktop and ambled down the dusty dirt road.  We came upon a humble yet productive little home farm, a man bare chested in the sun working hard pulling weeds.  I called out to him and he walked over mopping his brow and motioned to us to meet him in his greenhouse a few feet from where I stood.  Dan was his name.  Simply, Dan.

We struck up a great conversation about any number of topics before ever thinking about buying anything. Politics, American and Canadian, farming techniques, the warming climate, how good really good coffee tastes, our relative backgrounds...you name it, we discussed it with gusto and laughter.  Dan is one of those easy to talk to guys who lacks no opinions on things, but is never threatening to talk to even when he doesn’t agree with you.  I began referring him as Dan, the Natural Man.  He liked that moniker a lot.  After a long time we got around to buying some veggies, home grown corn, potatoes, some radishes, and the best homegrown tomatoes ever.  When we thought we had bought nearly everything we could carry out of the greenhouse and eat within a few days, Dan, the Natural Man looked at me with a sidelong glance, his blue eyes searching mine for earnestness.  He paused. 

“So, do you guys like herbs? Because I’ve got the best herbs, brother. And, I’m not talking about nutmeg.” Dan asked straightaway. 

“Yep, what ya got?” answered Diane as quick as a lick. 

Dan went on a new rave about the various strains of marijuana he was growing and nurturing. He gave us the seemingly full history of Thai Stick and other such monumental and universally agreed upon marijuana strains of high merit.  Dan was on the Council of Elders when it came to grass.  He was said to have known this guy and that lady who took the strain this way and that way and...oh, this strain is gone forever, buried in the legends of yore.  Dan knows some of the great growers by first name from Humbolt County, and Eureka, California, that original legendary place of power grass.  Well, needless to say, we left there to go back to the ATM to get more cash for some herb.  While I might partake of the herb once or twice a year, Diane will more often take in the smoke and share it with friends back in St Louis.  It was a cool experience.  It was as if we were back in 1970 or ’72 and making a clandestine parlay with a “friend”, that being the euphemism we all used for fellow grass smokers. You’d approach someone on the street who looked the part of a user and ask, 

“You a friend?” 

That meant, do you smoke grass and do you have any or would you like to smoke some with me?  It was universal, at least in our world it was. 

So, here in 2022, we relived that rather common scene of marijuana exchange as it was in 1970.  Funny thing, though...it’s legal in Canada. 

Lunenburg 

if you continue southward along the coast of Nova Scotia past St Margaret’s Bay, past Mahone Bay, you eventually come to the old fishing and sailing town of Lunenburg.  Lunenburg is somewhat larger than the typical village and town along the coast here and it has become a real tourist haven.  Although fishing has kept the town in good stead for centuries, sailing is fast replacing it as the economic mainstay, along with the flood of summertime tourists.  It seems everyone who comes to this part of Nova Scotia eventually comes to Lunenburg. Walking the narrow streets you come across a dozen or more languages being spoken.  A lot of French is spoken among the visitors, as is German.  We met English and even Australian folks as we walked around and talked easily to the people on the street.  Diane and I had really good talk with a couple of guys from Australia who were in town for a sailing regatta to take place the following week.  Indeed, we watched several sailing yachts pull up on the harbor and tie up to the dock.  You can go out on sailing trips with the local captains and I badly wanted to treat Diane to a trip, but she stopped me short.  We had been spending a little too much lately and needed to slow down the money burn a little. 

Late in the afternoon as we were eating a fantastic lunch on a balcony overlooking the harbor we saw the grandest ship, The Bluenose, round the big rock in the bay and sail into the harbor.  A day trip with a lot of folks on board had been booked and the sail for the day was ending.  She was coming home. 

Now, this ship, a schooner, was an exact duplicate of the original Bluenose, who sank after hitting a reef in Haiti in 1946 while hauling freight.  She had been a fishing and sailing ship, winning many competitions in her lifetime.  She came to represent the very best of Nova Scotia’s fishing, sailing, and boat building prowess.  She sailed to England from Nova Scotia in 1935 for King George the V silver jubilee.  This Schooner is the grandest sight to see with her sails tight against the wind and rounding the bay. 

