Only One Night Allowed!

"The federal law says that you can only camp here for one night.  So, where would you like me to list you for the other nights of your visit?”

The National Park ranger was kind and helpful, though very clear in her directive, adding: “You could elect to stay the other two nights, but the federal marshal on this island can cite you for a federal violation.”

Here I was, on the ferry dock entry point at Rock Harbor, Isle Royale, looking at my loaded bicycle, wondering how I was going to get to another campground 3 miles away from this dock over the rocky terrain of Isle Royale. Doing quick mental math would be two loaded trips over 12 miles round trip carrying my gear for just one night, and then again upon my return. I tried to show her my loaded bicycle, which she admonished cannot leave the dock area (“there’s the bike rack where it can stay.”) to no avail, pleading for another two nights under these unusual circumstances.

So, how did this happen?  Why?

I circumnavigated Lake Superior in 2006, 17 years earlier, but never got close to Isle Royale, which is closer to Canada and the arrowhead of Minnesota than the State of Michigan where it technically lies.  I skirted the north shore of Superior last year on my Canada transect, drawn to the majesty and mystery of Lake Superior - again.  That was a monumental trip, so I was searching for another, shorter loop I could take to include Lake Superior.

Studying routes and making a plan is considerably easier today than it was in 2006 when we still had to use paper maps.  One can scan the Google-sphere for maps and information along any route, anywhere, and even chart mileages and elevation using any number of applications.  And when doing so while scanning the coastline maps, I become intrigued with the faint dotted lines that connect points and places along sea and shore.  These dotted lines led me to a ferry from Copper Harbor, Michigan – at the very tip of the copper-laden Keweenaw Peninsula of Michigan - to Isle Royale, fully a National Park.  Within minutes, I located the Isle Royale Queen IV passage schedule.  One critical leg of my loop was found.

There are similar dotted lines from Grand Portage, Minnesota that circle Isle Royale and return to Grand Portage, making several stops on the island.  I soon found that the Voyageur II based in Grand Portage makes stops in Windigo on the southern tip of this narrow 44-mile-long island, and Rock Harbor on the north end.  Though they are not on a fully aligned schedule, it was thus possible to cross Lake Superior from Copper Harbor to Grand Portage via Isle Royale, a place I have always wanted to visit. I could spend three nights at the Rock Harbor Campground, do some day hiking, and complete a loop tour.  Both ferry lines take canoes, kayaks, and bicycles.  DONE!  I booked the Isle Royale Queen for the final Saturday departure of the year on September 9^th.  If I arrived a day earlier in Copper Harbor, I could take the earlier ferry on Friday.

Filling in the tour planning blanks from St Paul to Copper Harbor is easy: Luck, Wisconsin (1/2 day, 64 miles); Spooner, Wisconsin (54 miles); Clam Lake, Wisconsin (74 miles); Bergland, Michigan (80 miles in 98 degree temperatures); historic Calumet, Michigan (50 miles); and a final damp, shore-hugging, head-windy swing into Copper Harbor along an amazing route M26 (40 miles).  

The classic architecture of Calumet

The wild waves along the M26 - an amazing ride

Wood for sale, with inscribed messages
 "Life's a Journey"  "Enjoy the Ride"  "Eat some blueberries"

Take a day off in Copper Harbor to take stock, stock up, and catch up on business matters. Though a day off, a 19-mile loop over the amazing Brockway Mountain Road for the amazing views is like a walk in the park.

The view from the top across the Keweenaw

Crest of Brockway Mountain

Upon arrival mid-afternoon Thursday, I checked in at the ferry dock. It was closed, unattended. I would wait until the Friday morning departure to verify my arrangement for Saturday and determine how transporting the bicycle works.  Interestingly, when riding from Calumet the day before, Lake Superior was a boiling sea of high, windy surf.  The ferry was canceled due to the weather, which meant they would make two runs to Isle Royale on Friday.  Of course, if the weather did not subside, I could be stuck in Copper Harbor. I was assured that the ferry would run on Saturday as the weather looked favorable for a smooth crossing - information now instantaneously available via internet applications.

The Royale Queen IV

Underway to Isle Royale

Saturday, September 9^th broke clear, cool and sunny, with an amazing sunrise as I walked my loaded bicycle to the ferry dock at 7:00 AM.  We’re sailing!  I love ferries and always have. I have been on so many, even searching them out when planning.  One local I met on my ride up the peninsula said the ferry is often referred to as the “barf barge.” I expected no such problem, for the surf was calm, the winds low.   The three-hour passage was pleasant, with seating limited but with the ability to walk about the deck.  It was mesmerizing, especially as Isle Royale started to come into view.  We pulled into Rock Harbor around noon and tied up on the ferry dock, waiting for my bike to be unloaded from the roof deck.

