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.

Old Friends. New Friends.

In many respects the St. Lawrence River is an old friend as I have visited it on a few trips and am fond of its character. For ten days and 656 miles, I was carried by its current from the narrow headwaters at Kingston, Ontario, through Montreal, Quebec (city), and along the south shore to the small towns of Sainte-Flavie and Mont-Jolie, where I parted with my old friend the river, turning south toward New Brunswick across the top of the Gaspe Peninsula.

New friends dominated this stretch of road though I had to say goodbye to old friends on this stretch, and it was hard to do. Permit me to explain.

Route 138 from Montreal into Quebec (city) follows the Chemin du Roy (Kings Road).  Wonderfully scenic and rolling, it is also subject to weather and chance encounters.  I arrived at the small village of Sainte Anne de-la-Perade from Trois Rivieres, having pushed a headwind out of my way.  I stopped and parked my bicycle against a sign pedestal and sat down, scrolling through Googlemaps to see what was available for lodging, camping or a motel/auberge.  There coincidentally appeared a car that parked next to me. A woman hopped out and asked me, initially in French, if I had a place to stay. Of course, I did not as I was searching for just such a spot.  She explained that she had friends that did extensive bicycle travel and had told her that what cyclists need most is a place to sleep and get cleaned up – essentially a warm shower concept.  I graciously accepted her offer. 

Meet Nancy Fraser, 44 and an activities coordinator for the elderly, who invited me to stay at her apartment only a few kilometers away.  I very graciously accepted, got directions, and wound my way through the village to the duplex along the river. We had a wonderful visit.  A beer in a chair along the riverbank, visited and poked at by the local duck.  A simple meal of tomato sandwiches, talked music (jazz), and also played a game of Scrabble.  Though French-speaking, she played in English, and after my strong start, she demolished me!  The next morning a simple breakfast was followed by discussion about, and examination of, her bicycle and how she could get a better fit. 

Nancy Fraser, quick with a beer by the river.

The persistent duck

Losing badly at Scrabble. I will not divulge the score.

A new friend made. After she gave me some homemade beet salad for my lunch, I headed out in a misty gray morning toward Quebec (city). 

It wasn’t long before I had to put on my raincoat to ward off the wetness, for it lasted quite a long time.  Took a short break for a patisserie in Deschambault, a nice village with a dominating church.  I met several other long-distance cyclists there, also on break. The rain took a short break, long enough for me to have lunch at the start of the Corridor du Littoral into the City, a pathway that takes one closer to the river levels through lovely rural areas directly into the old quarter.  That is until road construction (more specifically a closed road) takes you up very steep bluffs, and when closer to the city, the need to surmount the bluffs that provided the city its unique vantage point for protection in the 1600’s.  After walking up several hills and navigating the city streets (also under construction) I finally found my accommodation at Rosie’s Cottage, which is actually not a cottage but a three-story walk-up townhouse in the St. Jean Baptiste neighborhood.  

Rosie's "Cottage"

Rosie is a character, provided all kinds of great information, and the history of her ownership of this small accommodation near the old town area.  It was a wonderful respite from the rain, and reasonably affordable given the tourist-driven inflation generally.

One of several gates into the old quarter

Wandering the wet streets in search of food, and photos

Night shot near Rosie's neighborhood

But I was worried about another old friend as I wandered the damp streets of old town that evening, navigating the crowds and searching for decent dinner fare.

My sandals, quite damp not only on this day, but on this trip, were displaying significant wear and tear, with the emphasis on the latter.  I already had a strap break requiring repair in Victoria, but now another strap pulled out, and the strain on the wet leather-like material seemed risky given the time I have remaining.  It was going to be difficult to replace them anywhere but a larger city.  Many bicycle shops simply do not carry any shoe inventory.  Prior to departing Quebec, I got a referral to Mathieu Performance bike shop and decided to see what they would have.  I was greeted by Pierre and his associate, who directed me to the recommended touring shoe, as that is what he wears. A fit was made, the clip installed, and a final goodbye made as they were somewhat unceremoniously dumped by the associate into the trash.  I did not have the heart (or sole) to toss them myself.

I couldn't inter my beloved sandals, so the associate
took on the task!

