Fleeting Capture: September 2026

Nova Scotia has magical imagery; its constantly changing viewscapes are best absorbed at the slow pace of a bicycle. Imagine:

A fishing boat, lying on its gunwales in the mud of the harbor, awaiting the high tides of the Bay of Fundy to return, releasing it to fish
An old rail-trail bisecting an inland marsh and a cove with the wind-whipped Atlantic in the distance
Long stretches of stunted spruce forests mixed with bogs in a tundra-like landscape
Colorful houses hugging the hillside dropping to an old waterfront, preserving the character of a late 1700’s fishing village that it once was
Acadian villages, colorfully proud of their French heritage but a few miles distant from English villages, a bit more of a black and white palette
Watching whales from the beach frolicking and blowing in the Bay of Fundy

Cove on St. Mary's Bay at low tide

From the ferry crossing the Bay of Fundy from St. John, New Brunswick, the approaching coastline of Nova Scotia keeps MariyaMoneva and me silent with anticipation of the road ahead, for the horizon seems faintly flattish, level and perhaps not so difficult a challenge to ride with loaded bicycles. It was cloudy but not raining, and we had miles to ride under a cloud deck as we started our journey on the west Fundy coastline and moved around Nova Scotia counterclockwise.

Mariya and me approaching the Port of Digby,
our third and longest trip together so far

We were quickly punished by the roller coaster of hills that easily describe the entire coastline. Formed by creeks and rivers dropping to the sea, and the ancient dunes formed into a hilly ridge along the Digby Arm, the shoulderless road seemingly grabs your bike on the uphills and releases it into a marvelous descent, only to repeat, again and again. After a few, it is no longer punishment, but simply the way of being – up and down, and sometimes just flat. You roll into it, expecting it, and sometimes, cursing yet another hill.

One of many seaside vistas - so peaceful!

Mariya Moneva and me, now on our third tour together (see The Joy of Unmet Expectations and The Best, Worst and Final Day), decided at the last minute to tour Nova Scotia, long a dream of hers and a repeat of several trips I'd taken through parts of the region. We had to abandon a trip through the Canadian Rockies when the persistent wildfire smoke became too risky. We scrambled to assemble our third trip since meeting up, coming off the ferry in Levis, Quebec, in 2022, and made a great team to share the experience of this landscape, often riding side-by-side, or separated by perhaps a kilometer, riding with our own thoughts and impressions, kind of in a Zen state. That is how it happens.

Riding the Salt Marsh Trail

Cape Breton is technically an island separated from mainland Nova Scotia by the Bay of Canso, a narrow stretch of water that connects the Atlantic with the Bay of St. Lawrence. Cape Breton Highlands National Park is a place of pure magic, hugging the coastline and traversing steep hills, yet with low-traffic gravel and paved country roads in the interior. The Cabot Trail is one of the most stunning roads, touted as world-class. Culturally a blend of Acadian, English, and Scottish villages, the signs read in English and Gaelic; Cape Breton is saved for last in our planning.

Dense spruce forest and stream

Life on a bike is life slowed down, catching glimpses of berries – blueberries, blackberries and raspberries - growing abundantly along the roadsides, easily caught by the laser focus of Mariya, whom I would catch up to stooped down in the brambles, handing me a handful. Life on a bike is passing a pipe of the freshest, cold spring water coming out of the mountain, constantly fast and furious, and filling our water bottles. Some days we rode for hours without seeing any places to get more water, riding silently, as if meditating. It is truly a Zen experience.

Nothing can stop Mariya from
picking berries. Such skill!

On September 2^nd, 18 days into our tour, at 4:09 PM, 39 miles into a 55-mile day loaded with hills, with Mariya rounding a distant corner half a kilometer ahead of me out of shouting range, the Zen was shattered. I sent her the following message:

“Mechanical problem. General store. Bike stopped.”

Fuck! And I mean a serious FUCK!

My brand-new bicycle, on its maiden tour, suddenly screeched to a halt with an awful, noisy, and stiff resistance as I pedaled. I quickly dismounted, crossed the street, and parked my bike against an aging, rusted signpost of a vacant building. I angrily stripped off all the panniers and gear, tossing them carelessly to the ground. I had no idea what could be causing this horrific noise.

Zen shattered.

The Wreck General Store is a lonely place, with no neighbors but vast woods, and had a sign out front: “Closed for the Season.” A ramshackle, deteriorating structure housed an empty store on the main level, with the owner's living quarters upstairs. It could have been a ghost-town structure, for it had no life remaining. Two vehicles were parked out front, and I could hear some distant conversation. But I had my own problem to solve.