Unloading my bike

“Lodge guests, go to that end of the pier.  Campers, follow me for orientation and permit registration.”

The 20 or so people in the camping group received a mildly goofy though entertaining orientation to the island by a Park Ranger before lining up to have her take our island itinerary and issue us a permit to be there.  There are no reservations (except for the Rock Harbor Lodge across a small bay).  As I was toward the end of the line, I finally approached her and indicated three nights in Rock Harbor campground, please.

“The federal law says that you can only camp here for one night.  So, where would you like me to list you for the other nights of your visit?”

That’s how this story started, and now I was stuck.  I came to find out that bikers are quite rare on the island, and this rule about one night simply did not make any sense to me.  We discussed options.  She offered, finally, that I could rent a canoe and paddle to an island in the harbor that is a designated campsite and shuttle my gear the next morning after spending the night at Rock Harbor. I could spend the night on the island, then paddle back for a final night at Rock Harbor and catch the Voyageur II to Grand Portage on the Tuesday morning run. That was a plausible and intriguing suggestion.  I took it, and she wrote up my permit.  I went next door to the boatman and made a reservation for a canoe the next day – made on a post-it note.

I went to set up camp, portaging my gear over two trips to a walk-in campsite, first come, first served (“but share, please”).  I then decided to book my ferry passage for Tuesday, which was handled by the lodge concessionaire.  I had not previously booked since I was uncertain which ferry I would end up with out of Copper Harbor. I walked to the lodge around the harbor, overwhelmed as they were by the ferry cancellation of the day before with a new batch of customers waiting patiently for their rooms.  The attendant was a kindly older staffer who was gracious to make the reservation for me since we mortals had no cell service or internet on the island (satellite for the lodge and park).  When she finally cleared her customer load, she went onto the website.

“Let’s see . . . Tuesday. . . SOLD OUT!”

Oh! One cannot adequately describe the pit that suddenly formed in my gut at the sound of those words.  Here I am, on an island distant from both shores.  My only other option was to take the Sunday ferry the next day:

“Let’s see . . . Sunday. . . SOLD OUT!”

The pit just became a crater!  She offered that this seemed unusual from her experience, so the best option was to talk to the captain when the Voyageur II arrived and tied up for the night around 4:00PM.

With a few hours to kill and sweat my situation, I laid low in my campsite, soaking the sun, possibly nodding off in my portable chair (a trusted nap-a-matic), before returning to a bench on the dock awaiting the ferry.  It finally rounded the harbor mouth. 

Now, the Isle Royale Ferry from Copper Harbor looks every bit as a ferry should: clean, white-washed, and accommodating. The Voyageur II came in looking every part converted fishing boat – smaller, tighter, with less capacity.  Thoughts of the African Queen movie sprung to mind. When it appeared convenient, I approached the captain, a short, somewhat burly fellow (a Bogart impersonator?), and asked if there would be availability on Tuesday for another passenger with a bicycle.

The Voyageur II dockside

“I cannot guarantee there will be space. I do not get my passenger manifest until Monday morning.”

My pit, my crater was now gargantuan, and his response left me no choice:

“So, what about tomorrow morning?” I asked.

“I have two spots available.”

There are times when the accumulation of information can be condensed into a nanosecond of human processing time.  Sizing up his craft of limited capacity, the decision became clear, without choice, in a nanosecond: I took the spot.

“Be dockside at 7:00 AM for an 8:00 departure.”

With a mixture of relief and regret, and the hour now close to 5:00, I scrambled with a quick gait on a 4-mile loop trail to Suzy's cave, if only to relieve the pent-up anxiety of the afternoon and see at least a tiny spec of this magnificent island.  

Scenes of the Suzy's Cave loop trail

Flower before the cave

Tobin Harbor - inland from Superior

Arriving back to camp, I chatted with my camp neighbors (a guide-couple for the island, also taking the ferry to another spot on the eastern shore and hiking back with their Des Moines-based client), learning much about the island while eating my “mash dinner” (instant mashed potatoes with cubes of Spam).  I reconciled my situation as just another daily stop along a bicycle trip, rather than an extended hiking/biking trip.  It would be OK.  I have now learned how this island, catering mostly to backpackers, kayakers, and canoeists, functions.

Packing up in the darkness, I portaged my gear back to the dock, shrouded in a heavy morning fog.  The "Queen" was quiet.  Turns out the captain sleeps on his boat.  

A surreal, beautiful morning fog

He finally emerged and started methodically loading the boat with his helper, my bicycle being one of the last items to get strapped upon the roof.  I chatted with a few other passengers, including the retired attorney Eric, vagabonding around the country.  Turns out we had a lot to talk about, as he too was headed to Grand Portage, then to Vermont.