As The Bluenose came in to port and was preparing to tie up a rare thing occurred right before our eyes.  One of the many mates on board threw a line to shore for the attending mate there to tie her up from her stern while the front had already been secured tight.  But...the mate on shore either missed the rope, or, the mate on ship did not throw it far enough to make it to shore.  With the white braided rope dangling precariously the wind carried the stern around in a semicircle and she crashed against the dock next to her.  Mates and bodies went flying into action furiously attempting to fix the situation and within 5 minutes the Bluenose was safe and secure in her place.  Whatever damage was done was very slight and I would say, was, for the most part confined to egos. We all imagined at our restaurant what hell the mates were going to get for this mishap.  I didn’t see any overt action by the Captain.  He didn’t keelhaul anyone, at least in plain sight.  I’m certain, though, that words were said, loudly, back at the ol’ Bluenose Captain’s Quarters. 

You can walk around Lunenburg all day long and stop into little shops and boutiques and have a wonderful time shopping and eating and taking in the sights, sounds, and even smells of this sensual sea town.  It’s fun to just walk around and take it all in.  You can sit around the dock and watch the boats come and go. There is a very nice Fisherman’s Museum on the waterfront as well.  Getting to know the not so romantic life of fishing for a living in Nova Scotia is very well displayed there, along with dedications and memorials to those who never returned from fateful days in the often violent North Atlantic.  Lunenburg is the best combination of old world and new built upon the bedrock of a Nova Scotia sea town hundreds of years old.  My sincere hope is that it does not succumb to the almighty tourist dollar and become a beacon for the condo-loving developers.  Leave it be, it’s fine as it is...really fine. 

Liverpool and the Mersey River...Nova Scotia 

All too soon we set our own sail aboard Nell, our ever-so-trusty motor home, for Liverpool...Nova Scotia.  No, this is not the hometown of the Fab Four, the Beatles, but of Hank Snow, the country music giant of the 1950’s and ‘60’s.  Apparently the founders of this Liverpool really missed the old Liverpool in England because they even named the local river that runs through town, the Mersey River, just like back in old England’s Liverpool.  I can’t help my mind shifting back to those long ago days of the Mersey Beat, the Beatles, Gerry and the Pacemakers et al. Yeah, but this Liverpool is vastly different, I’m sure. 

We reserved a campsite at a wonderful private campground called Fisherman’s Cove just 10 Klicks south of town.  Fisherman’s Cove has quite a few seasonal campers there who occupy their sites for 6-7 months during the Spring through early Fall season, but they have a good number of open sites for transients like us.  One the cooler than cool features of the campground is that they converted an old fishing boat into a restaurant.  It works out splendidly and the food is prepared well.  Breakfast is especially nice.  The boat/restaurant reminds me of one of those TV shows where they tour middle America and stop in to see sights like the World’s Largest Ball of Tin Foil, or the World’s Largest Corn Maze.  It’s crazy, but it works. 

The coastal road that runs the length of eastern Nova Scotia here features numerous great roadside restaurants.  All of them have seafood on the menu, some with locally farmed oysters, all with Haddock, and of course, Lobster.  We did our level best to balance the local trade by eating at several of them during our 4 days in the area.  One in particular,The Quaterdeck Grill in the tiny town of Port Mouton was delightful.  We sat a hundred feet high over the edge of the beach there out on the patio watching the rollers wash in while savoring outrageous clam chowder with oysters.  Diane tried one of the local wines from the eastern shore and proclaimed it more than worthy of praise.  One other day we ate at Seaside Seafoods.  Wondrous, fresh seafood was on the menu.  Halibut for me, Atlantic Salmon for Diane.  Crazy good it was.  If you prefer deep-fried seafood, say for instance, Clams, stop in for the take out at Boondock’s.  Their clams are killer diller good, but we ordered and ate too many fried selections one evening and nearly had fried food fever as an unintended result. 

