Atlantic Canada Part 6

The one thing that is a bit of an issue when visiting Newfoundland is the ridiculously long time needed to cross a relatively short piece of water, a mere 182 km, from North Sydney to Port Aux Basque will cost you an entire day, and of course another to cross back.

Ferry, from the ferry - North Sydney

You must arrive two hours before departure, so an 11 45 departure means that you book in at 9.45 and then arrive at the other end at 6 p.m. and that’s not the time that you’ll actually disembark. You can also take the ferry to Argentia, relatively close to St John’s, but that’s 18 hours crossing time. The ferry itself is fine, and you could even book a berth, but that would be a bit of a waste for me, especially as I am are doing the daytime crossing. You can cross at night, which would probably involve less waste of time, but a loss of sleep instead, as you arrive in the wee hours of the morning. Maybe time for a nice long bridge? Be that as it is, Newfoundland is definitely worth the ferry rides. I will certainly be back.

Due to some technical issue it is after 7 p.m. before we finally manage to get off the boat. After a brief stop at the tourist information office, I head out on the – yes it is here too – the Trans-Canada Highway (TCH). I am looking for a place to camp as there is zero accommodation available in town, everywhere is fully booked.

Arriving in Port Aux Basque

The map from the tourist office indicates a camping facilities in the Codroy Valley area. I take what I think is the turnoff, but after about 5 km I realize that I must have taken a wrong turn. There has been a guy on a motorcycle riding a few hundred yards behind me, he pulls up next to me and asks what I’m looking for, so I tell him that I’m looking for somewhere to camp for the night, he suggests, with what I think is a leer, that I should just camp next to the river. Now I have seen Deliverance, and at a fairly impressionable age, so I decide to just go back to the TCH and look for the right turnoff. Now I am sure that the guy was just being helpful, I tell you that Newfoundlanders are the nicest and friendliest people you could hope to find, but I did want somewhere with some facilities. A few Kms down the TCH and there, well signposted, is the turn-off to the RV and tent camp site.

I pay $25 for my spot and start to set-up camp. The sun is setting so it is not a moment too soon.  My site includes a picnic table and a place to make a fire, it also includes a small but vicious swarm of mosquitos. I apply the insect repellant, liberally, to every exposed piece of skin, but clearly these guys have not read the label and are not in the slightest repelled. So everything I do is accompanied by lots of slapping.

Two Midget Tent

I end up slapping my ears so hard there is ringing that lasts about ten minutes. I have some tinned tuna that I could have for supper, but there was a sign at the reception for ‘Fish and Brew’ for $6. I’m intrigued, so I buy it. It’s shredded cod and shredded white bread that has been dampened with cod flavoured water. They warm it up in a microwave oven, it sounds a little gross, but actually it is quite good, like a fishy bread pudding. I make some coffee with my primitive stove, which is a wick spirit burner in a tinned vegetable can, cleaned out and with holes cut in, it actually works pretty well. The sun sets and weirdly the mosquitos seem to lose interest in me... maybe it’s the fish.

 As the camp quietens down, and the bad singing from a group of RV’s comes to an end, I get to enjoy the evening and the stars. The stars alone make bearing the mosquitoes worthwhile. I turn on my torch to locate my towel and tooth brush and get to see a little fox trotting along the edge of the campsite.  Finally, I crawl into my two midget tent and into the sleeping bag, a good quality one that I bought for the trip. I am lying on a ‘mattress’ it’s little more than a yoga mat, but way better than nothing. I sleep, but confess that I’m not used to camping, so can’t claim that I have a good night’s rest. I’m awake at 5 a.m. and make coffee, which restores some semblance of coherent thought. The showers and toilets aren’t exactly luxury, but they are clean and adequate. I can see maybe three tents amongst the RV’s. The RV’s with names or perhaps brands, that evoke the wilderness, like Wild Thing, Freedom Traveller, Eagle Wind and so on. The humble caravan has morphed into literally driving around in a house. Some of these things are as big as a Greyhound coach, and they sometimes tow a car behind them (sometimes a boat as well) and when they stop and make camp little rooms pop out, like in a Don Martin comic. They hook up to water and electricity and even sewage, seriously, how to camp and not be camping at the same time.  Maybe I’m jealous that the RV campers are all enjoying a good sleep on Sealy Posturepedics and I’m grumpy from an uncomfortable night on a yoga mat and up at the ass crack of dawn because I can’t bear to lie down any more. Still these monsters are a pain in the ass on the road. Riding behind one on a bike is as bad as riding behind any large truck, they trail a wake of turbulence that blows you all over the road.