I paid my fare to the captain, thanked him profusely, and boarded the boat.  Note that I am not really classifying this as a ferry since it really didn’t feel like a ferry.  But it would do the trick.  We moved through the fog onto a very calm, glassy Lake Superior, only the loud motor working to drown other thoughts and conversation.  Not a wave in sight but the ones we created aft.  I was off the island, relieved.  I enjoyed the company of the few other passengers, especially of Eric and also Kaylor, a young park ranger sitting next to me on the foredeck on her final island days off to go backpacking, from whom I learned much about the island, her job, and ambitions. I was authoritatively corrected that the correct pronunciation is not “Aisle Roy-yalle” with a French lilt as it seems it is spelled, but simply “Isle Royal.”  The voyage was splendid as the sun came out, melted the fog into the glassy lake and warmed the soul.

My ferry mates on the few seats foredeck

Making three stops along the eastern shoreline, the ferry dropped off and picked up a few passengers on small docks, basically just a trailhead accessed from the water.  The passenger load was lighter than I expected, and I began to wonder if I could have had a spot on Tuesday – there seemed enough room on this small craft. That thought lingered until we rounded the corner into Windigo Harbor, on the southern tip of the island, where appeared a long line of backpackers waiting on the dock to board.

It all suddenly made sense to me; an aha moment.  This is a backpacker's mecca, and the only way to access the island is either at Windigo from Minnesota or Rock Harbor from Michigan.  The campsites at both harbors are intended to give a spot to disembarking backpackers as a place to land overnight before heading off into any number of trails in the hinterland of this magnificent island – a true one-night stand!  If passengers hung around those campgrounds, they would become quickly overcrowded. Though this simple logic was not explained to me when registering for a permit, I had to discover it, anxiety and all, and recognize the hard truth that this island is but a pass-through for the rare bicyclist.   

The boat, now crowded, with me planted foredeck, alone to think amidst this new crowd, arrived in Grand Portage around 4:00.  I was back on the mainland. After unloading my bike and reloading my gear, I headed to Judge Magney State Park (23 miles) to camp (in a free hiker/biker site), followed by Grand Marais (where I ran into Eric again) and then Silver Bay (71 miles) in an epic rainstorm, and then Duluth (60 miles) where I decided to meet Becky and hike in Jay Cooke State Park – I finally got my hiking fix!   

I can only think of Robert Burns's poem To A Mouse:

The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men

          Gang aft agley,

An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,

          For promis’d joy!

 

And it’s OK!  I came, I saw, I learned to return again better prepared.

A few other pictures of this journey:

What? Why?
Railroad Museum in Bergland

Not sure my call went through!

An amazing snow mast - measuring total snowfall
over the years at the crest of the Keweenaw.
I am humbled.

Finally arrived!

RIP: Donald "Brum" Brummond

 April 9, 1953 - July 22, 2023

 

Together, at last.
With Barbie.
(photo by R. Freyholtz)

Brum, are you ready yet?

We sit on damp grass kissed by the morning sun, we wait, we watch.

You emerge from your tent, sleepy, blinking,

Mouth slightly open as if to suck the morning air, a hand stroking your bald pate

Sorting your gear, slowly putting things into place, and a place for every thing.

As we wait, we recollect the road behind is well-traveled.

 

Of laboratories and students,

rapt for the conversations, wrapped in their learning.

We are your students, too

The laws of physics applied to our bikes

When in motion, stay in motion. 

 

Of your stories from Antarctica

The blame for your nocturnal sleeplessness

Against the long, cold nights and endless days.

What was it really like?

It must have been magnificent. . .

 

Of the starry night skies

Your red headlamp lighting a star chart

We sat, quietly pondering the cosmos

Even once while skinny dipping in Lake Michigan

The inky blackness of sea and sky merged, twinkling.

 

Still packing up I see.  We wait.

Could have been anywhere!

 

You listen to our bikes, suggesting an issue

Studying the geometry, cadence, and rhythm

You suggest a change to this part or that

Maybe you have three to give

Along with endless mechanical knowledge

 

Also, general knowledge of this or that

Ever an answer, thought, or explanation

On such a range of seemingly arcane subjects

Leaving us to wonder

How do you know so much?

 

As a bicyclist, we know you so well

Awaiting you to emerge and proclaim

“I don’t think I can today . . .”

Your strength, grit, and endurance prevail

Steady and determined, you finish your own way.

 

Circling Crater Lake Together
"an epic ride, Hilger"

Suddenly, you're gone.  You left without us!

 

Where did you go as we waited to start?