I hate to see it, and I hate to report it, but we came across some shuttered restaurants, victims of Covid-19. Such a calamity this Covid has been for so many hard-working folks.  Still, roadside restaurants along the southern coast of Nova Scotia hang on just as the local fishermen and lobstermen do through sunny seas and stormy waves.  I’m here to tell ya the seafood here is as good as anywhere, and twice as fresh. 

Most folks come here to the Liverpool area for the beaches.  There are three great ones and many good ones. We took in the greatest hits of the beaches on three separate days.  Crescent Beach was just down the road a few kilometers from us and in fact, that’s where the Quarterdeck Grill is located that I mentioned earlier.  We came here twice, it was so close at hand.  We walked the length of it, a good half mile or so, with the doggies in tow.  The tide was receding and the birds were out in force gathering dinner from the draining sand.  Little crawling critters for the most part.  Heidi had a ball chasing them as we let her off leash once we cleared places where people had gathered.  On this particular day we saw our first Sea Otter, which I didn’t even know existed. At the far end of the beach a river empties into the sea and we saw the cute-ster running from the river area out into the ocean, I suppose searching for lunch.  He’d swim out, dive down for a bit and then resurface a hundred yards or so distant.  Then he’d swim back to the beach for a breather.  Then, back out he’d go into the gentle waves searching again but this time trying a new section of the sea.  He did this in methodical fashion, each time fishing a new section.  He finally got his fill or he grew tired and he scurried off back up the shore of the river bound for new haunts. 

Our second visit to the beach was on a warm evening as the Sun was beginning to set.  This visit we came without the kids so to speak, our dogs.  Most of the time up here the water is too cold for me to jump in even though the locals say the water is warm.  But this time Diane insisted we give it a try.  Off came my shirt and out into the glassy water I walked.  By God, it wasn’t too cold after all!  Amazing!  For whatever reason, maybe because the ocean is shallow here for hundreds of yards and has a chance to warm up in the daytime sun, the water temp was perfect.  Not bathwater, mind you, but warm enough.  We played around like two kids in the sunset waters.  I think I’ll remember this little fantasy swim for the rest of my living days...The Sun glowing orange and red in the western sky behind us, the ocean a light shade of green with ever so slight waves, and me with my girlfriend alone in our little fantasy world of living for the moment.  Yes, indeed. 

The second beach we checked out was glorious, yet too overcrowded on the day we went there. It’s at the southern end of the Port Mouton Bay and it backs up into Kejimkujik National Seashore. There, at the National Seashore, the coast regains its rocky character. Seals inhabit the inlets and the warmer water found there. That, in turn, brings Great Whites. No swimming for us there. But, back at Carter’s Beach the swimming is terrific. Somehow this beach reminds us of the Caribbean. I can’t quite explain it but it has the feel of it. Once you park your car on the dusty little road you walk through a short section of forest and emerge on a small bluff overlooking a perfect, small crescent of a beach that is tree-lined with pines. A pint-sized island lies off shore a scant fifty yards. The place is so beautiful that it seemed like everyone within 20 miles was there that afternoon. As pretty and as inviting as it was we sadly decided to drive back north 40 minutes to another beach we had heard of where we thought we could find a bit of solitude. 

Beach Meadows Beach is exactly as the name implies.  The beach is a good half mile long and is framed along the shore by rolling meadows.  This particular beach lies north of Liverpool nestled behind an old, old neighborhood where locals have settled for a long, long time.  Driving to the beach you pass neat and tidy cedar shingle clad houses painted royal blues and mild yellows with picturesque yards, usually decorated with old fishing and lobstering articles for good measure.  The odd red house and barn stand out starkly against the deep green of the surrounding bush.  Small creeks cut through wide meadows and grasslands in wide alternating semicircles.  Simply driving to the beach was a treat for the eyes.  A scattering of couples and groups of women lightly dotted the beach here and there as the vacationing kids and their families are preparing for school. Your own slice of solitude was guaranteed.  We planted ourselves away from everyone else and took in the Sun, but soon found ourselves wandering up and down the length of beach picking up the occasional sea shell or rare sea glass.  On the southern end of this beach you’ll find a mound of granite boulders that you can climb and look out over the beach and the sea. It might be but 30 or 40 feet high but I had a good time climbing up there and crawling around its small summit as a Gannet or a Seagull might do. 