I pack the bike and head north. I plan to stay in the Gros Morne area and see some of this famous National Park. After not too long in the saddle, I stop for breakfast at a gas station café, Crabbe’s River Restaurant and without hesitation order the ‘Truckers’ Special’, I’m hungry and the effects of the cup of black instant coffee I had at the campsite has worn off.

The ‘Truckers’ Special’ hits the spot and some. Stuffed with loads of protein, fat and carbs, and no longer crabbe, I get back on the KLR and back on the road. Next stop, Deer Lake, a most unoriginal name, I think there is hardly a county in this country that does not sport at least one Deer Lake. I guess the settlers that named the places didn’t worry too much about originality, there was a lake and there were deer. It’s like in South Africa there are lots of ‘Mooi’ rivers, ‘mooi’ meaning (more or less) ‘nice’. In a dry country every river is a nice river! From Deer Lake I take the Viking Trail towards the coast and Gros Morne National Park.

This part of Newfoundland is mountainous, and let me say achingly lovely. I had expected a bleaker topography from this province, but here at least it is mountains, ocean and forest. The forest is mostly evergreen conifer, but I spot a scattering of deciduous.

The road is just fabulous to ride, it is in great nick and wonderfully curvy. I wrote about the Cabot Trail as one of those special places where mountains meet the ocean, this is another. It has another advantage; it is definitely not overcrowded. One can stop at a lookout point and be alone with the beauty, at least for a short while. It has become a very warm day, but there is a nice breeze that helps to counter the heat. Gros Morne National Park is named after the highest peak in the chain of mountains that runs parallel to the west coat of the island, which are actually part of the Appalachians. Roughly translated from French, Gros Morne means ‘great sombre’, which if you think about it is probably a good name for almost any mountain. This looks like a really great area to do some hiking, which I won’t be doing, aside from not being equipped for hiking, I am not fit enough to tackle a serious climb… or maybe I’m just lazy.

A word about mountains, I think I have mentioned how much I miss real mountains in the flat land of Ontario. There is something about mountains that helps a person to keep perspective in life, especially when you live close to mountains and can look at then everyday. They remind one of how utterly trivial your issues are and when you are dead and totally forgotten by everyone, the mountains will have hardly changed at all, yet they too will finally be ground down to nothing. Indeed, all the striving and struggling of humanity that has taken place, and will ever take place, is within barely a moment on the time scale that mountains measure time by. Of course mountains are just gorgeous to look at.

It’s getting to mid afternoon and the small town of Rocky Harbour is in sight. It’s in an enclave of non-national park land a real tourist spot, with lots of places for tourists to stay. I am tired from my previous night of not sleeping well and have decided that Rocky Harbour is where I will stop. My idea is to have a nap, then do a bit of exploring on the bike, have some supper, the Truckers’ Special has negated any need for lunch, then get an early night. But the no vacancy signs on every establishment is not encouraging. Perhaps it’s another night on the yoga mat in the two midget tent. I know I should man-up do the camping, at least in the interest of economy, but I am a bit of a baby when it comes to creature comfort. I spot a B & B that doesn’t have a no vacancy sign up, and check in. It’s more than I want to pay, but they discount the rate because they are not offering breakfast for tomorrow. So they are actually just a B, suits me, I’m happy with the discounted rate, and the room is really nice.

After the promised nap, I ride up to Lobster Cove Light House, which is an interesting museum, about when this was a working light house and not just a tourist attraction. It’s nice, and there are some lovely walks in the area with stunning views.