These sandals, my old friend, have been on many trips, serving me well every time and everywhere.  I was really very sorry to see them go.  Time to get used to a new friend.

Time to break in the new pair (friend)1

I left the bike shop on the near north side of the city and rode around to the ferry terminal that would take me to the south shore in Levis.  The new shoes, a bit stiff and unyielding, nevertheless began their journey.  It was time to head out along the river.

The ferry departing Quebec for Levis, a view of the old quarter

The ferry is a short hop, maybe 15 minutes across the water, with typically many bicycles on board, just enough time to snap some photos of the receding skyline of old town.  And like lemmings, the bicyclists depart the ferry first in a drove, and I followed to the bike path that headed eastward.  As I did so, I noted another touring cyclist right behind me heading in the same direction.  I slowed a bit to inquire the usual questions of start and destination.  The answer lasted  4 days.

Correcting our "mistake" Mariya and I crossed through beautiful
rural valleys back toward the river.

Meet Mariya Moneva, a 44-year young producer/performance manager for the arts from Bulgaria but living in Montreal, on a short weeklong trek downstream on the same route and destination as I was planning.  We started chatting the typical introductory questions of profession, family, bicycling, etc., so engrossed in the conversation and assuming the other knew which path to take, that we both missed the turn and headed due south instead of east along the river – for about 18 miles!  Time to plot a new course.

Looks like I am struggling to keep up. She tested me
and kept me going!  We were equals physically.

Sunsets were our time to reflect, here along the St. Lawrence at
SEBKA, an environmentally focused campground.  The skeeters
were horrible.

Here's why: one usually meets a lot of travelers while on tour, but most of the interactions are short lived, maybe a few days at the most, with the singular objective of going one’s own way.  It’s only natural.  You make a plan and work the plan.  But this was distinctly different.  Mariya, as it turns out, was hoping for company on this trip but could not find anyone to accompany her, and decided to go it alone to get away from her busy schedule.  On the other hand, I had been traveling solo for 86 days and was quite used to going it alone.  The walk in the old City the evening before was nice, with many pictures taken, but being in a magical place like the old walled city of Quebec is best a shared experience.  I could not do so, the food I found was not that good, the pub too loud and not the intimate setting I had hoped for, and I was in a bit of a sour mood thereafter.  Perhaps, having a shared ride with a stranger was OK for a few miles.

Patisserie.  Boulangerie.  No matter!  She guards
her croissant well!

I could recite all that we discussed but that would be boring.  Suffice it to say that we hit it off as a pair of travelers unusually well.  We rode at a brisk pace together.  We were open to discussing alternative routes and taking them. We were OK with our mistake, and those more minor ones that followed.  We shared our food.  We both enjoyed ice cream and pastries.  We both enjoyed camping, and since she traveled extensively for her job, she actually preferred camping to motels. We walked the beachfront.  We appreciated a shower and sunsets, and engaging with other campers. We talked a lot in front of an evening campfire that she liked to make.  We even agreed upon what we should buy at the grocery store to share. 

The sunsets were amazing, this at a campground in Montmagny

Mariya is the kind of riding partner one could only hope for.  Though she could easily whip me up the hills, and set a crisp pace that would challenge most, I was up for the challenge and rose to it, though there were more than a few hills that I had to walk, and a lesser amount she had to.  Even after a grueling stretch of ridiculously steep grades on gravel that resulted in a long lunch stop, including a nap on the picnic bench, we ended the day, and our trip, in Parc Bic, short in total daily mileage but long on an amazing walk along Ha-Ha Cove in the evening.     

Contemplating the evening in Ha-Ha Baie in Parc Bic.  An amazing
spot and an amazing evening walk.

We celebrated our time together with spaghetti, smoked
salmon and avocado - and a campfire. She enjoyed
my camp chair!

Though tempted to continue one-way with me to Moncton or some other town where she could catch a bus or train home, in the end, the call of duty to take care of business at home turned her bike westward as I headed eastward after 4 wonderful days together.  We continue to follow each other’s journey, and who knows if there is not another planned journey in our future. This was a fleeting capture moment.

She’s a friend, a new friend, and I now believe our wrong turn was the right turn. 

 

I did struggle on some hills!