These three beaches are the best we’ve come across since we left Prince Edward Island.  It’s the main reason I think to come to Liverpool and it’s the destination for a lot of Nova Scotians.  Quiet, serene, gorgeous scenery with lots of good eats.  How do you beat that? 

Of course, me being me, I had to take in the Hank Snow and Nova Scotia Country Music Hall of Fame Museum. This decidedly sweet repository for all things Hank Snow is housed in the old train station near the banks of the Mersey River.  In fact, they tell you that Hank, who was born and grew up just a mile or so away, often spent the night sleeping on the bench inside the station when his parents would get into their all too often fights.  As is the case with so many country singers, and come to think of it, so many successful people, they had to fight their way out of bad conditions as well as be in the right place at the right time to make it to their particular pinnacle of stardom.  So often you will find they have a single-minded focus on their goals.  I believe that by focusing on those goals so sharply they force themselves from focusing on their troubles.  Focus seems to accomplish many things. 

I went alone to see Hank’s treasure trove of artifacts and though I was thorough in my visit I spent not much more than an hour there.  If you like Hank Snow and his songs you will really like this museum.  I’ve always felt that Hank was under-appreciated by the younger fans of country music.  Folks will talk about Hank Williams and Merle Haggard, Dolly and Loretta, Emmy Lou Harris, George Jones and so on.  Hank Snow was a great one, too.  For me, his song, “I’ve Been Everywhere, Man” has special meaning, if you know what I mean. 

Transecting Nova Scotia 

August was fast drawing to a close. Though we have no strict timetable or itinerary we do have a date set up in Texas when we will once again volunteer camp host for what looks like at this point six months.  That date is the first week of November, and while that seems like a long ways off there are so many places and things we want to see while we’re up east that we have to keep moving if we want to experience them all.  With that in mind we weighed whether or not to continue southward along the coast or cut across Nova Scotia east to west to Digby environs.  Digby is where we plan to ferry across the Bay of Fundy to St John and start our meander back to the states and the eastern seaboard.  While chatting with a local some weeks back we were told that the National Park in the center of Nova Scotia, Kejimkujik was a jewel, don’t miss it.  This guy also told us that there was a private campground close at hand to the National Park called Gateway Campground that was also a gem. Decision made, we decided to transect Nova Scotia, leaving the eastern coast behind for now. 

Transecting Nova Scotia is not a travel challenge.  It’s not that long a drive.  It is beautiful, though.  There are slight climbs over hills and deeply forested valleys with an occasional creek or small river crossing.  The National Park and Gateway Campground are almost exactly midway across.  I booked us into Gateway for just two nights, but now in retrospect, I should have gone for three or four nights.  Gateway is within 5 miles or so of the Park and is set on the banks of the Medway River.  Medway reminds me of the Snake River that courses through our friend, Jean Zimmerman’s property in far northern Minnesota near the town of Sandstone, not far from Duluth.  Medway is lazy this season with a slight current that is easily paddled up river.  Brazen boulders just out of the stream at close intervals and some of the shoreline and river bed is chunk-rocky.  One look and I knew it was a perfect Smallmouth Bass stream.  Let me at it was my first thought as I surveyed it when we arrived.  We will fish this river. 

Now, Gateway Campground is a newer outpost.  The owner is a fellow who retired from the construction business and found he couldn’t sit still very long and was bored.  He loved this area of inland Nova Scotia so he decided to carve out this campground on what I would guess is about 80 acres give or take.  He cut trees, but only enough to put some semi-level campsites in.  Ours was high on a hill overlooking the valley.  Our site was huge, maybe 100’x200’.  There are only a handful of hookups here and ours was dry, meaning no electric or water.  No matter.  The place is beautiful.  It’s very quiet at night and outside of Big Al, the owner, hammering away on some project he has immersed himself in, the serenity is existential.  There are some other campsites along the river bank that are as near perfect a campsite as you would ever imagine having.  Only a very few of these have power as well.  Big Al is still working on getting power to all his sites.  Al has a couple of ol’ Cronies working out there with him running the campground, buddies from his construction days.  They’re a cheerful lot and they love yakking away the hours with each other and the guests if they care to join in.  Of course, as is the usual for me, I had to engage these guys in some high level chit-chat for a while.  What’s life without shootin’ the bib with characters such as these?  Me and the guys became good buddies within an hour or so of meeting each other. 