Did you slip out ahead whilst we pondered the past?

Did you need a head start to show us the way?

Did you need to power the peloton ahead,

Splitting the headwinds destined for us?

 

It’s quiet now.  You’re gone. Wistfully sad. . .

Scanning the way ahead . . . 

 

Oh, we believe to know where you do pedal now

Rising up to circle the stars, your stars!

No headwinds to buck, only solar tailwinds from aft

A perfect glide through the heavenly cosmos

You’re in your place, in peace, no pain.

 

You lead the pack now; we’ll follow in time

The road was well traveled with you at our side

We roll along and reflect on your life

A life well lived and well-loved

We’ll catch up, all too soon!

Goodbye, Brum.  Seeya around the cosmos!
(photo by Paul Gronhovd)

All, in one day!

This, an incredibly immersive day in Nuestro Pequenos Hermanos (NPH - Honduras), as I reflect back 24 hours hence while lofting above the clouds on my return flight home.

I have been coming to NPH since 2012, charged with helping design medical facilities and a visitor center to host incoming medical brigades on this 2,200-acre ranch 40 km northeast of Tegucigalpa.  To make the ten-year story short, I served to assist Holy Family Surgery with facility needs, now known as One World Surgery, supporting their mission providing clinical care to those in need.  Along this journey, I fell in love with the mission of NPH, caring for children in challenging familial circumstances, raising them as a family without adoptions in this decidedly peaceful, caring rural environment.

In 2013, I became padrino (godfather) to Axel David Quintero Padilla, age 14, my “tocayo” (people of the same name) since we share the name “Axel.” Today, Axel is studying Architecture at the University.

I try to return at least once a year to visit Axel and the other pequeῆos, as well as check in on progress or projects at One World Surgery (see Building Brick By Brick).  This visit was different.  I joined a small group of other donors and godparents, along with two teenage visitors from South Carolina, solely to visit and participate in ranch activities.  The highlight was to be the rite of passage for 15-year-old boys and girls making the first step into adulthood, called quinceaῆero. 

And what, then, of this incredible day, Saturday, November 19, 2022?

Walk-about

As has been my custom, I rise early and take a walk into the mountains around the ranch before breakfast.  This morning, Stephanie Pommier, the Executive Director of the Minneapolis office for NPH, joined my hike around the ranch, covering some five to six miles.  Seeing the piney hills and the broad expanse of the valley below in the quiet morning light is special, accompanied by occasional birdsong and flowers.  

Stephanie wandering the piney woods on the mountaintop

She had never seen the hidden corners of the ranch on her previous visit, so it pleased me to share my regular experience. We saw a John Deere tractor distributing silage to the dairy herd, the possible gift of a farmer/donor known to Stephanie, serving well the donor's intent.

The John Deere Breakfast Wagon for the dairy herd
 (Photo: Stephanie Pommier)

Axel Draws

Following the hike, as I finished up my breakfast, Axel showed up, having taken the bus from Tegus following a University examination the evening before.  This was to be our one day together to catch up.  However, I wanted to bring my drawing skills to the pequeῆos and arranged to host a drawing class for anyone that wished to do so.  I brought my own supplies: good quality paper, many colored pencils, charcoal, and even felt tip pens for the students to try.  Arranged at a stand-up table in a new playground area dedicated to special needs children, I demonstrated to 8 pequeῆos (with another named Axel!) the technique of drawing perspective (3 dimensional) while Axel translated, verbally and graphically.  We drew a simple box to demonstrate how to make 3 dimensions come alive on a flat, two-dimensional piece of paper, describing and applying horizon lines, vanishing points, light, and texture.  I harbored no expectations, even the possibility of no one attending since arrangements were made rather late. 

Starting the drawing class!

It was a great success.  Outside on this beautifully sunny day, gathered around the table, I could see the intensity of their efforts and the “aha” moments when they connected the points and lines in a way that bought their box, then a house, to life.

What made me especially proud as a “padrino” was to watch Axel spring into action, demonstrating technique, showing “his boys” how to draw.  I watched, marveling at how time has flown by; nine years from boy to man, and now teaching his craft in a way I never really expected or contemplated.  He can teach, too, just as I had done with him at age 14, with colored pencils, observed by his roommates in his hogar.

Axel, in whiteT-Shirt, guiding our 

students.

I offered the remainder of my supplies to the boys (the girls had to leave a bit early), whoever wanted them.  Most took a pen and perhaps a pencil and a piece of paper. Still, one in particular quietly hung around to see what was left and was eager to take the remaining wad of paper, most of the pencils and pens, with a promise requested by me - a “condition” if you will - that he would draw at least once a week.  I never intend to monitor that agreement, rather just to plant a seed that might prosper.  His demonstrated interest, eagerness, and intensity, the most noticeable of the group, suggests that a seed has been planted.