Stuck at the store, bike and building broken down.

Anger in this desolate spot did not help. I settled into problem-solving mode. On closer inspection, I noticed my rear wheel was loosely misaligned and wobbly, and I discovered the retaining nut for the thru-bolt axle, along with its set screw, missing, with the axle partially backed out of its dropout slot. I walked the roadway where I first heard the noise multiple times, searching in vain for the missing nut.

The missing threaded nut and set screw

Around then, Brent, the owner of the Wreck General Store (and perhaps an appropriate name for this situation), called to me, “Looks like you have some kind of problem.” Since I had searched along the roadway, he figured I wasn't geo-caching. I explained the problem, and he said I was in trouble. “No bike shops anywhere, but you are welcome to camp behind the store, or across the street, as that is federal land. You’d have a great sunrise over the water.”

Well, that was Plan B - not helpful - yet. Plan A was solving the problem.

I purchased my Priority bicycle in April, a bike made in Brooklyn, New York, and only sold directly to consumers. They had been responsive in answering my questions before I purchased, so when I was disabled and standing somewhat helplessly by the side of the road, I contacted them at 4:37 by email. It was a workday, and we were one time zone east of New York. They responded at 5:00 PM Atlantic time, to their immense credit. After several text messages, they confirmed replacement parts were in inventory and could ship next-day express. In the meantime, they recommended what we could do with local parts. I texted back that would contact them with an address.

Meanwhile, Mariya and Jim . . .

While I was fretting, Mariya had rounded the corner and continued toward Ingonish. Cell service was virtually non-existent, with calls impossible and text messages the only hope. She had tried to call me three times around 5:00, and finally a text came through “Hey! All good? You were able to replace the missing parts?” In the absence of solid communication, with one lucky call going through, we agreed she should move on to Ingonish and try to find accommodation. By 6:04, she had arrived in Ingonish, which is not a compact town, and found a vacancy at the Glenghorm Beach Resort, which she booked over the phone. On her way there, she naturally stopped at a blueberry stand to buy some. Jim Dunphy, an 83-year-old blueberry picker and seller, heard about the breakdown from Mariya and told her he would come pick me up in his sedan if needed. Mariya left me a voice message to this effect at 7:23, as it was starting to get dark.

Back to Brent . . .

Brent came back out of his garage a few minutes later and told me he knew a fellow, one of his neighbors, who is interested in and rides bikes, who may have a nut. He immediately called Adam Shore, who was in North Sydney on a family shopping errand the day before school starts, and said he would help me when he returned. I could start walking to his house, and he would likely pass me along the way, or he could pick me up at the store. Brent told me he was about 3km down the road. I agreed to walk.

I pushed my bike, somewhat peacefully and hopeful in the late afternoon sun. 3km came and went, with no sign of a cabin rental site as Brent described. I waited for a car to come by and signal. None did. So, I walked back the likely 4 km to the store and hoped Brent would still be there, as I hadn't thought to get Adam’s phone number to communicate directly.

I arrived at the store, and after getting Brent’s attention, he immediately came out and said: “Let’s put your bike in my daughter's truck, and I will drive you to Adam’s house.” Then I realized Brent’s estimate of the distance was quite a bit off. But I did hear that the store had been closed for a year and was being sold.

Then Adam . . .

Adam runs a small cabin rental business and works as a contracted trail builder. He greeted me warmly and saw me walking but couldn't stop because his son was starting middle school the next morning and his wife (a school principal) was getting things ready for school, too. It was busy, but he was happy to assist if he could first geek out over my new bicycle.

We walked up to his barn, a wide-open space loaded with man-cave stuff, admittedly disorganized, yet he still knew where to look. He pulled down two mountain bikes to see if their thru-axle assembly could work. He dragged another out of the house. He pawed through multiple boxes of miscellaneous hardware looking for nuts. Nothing could be found that would work. This thread of hope was completely pulled to no avail. He instead drove me to Ingonish, and on the way spoke of the new developments evolving to convert Ingonish to the Whistler of East Canada for skiing and winter activities, a process already started with slope improvement, a gondola, condominiums, and a purchase agreement to buy the Wreck General Store.

Adam's barn with my bike on a rack

I marveled once again at the kindness of strangers in Nova Scotia.

Reuniting with Mariya . . .

Adam dropped me off in Ingonish around 8:30pm, fully dark and quite cool, and I found Mariya. We went to the soon-to-close on-site restaurant and considered a strategy: we would book a room for the next two days in Cheticamp on the west coast of Cape Breton so I could give Priority a shipping address. Mariya would ride ahead on the Cabot Trail to Cheticamp, and I would find a ride and haul her panniers. This would give her the magnificent ride I had already done on an earlier trip in 2013, loaded with long climbs, steep, rapid descents, and amazing views. She should not miss this opportunity! As we knew of a big storm bearing down in a few days, I would spend the day arranging for the parts needed to repair my axle and get my bike rolling again.