After that I ride to Norris Point in search of supper, but the one restaurant that has a patio is overcrowded and I can smell that the oil in the fryer is none too fresh, so decide to head back to Rocky Harbour, somewhat hungry now. I choose a café that has a patio, and appears to be less crowded, I chose poorly and there was a reason for the dearth of customers, slow service coupled with bad food. The ‘Cod Dinner’ at a somewhat expensive $22.50, sounded like a good option, pan fried cod with mashed potatoes and vegetables in season and a side garden salad. Garden salad equals limp mixed greens, which I suspect has graced at least one other plate so far, and a horrible supermarket dressing, vegetables in season turns out to be a spoonful of semi cooked carrots and the two tiny portions of dry, previously frozen for too long, cod are really not appetizing at all. Honestly the cod I can buy at my local Sobeys is way better. They even managed to screw up mashed potatoes, and serve it with little tubs of margarine, I ask for butter which throws the server, apparently she does not know that margarine isn’t butter. When I pay and don’t tip she looks offended. I ride up to the gas station convenience store and buy two chicken mayo sandwiches, one for supplementary supper and one for breakfast.  

It is time for some additional executive decisions. Labrador is not on the cards for this trip. I have realized that the Trans-Labrador Highway is a bit less substantial than the name lets one think. There is a 565 km stretch that is gravel and the condition of the road is unpredictable. There is also nothing along that stretch, so if I do get into trouble I will probably have to abandon the bike. So whereas I’m fine to ride a road like this, but this trip should be considered more like an expedition than a casual ride, it is best to do it in a larger group or supported by someone with a truck. I have been experiencing a few niggling issues with the KLR, it has been cutting out in the wet, which tells me that I’m definitely not prepared for the Trans-Labrador Highway. Call me chicken if you want, but as mentioned elsewhere in these chronicles, discretion is the better part of valour. Tomorrow I will ride up to Daniel’s Harbour, which will be the end point of this trip. Daniel’s Harbour will mark the furthest point away from home, when I turn around there, I will be homeward bound.

Atlantic Canada Part 5

I have heard lots said about the Cabot Trail, so it was on the list of rides that need to be done on this trip. It really is something that anyone that can do it, should do. I few years ago I did some work in Cape Breton and heard about the trail from the folks I was working with, unhappily I just did not have the time. Perhaps happily as now I have the chance to do it for the first time, the best way to do it, on a motorcycle. The trail is really just a loop road that goes through national parks and private lands, and provides fantastic views of mountains, forests, lochs (they call lakes lochs here, of course) and ocean. It is all paved, and for the most part the blacktop is pretty decent, some stretches the road are a bit potholed, but for Canada, nothing out of the ordinary. There was a lot of construction which marred the experience slightly, but if roads here are not maintained then they soon become unusable. For my readers that live in warmer climes – it’s the moisture that seeps into any tiny cracks in the tarmac, then when the temperature drops and the water freezes and expands, so a tiny crack becomes a bigger one and it really doesn’t take may years before the road becomes very potholed. So we have two seasons here, winter and road construction.

the Not-so-Easy Rider on the Cabot Trail

From a purely biking point of view the Trail is worth while riding, thanks to great twisties, sweeping curves and tight cornering going up or down mountain passes. Add the fantastic views and lots of places to stop and take it all in... definitely one of the best biking experiences I have had. Of course if I was riding a more pavement capable bike, and had larger cojones carving through the twisties would be even better, but then that would perhaps be defeating the purpose, especially when going through the national park sections. Actually I did not see any bikers riding too fast, it’s one of those places that demand respect.