Confirmation

Elsewhere on the ranch, certain pequeῆos were preparing to be honored and given divine guidance on their Catholic future at mass.  We had mass the day before, celebrating quinceaῆero, a pageantry of elegant red ballroom dresses on the girls, and red shirts, suspenders, and ties for the boys, all of whom displayed a sort of cool boredom at all the fuss. Likely characteristic of this age and mindset.  

Their body language says it all: too cool for 15!

The mass celebrated their passage into early adulthood, a custom in Central America, followed by an evening of dancing in a majestic pageant, a glittery “ballroom” transformed from the outdoor gymnasium.

Bailando de la quinceaῆeras

This mass was different, though, for it was hosted with a rare visit by Cardinal Oscar Rodriguez Maradiaga, Archbishop of Tegucigalpa, within the humble outdoor Iglesia.  This is a very big deal, especially for those confirmed.  Cardinal Maradiaga had been on the short list of candidates from Central and South America to become Pope when Pope Francis from Argentina ultimately ascended the papacy in 2013.

Now, I am not a religious person, at least in terms of traditional liturgical practice.  Spiritual, yes.  Religious, no.  However, I do appreciate that many people are religious, and I take a respectful interest in all faiths as a central cultural norm, curious about their unique rites and rituals.  I found, over the years, a great appreciation for Central American catholic mass, typically accompanied by lively music, clapping, and warm greetings among worshipers. Frankly, this upbeat aspect was not always accompanied by a priest demonstrating an equivalent vivacity; rather, they are well practiced in a modestly upbeat version of solemnity.

Confirmation Mass

I expected Cardinal Maradiaga to epitomize solemnity – seemed logical.  Though I understood little of his actual sermon and homily, he did speak slowly enough that I caught the humor of his message, delivering wisdom of life ahead purposefully to all the pequeῆos through humor and jokes, including audience participation, with an intense yet sincere presentation style.    I was impressed.  It seemed to me many priests, padres, and pastors I have heard could learn what makes an interesting, compelling presentation.

I was hoping that he would be able to visit the chapel I designed at the surgery center, but as it was Saturday, the key was not available.  Axel and I were chatting with Cardinal Maradiaga and Reinhardt Kohler (the founder of NPH) following Mass, as everyone had mostly cleared, to see if there was time enough for a visit. His warmth of delivery at Mass extended into a personal exchange in impeccable English and ended by thanking me for my service to NPH.  Quite unexpected!*

Nienke

I met Nienke (Nikki) shortly after I arrived at NPH, as she is a 28-year-old volunteer from the Netherlands on her second stint to extend research for her Master’s thesis around physical therapy themes.  Humble, direct, and passionate about pequeῆos with special needs, her passion for NPH is clearly evident in her continual engagement with them.  She also knows Axel.

On the "secret" rock at sunset, before swimming!

After Mass, the three of us agreed to hike up to the “secret” rock that Axel and I typically visit, watching as we climbed the sun beginning its colorful descent. Though a bit concerned that the impending darkness would make traversing the slippery rock pathway more treacherous, Nikki had it in her mind to go swimming in the new reservoir. 

The ranch gets its water collected and trapped in the mountain watershed through a network of small check-dams trapping water in minor creeks, as well as a few larger dam structures impounding a larger body of water, all connected by pipes to the central ranch water tanks down the mountain.  A newer reservoir was dammed several years ago in this higher mountain vale, and that was Nikki’s secret spot, visited typically daily for her solo swim, surrounded as it is by pine woods. 

Axel and I were not about to say no, so she led us to her “spot” on the shoreline. Axel and I stripped to our civies and, following her lead, plunged into the stratified, murky water; stratified since the warmer water was the first few feet of depth, followed by decidedly colder water below, and murky from the rock sediment so prevalent everywhere in these woods just below the forest floor.  With the darkening sky, this was an absolutely amazing experience. Peaceful, refreshing, just plain fun, and a new experience for me at NPH. 

We found our way down the mountain in the now deep darkness, phone lights on, drying out a bit on our way back to the visitor’s dormitory, San Cristobal.  Since the communal kitchen was soon to close, we hurried with our bowls to gather our dinner and, at Nikki’s suggestion, joined two other visitors to have dinner with the special needs kids in their hogar, Santa Maria Reyna.  Axel also spent his year of service following high school graduation with the special needs boys. 