I asked Big Al about the fishing in the Medway and he gave me that sidelong look before he answered that fishermen give each other when they’re about to disclose treasured secrets.  He paused and then asked in a serious, yet respectful way, 

“You know how to fish for Smallmouth, ‘cause that’s what we got here?” 

“Buddy, I’m a reglar lip-ripper” was my answer. 

So, Big Al says, 

“Then, here’s what you do. I see you got your kayaks.  Go upstream a quarter mile and you’ll see a pool there where the riffles end.  That’s one spot for sure.  If you can make it up past the walkin’ bridge, that’s about a mile up there, it gets real riffley and poolie up that a ways.  You’ll know what to do.” 

Without hesitation later that day, in the waning afternoon, which by the way was near-perfect weather-wise. (75 degrees and a little cloudy)  We launched our kayaks at a good put-in/take-out spot and began to paddle upstream.  We figured that the area around the campsites would be fished out by the less energetic folks who fish from the banks.  The river’s got a few leeches slithering about so you might not want to wade fish it.  Sure enough, we came to that spot with the boulders.  We hit it with our ol’ reliable little Rebel brand crawdad crank baits.  Boom! Fish on!  These were fighting mad smallies.  They evidently had never seen a crawdad before and were totally enamored by them, or, they were simply super-hungry.  Leaping out of the water like porpoises and then diving for the rocks they were hell-bent on escaping.  We caught three at that pool with the largest around 3 ½ pounds.  None were under 12 inches long. 

We paddled a little more upstream and came to that point where the walking bridge was located.  Getting there was a little tricky as you had to fight your way up some shallow riffles here and there.  Some were too shallow and we had to get out and drag our kayaks up through them.  But, we were determined to get up there and it was a lot of fun anyway.  The water was not that cold nor deep.  The last series of riffles right up to the bridge were just a little too much effort for us to climb and it beginning to get a little late in the day with evening coming on we decided to fish the pools beneath the riffles.  Treasure found!  We hooked and released another four smallies, all really good size fish, all fighting like crazy.  It was a blast!  We didn’t keep any of the smallies, we let them all go.  The fun was in the catching today.  Plus, you just don’t keep Smallmouth Bass.  They are too valuable a game fish for that. 

Now, there was a couple camping ion the river bank way up here.  It must have been hard for them to get all their grip way up the river like they did, but there they were, all set up for the night.  The young man looked very interested in our style of fishing so I asked him if he had fished any yet.  He hadn’t.  I paddled on over to where he was perched on a boulder on the river’s edge looking as if he were dying to get in on the action.  I asked him if he had any crawdad lures and he said he didn’t even know what they were.  

“ You don’t know what a crawdad lure is?” I asked astonishingly. 

“Well, here, let me show you what I’m talking about.  We’re killing them with these lures.” 

I ended up giving the guy one of my crawdads and he was elated as well as mystified.  I showed him how to use it and he seemed ever so grateful.  I’ll bet real money he caught fish that evening. 

After that encounter we drifted on down the river to where we put in and made a few casts here and there and hooked a couple more fish.  Evening was closing in.  It was starting to get dark.  I pulled the kayaks out of the water, loaded them back on the Jeep, drove back up the hill to our campsite, and we lingered outside for a while taking in the peace and quiet of the hills with the little river below.  The evening shift of critters and predators was clocking in while the day shift was giving up the chase.  We heard a coyote on the far bank yipping a few times.  The birds were flying fast for the trees and their nests.  A lone bat darted above us as the quarter moon was rising from the western sky.  We were on the cusp of September.  Just the slightest hint of Autumn filled our senses as a light breeze brushed our faces.