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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| The telephone poles too? |
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| Aboard the Argentia ferry for Newfoundland |
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| 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.
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| 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!
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| 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.
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| 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).
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| The fossil beds |
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| A typical fossil of many types |
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| 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.
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| The rookery of Gannets on a broken-off cliff |
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| 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.
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| Mariya loved picking blueberries. I loved that she picked blueberries and shared them! |
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| We cheered news of Dave's arrival at Cape Spear |
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| 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.