Nikki with her special friends, with a staff member looking on

I have never had much exposure to special needs children, much less adults.  For me, there has always been a wall, a hidden barricade, keeping them from my social sphere simply because of their differences. NPH has long had special needs homes for boys and girls, a desperate unmet need in Honduras.  I was suddenly placed in a position unfamiliar to me, engaging with people quite disconnected from my own reality. Nikki and Axel showed me how to crash through that wall.  Merely observing how Nikki engaged with these pequeῆos was marvelous.  But what could I do?

Reading Curious George to my new friends.

Read a book to a few of them – Curious George, in Spanish. Soon after, a clipboard with two sheets of blank white paper and a pencil was presented to me.  Draw, since one of the pequeῆas likes to draw.

My 10-minute sketch of a house - 

labeled in honor of Santa Maria Reyna

I drew, not realizing at all the level of mute awareness they displayed.  I repeated my house examples from morning class: line by line, point by point, bringing this two-dimensional image into a three-dimensional view.  Magic really, not the drawing of it, but the perception of it.  I turned to the second blank sheet of paper and the pencil, and handed them to a pequeῆa, asking her to draw what she saw.  Initially, her pencil paused over the paper, unsure of where to begin.  Then, slowly, with mute smiles and facial expressions, the dim shape of the roof started to appear, just as two lines.

I was stunned – and overjoyed.  I connected with her!

It was a start – certainly of her drawing, but more of my awakening to the reality of their awareness.  I was proud of Nikki for the depth of her care and compassion, for taking me here to experience this moment, for being able to talk to these people and know that something, some level of comprehension, was going on within them and enriching their daily existence.  I was humbled by the staff and their dedication to the special lives of these people. I appreciated the approach of NPH to seek integration of special needs into the daily activity of the ranch; even at mass, where their occasional, random outbursts might elsewhere draw an annoyed frown for the “sacred” disturbance, is simply accepted as fact as their means of communication. And, I was proud of Axel for dedicating so much of his later years at NPH to the care of the special needs boys that continues to this day.   

How does one finish, let alone absorb the events of this one day?

We finished by sitting, the three of us, around the radiant, waning warmth of a bonfire, talking of life ahead for Nikki and Axel, of companionship and love, of life and living, of people and mission, under an immense, starry sky.

They walked me back to San Cristobal. I tossed and turned, struggling to sleep, reflecting on all that happened.  All, in one day.

_____________________________________________________________________ 

*As a postscript, I ran into Cardinal Maradiaga again in the airport Sunday morning, where he recognized me, we chatted more, and he suggested a future visit to the chapel, which he had heard about when the donors and founders, Peter and Lulu Daly, could be present to visit with him. I hope that can happen for the Daly’s deserve such a visit. 

Cardinal Oscar Rodriguez Maradiaga at the 
airport greeting and thanking our volunteers

The Best, Worst and Final Days

I unwittingly saved the best for last.  And yet, in a way, the last day was both the best and the worst day.

Recall that I had last parted with old friends and gained new friends.  Mariya and I enjoyed four days of riding along the south shore of the St. Lawrence River when she had to backtrack to Montreal to take care of work and personal matters.  I proceeded over the top of the Gaspe Peninsula, itself a broad series of rolling mountain ridges, then gently descended along the Matapedia River to the small town of Matapedia.  I relived a previous trip by camping at the site of a well-known motel where we had stayed and enjoyed a final trip meal.  Instead, this motel, built on stilts along the river, was empty, weedy, and in a state of decay, ironically not from the ravages of economic conditions induced by COVID, but rather a major flood that rose well into the raised first-floor level.  

Hard to imagine this area was entirely flooded part way
up the upper floor.  A deserted 1960's relic, well built.

The present and long-time family owner railed against the ravages of clear-cutting that created the conditions for flooding, which also ruined the prized salmon fishing conditions of the Matapedia.  So camping replaced a room.  The pool was still functional and used by me. It was sad to see and listen to his environmental woes.

Crossing into New Brunswick was like crossing into a new world.  I was expecting that the French language would disappear once departed from Quebec.  Instead, it was as dominant a language as in Quebec for the fact of its ancestry being primarily Acadian. Of French origin, Acadians migrated to the maritime areas of Canada from persecution in France in the 16th and 17th centuries and created a region known as Acadie.  They were later persecuted by the English during its occupation of Canada, and many were deported to Georgia or hid in the more remote regions of the Maritimes.  Most then found their way to Louisiana and began the Cajun clans there that prosper to this day.

The classic New Brunswick coastline.

As I am bicycling through New Brunswick, following the coastline through mostly French-named villages and towns, one cannot help but notice the intense pride and patriotism for the Acadian heritage.  New Brunswick might as well be renamed Acadie for all the signs one could see: painted light poles, flags everywhere, houses dressed in the colors.  

The telephone poles too?