Just as I entered the first section that goes through a national park I encountered some black bears. The road was blocked by cars stopped to take pictures of what looked like two small cubs and a teenager playing next to the road. It was great to see, but I was nervous, it stuck me that mamma bear must be somewhere close and unlike the people inside cars, I am a little exposed. I have no desire to get acquainted with mamma bear, so I go around the cars, prudence is the better part of valour. I decided to go clockwise around the trail, taking the advice of another biker, so the first section is inland, great ride and the scenery is just awesome. It’s a little cloudy, but not misty like I had experienced from Halifax, when I reach the coastal section heading north and the clouds clear the views take my breath away. Note on clockwise around or anti-clockwise, I think ideally one should do both ways, as the view while riding would be different. There is some controversy over which is better, I wish I had time to do both.   

Of course Cape Breton, actually Novo Scotia as a whole, is steeped in history. I only know a tiny bit, and then only the history of the Europeans.  Sadly, this is the only history that is really visible. This part of the world saw much of the rivalry between the French and the English in the seventeenth and eighteenth century played out. It was not always a pretty thing. I come across a little town called Cheticamp where the Gaelic is replaced by French. This is a small Cajun enclave. The Cajun story is interesting and a shining example of the English sense of fair play and respect for human dignity… only kidding. The original settlers in Nova Scotia were French (ok it wasn’t called Nova Scotia then) and due to the loveliness and bounty of the area they called it Acadia, a land from ancient Greek culture, the home of Pan and a beautiful unspoiled wilderness. Of course then the winter set in and no doubt they were calling a different tune, I have been here in winter and it is god awful, but I guess the name had stuck, so they became the Acadians, which morphed into Cajuns. After the so called French and Indian war of 1756 to 1763 and the French conceded all their North American possessions to the English, the English demanded that the former French subjects, who had been fighting against them, immediately swear allegiance to the English crown.

Church built by the Cajuns

The Cajuns were naturally a little reluctant, and for their troubles were dispossessed of their land and property and deported to other parts of the British empire, mostly to Louisiana, but not exclusively. Many Cajuns died during this process of enforced sudden poverty, communities and even families were split up. When the English practice a bit of social engineering they don’t muck about, a bit of genocide is not something that they were above. If you think this is an isolated incident in history, ask the Irish, Afrikaans and Kikuyu. Cajun cooking actually came out of this diaspora, it was a cuisine of poverty, created by desperate women in an attempt to provide tasty meals for their families (they were French after all) from the cheapest ingredients. Some of the Cajuns managed to find their way back and formed isolated communities, the village of Cheticamp is one.

It’s turned out to be an absolutely gorgeous day, blue skies and a pleasant breeze that takes the edge off the heat. There is something about places where mountains meet the sea, they are so beautiful it makes the heart ache to realize that you can’t stay there forever. Parts of Cape Town where I lived for a time has this and I realize with an extra sharp pain how much I miss this living in Ontario, thousands of miles from the sea and where some hills are called ‘the Highlands’. Don’t get me wrong, Ontario has its beauty, and I often have written about it, but the clarity of ocean, meeting sky and mountains is just natural beauty of a different order.

KLR on the Cabot Trail

When mountains meet the sea

All too soon the Cabot trail comes to an end and I turn left onto the (you guessed it), the ubiquitous Trans-Canada highway. My destination is North Sydney, where I’ll be catching the Ferry to Port aux Basques, Newfoundland. I manage to get the last room the Mac Neil's Motel. It’s early in the afternoon so I ask the proprietor about laundry facilities, chance to get some freshness in my wardrobe, the shirt I am wearing smelled positively ripe when I put it on this morning. The proprietor gave me the use of his washing machine and dryer and gave me some detergent, no charge. It turns out that the motel is really nice, the room is well equipped, recently renovated and spotless… and as a bonus the air conditioner works correctly and doesn’t make as much noise as a steam engine.

I had intended to ride to St John's, but a bit of belated looking at a map and realize that the distance from Port aux Basques to St. John's is 900 km. That means 1800 km there and back again, for me that’s three days riding and I’m starting to run short on time. I had thought of Newfoundland as a relatively small expanse of land, but it is actually a very sizable island in the same league as Ireland.  I make another executive decision and decide to keep to the western edge of the island, thereby cancel the mission to reach the most easterly point in Canada.