This kind of visual patriotism occurred everywhere!

In the town of Caraquet, I ventured in heavy rain to a Japanese restaurant for a late bite to eat and ended up chatting with a couple, Mario and Barbara, neighbors at the bar.  Solidly Acadian, they explained to me the rich tradition and pride they have and clearly stated that Acadians are not French Canadian as are the Quebecois.  They are Acadian!  I get it.

Mario and Barbara, Acadians, giving me a perspective
of their culture

Just as suddenly, though, I crossed over the long Confederation Bridge onto Prince Edward Island and felt I was immediately tossed into the English countryside.  So much of the landscape, village structures, farm fields, and rolling verdant hills reminded me of places I hiked in England.  

This could be an English landscape on PEI.  The steepness of 
the hills were a surprise.

PEI prides itself on being the birthplace of the Canadian Confederation in 1864, uniting the Province of Canada: Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, Quebec, and Ontario.  It is also famous for its potatoes.  I took a rest day in Charlottetown, a pleasant city with a long history.

The ferry from Wood Island on PEI took me to Nova Scotia, where I encountered more rolling countryside through the town of Antigonish, then traversing the unexpectedly hilly interior toward Cape Breton.  Surprisingly, I found a Warm Showers host in the tiny First Nation village of Paq'tnkek Mi'kmaw, as did another cyclist, Deveenath ("Dave"), a 28-year-old Ottawan of Indian (India) descent who, like me, was crossing Canada on his first trip, starting from Victoria.  We both were well hosted and fed by Jack DeWilde, a Dutchman who married into the Mi'kmaw nation. This was the first time I had ever slept in a recreation vehicle.

Jack prepared a stir fry for Dave and me, accompanied by many stories

Dave and I rode the next day along a hilly Nova Scotia coastline onto Cape Breton Island, then headed north to the town of Whacocomagh, where we camped.  Now it is important to realize that most campgrounds, especially private ones, are geared for recreational vehicles, packed in like sardines, but with a lively social construct of retirees along with some families that park there for extended periods of time.  Luckily, they found a sufficient piece of grass for three tents - the third belonging to Mariya, who decided her one week of vacation was inadequate and joined us via train and taxi from Montreal late this evening to visit Newfoundland.  She arrived as the campground hosted a dance under their expansive shelter, with a live duo playing old rock, country, and some local folk music from nine o'clock until midnight!  The audience was primarily retirees swinging, tapping, and absorbing the tunes of yesteryear.  Quite a sight!  Music is a big deal in the Maritimes.

The dance event at the campground.  Yes, they did start dancing!

We were a threesome now, riding the shoreline of the very long Bras d'Or Lake up to North Sydney, where we caught the 5:30pm ferry to Argentia, Newfoundland.  An overnight ferry, we thus "camped" wherever we could sleep, mostly on the floor between empty rows of seats.  It could have been worse, but for the most part, following a solid breakfast in the cafeteria, we were rested enough to begin the tour of southeastern Newfoundland.  

Aboard the Argentia ferry for Newfoundland

We rarely rode together, but we did travel together!

Shaped like a "W," this route that follows the shoreline is known as the "Irish Loop."  It doesn't just follow the shoreline horizontally but vertically as well, for the landscape is a sculpted rock with fingers that drop precipitously into the sea, villages tucked down and into the coves between these fingers.  And the hills are STEEP!  The villages are small, there are no campgrounds to speak of, and we found ourselves wild camping at a school, a village playground, behind a restaurant, and at a visitors center before finally making it to LaManche Provincial Park.  

An oft-repeated scene - big hills rising out of seaside villages

Many people cannot conceive of wild camping, absent the normal amenities.  In places such as remote Newfoundland villages, it creates opportunities for community interaction, often in very special ways.  Consider the case of Colinet, a small fishing village at the tip of a long bay and a crossroads to points north and west.  Mariya and I arrived late afternoon after 61 cloudy miles to stop at the only store in town - a convenience store with one gas pump, the post office, groceries, and a clerk that knows everybody.  I asked the clerk where we could pitch a tent, and while there was another customer hovering nearby, she engaged her on the question and brought up several ideas when another fellow buying a 12-pack of beer was asked if the playground was mowed.  As he lived next to the playground and mowed it, he affirmed it was, and the discussion ensued among the three of them while Mariya and I just watched this community scene unfold in front of us.  It was settled: "one block down, take a left, go up the hill, and the playground is on the right."

We arrived at the playground a few minutes later and determined it was quite adequate with some picnic tables, a fire ring, fields, and a tired, unused basketball court.  As we started to set up our tents, the beer man came by with his neighbor loaded with an armful of firewood and starter.  We were invited to shower in the beer-man's house and invited to come and enjoy the man-cave environment of the other neighbor, who wished only to be known as "neighbor."  He set up his speakers to blare some music our way.  Dave soon arrived, and we enjoyed a shower, dinner, and a campfire started and tended by Mariya that held off the mosquitoes adequately and the rain affirmatively!  

Our raging campfire.  Mariya loves fires.

Before turning in, we wandered over to the "neighbor" to say thank you for their kind hospitality, but it wasn't that simple.  Another beer was required, and some sit-down and chat time was necessary with the boys in the garage.

The garage gang.

The next morning, stopping a moment at the convenience store, there were three breakfast sandwiches waiting for us, compliments of the owner!

These are a few examples of the complete friendliness of Newfoundlanders, as proud of their Irish heritage as the Acadians are of their French heritage. It is quite random at times.  One couple invited Mariya and me in for tea mid-afternoon while climbing a steep hill, which we graciously accepted (Dave was well behind us).  

The fossil beds

A typical fossil of many types

We visited the UNESCO site at Mistaken Point, the site of the oldest known fossils in the world (530-550 million years old), and the park ranger that helped us get transportation to this site (accessed by reserved guided tour only), who after work, returned to our campsite behind the visitors center with a bag of hand-picked wild blueberries and three homemade blueberry muffins! 

Pearl with her gift of blueberries and muffins!

We visited the ecological reserve and rookery at Cape St. Mary, an astounding place with thousands of birds nesting on a cliff, and a place where the staff was only too willing to help us find the right fleece jacket to buffer against the rising colder temperatures, as there were no other visitors on this cloudy, cold morning.  

The rookery of Gannets on a broken-off cliff  

St. Mary's Ecological Preserve

So by this point, you may ask, "why bad, then?"  Indeed, for it was not the landscape, barren of trees, windswept and hauntingly beautiful.  It wasn't even the hills; though they are steep, we were resigned that they must be overcome and are always followed by some pretty swift downhills.  It was fittingly the last day of riding, the last day of my long journey, the last of 112 days, a day of only 37 miles from LaManche Provincial Park campground (where we camped for free by the good nature of the rangers), the final miles of 5,543 miles.  

This last day proved for me to be the hardest day of the entire journey, for tropical storm Earl was bearing down on the maritime seaboard, and bearing down hard.  Headwinds of over 50 miles per hour in parts, pounding rain mixed at times with stinging sleet, killer hills that never seemed to end, cold, wet hands that could barely shift gears, a roiling seascape, a drenched raincoat, and baggy sodden rainpants.  It was as if Mother Nature was telling me, "you ain't done yet."  These were the most brutal conditions for riding I had experienced, and I was physically exhausted and, worse, mentally drained.  Dave had gotten stuck in the storm and did not make it to LaManche, and got blown over twice by the wind.  Mariya had far less trouble and seemed, as usual, to climb the hills mostly with little apparent effort (though she admits it was hard).  By the time I reached Cape Spear, the easternmost point of North America and my final destination, I had walked up several hills pushing my heavy bike, cursing up a storm, and even had to walk my bike on gentle slopes to avoid being blown over.

Hanging onto my bike at Cape Spear, wet and cold.

It was very, very hard.  Add to that the realization that my trip was 100 meters from being over. I was greeted by Mariya, who preceded me to the top with a hug as I could not help being overcome by emotion at this moment.  I was grateful she was there.  And yet, it was still not bad enough to open Megan's card. (see earlier blogpost).  That was reserved for my return, opened in front of Megan.

It was the end of her trip as well.  I couldn't even take the picture!

Mariya and I pulled each other through this journey when we were together.  And given the conditions, I could spend only a few minutes capturing a photograph and reflecting on my achievement of a lifetime.  A fitting end, perhaps. No long good-bye's!

Trip over.  We got a cab to take us to St. John's to escape the nasty conditions and spent a few days being ordinary tourists, packing our bikes into boxes for travel, walking Signal Hill in the fog, watching the weather change, and reuniting with Dave a day later for a well-deserved celebration dinner.

Mariya loved picking blueberries. 
I loved that she picked blueberries and shared them!

We cheered news of Dave's arrival at Cape Spear

St. John's - the end of the road for our journey together.
I was pleased to finish in the company of new friends!

I take nothing away from the entirety of Canada - its people and its landscapes.  I love Canada.  It is a great place to tour, with great friendly people, and there are many spots as yet unseen that may call to me in the future.  We agreed that the one thing that makes a TransCanada journey so interesting is the people.  That said, we all agreed at this final moment of togetherness that Newfoundland is the friendliest place in Canada, a simple, down-to-earth welcoming place that beckons us for all its severity of landform.