While we waited for dinner, Mariya told me about her ride here and her meeting with Jim Dunphy. And I booked a room at the Silver Lining Inn.

The next morning, after breakfast of granola and a peaceful morning beach walk along Ingonish Bay, Mariya headed north on the Cabot Trail. I checked in with the hotel receptionist about transportation options to Cheticamp and received a taxi referral and a tourist bus service that I could contact. Not satisfied with those options, I really wanted somebody local who could give me a lift for some cash.

A sentinel on our morning beach walk

Back to Jim . . .

I called Jim Dunphy and explained the situation. I wasn’t in a hurry to get there; I could be flexible on timing. Jim remembered his interaction with Mariya and said he would call me back. I didn't hear from him, so not wanting to pester him, I called back about 30 minutes later. He answered, “I’m out front, where is your room?” Jim pulled around to Room 101 with his 4-door Nissan Sentra. We managed to load the bike with the front wheel off and the handlebars hanging out of the trunk.

Jim's car, loaded to go

Jim Dunphy is a lifelong resident of Ingonish and knows everyone. A former ironworker, he worked jobs across Canada, primarily in bridge maintenance, until an injury cut his career short. He will not disclose where his blueberry patch is, of course. He also cuts and sells wood. I learned of his family, his sons and grandkids working in his son’s thriving restaurant, even taking me inside to see the 100-year-old building. We talked about politics. We talked about all manner of things during the 90-minute drive. I asked him what he would like for compensation. “Pay me what you think it is worth, as I have never done this before.” I spotted him $80 cash for his trouble plus a tank of gas. He was pleased, and with a parting handshake, he said: “Send me a Christmas card.”

Jim Dunphy

Cheticamp . . .

I arrived during the noon hour to the Silver Lining Inn, stashed the gear in the room, and then read this message from Priority: “There aren’t any true overnight options available. The fastest option I found is a 2-business-day service for $60, which would have the parts arriving Tuesday.”

Another disaster. We were expecting to complete our whole trip on Wednesday well beyond this place.

I scrambled into action. First, I checked for a bicycle repair option in town. None, but “there used to be one right there” was a common refrain. The NAPA store next door sourced a 15mm nut (surprising the proprietor) as well as the very tiny Allen hexhead set screw. They recommended the Goodyear Tire shop about 3km up the road to grind the hexagonal edges off the nut. I walked there, and they did a good first grind, but upon my return, it wasn’t quite enough off to fit. I also walked 2km the other direction to the hardware store, which luckily had a metric Allen wrench set with a tiny one to fit my new set screw.

While earnestly chasing my own repair strategy, I received this message from Mariya:

“Climbed the steepest part but having mechanical problems. Not sure why but my gear is not turning my tire anymore. Like if I am pedaling in empty space.”

No! How can this be? Both broken down on consecutive days!

Reuniting with Mariya – again!

Mariya was stuck on the high, barren plateau after completing one of the route's toughest climbs when her cassette disconnected from her rear hub and rendered her bicycle inoperable. Luckily, she was close to a Park Service emergency radio hub, placed to enable stranded people to call for assistance in this seasonally unforgiving place with no cell service. It was raining lightly. A tree-planting crew visited her; one of them was familiar with bicycles and told her there was no repair option without a special tool. With no room in their truck for Mariya or her bike, they contacted the Park Service, which would send someone around 6:00 to pick her up. An ecologist specializing in insects did so, and conversation flowed from there. She arrived at the Inn around 7:00. We went to a local restaurant to discuss options.

The Storm

The storm arrived, literally and figuratively. We spent Friday discussing options during persistent rain. Could we take a taxi to one of the three bicycle rental outfits farther down the road to see if they had repair capacity? The first two calls were dead ends, but the third seemed to recall a person near Port Hastings – Bernie – who repaired bicycles. I called Bernie. Yes, he could repair her bike, possibly with a new or used wheel or components. With that, I called the local taxi service for the out-and-back costs: $225 and about 5 hours of total travel time, plus repair time. We didn't really know if Bernie could fix it. Another option was for me to ride ahead with my repaired bike, and for Mariya to leapfrog via taxi over the next two days to Port Hastings. But now the storm was getting worse.

Sitting on the bed, rain pelting, we counted down the options. Finally, Mariya and I looked at each other and, with a decent measure of regret and sadness, called the trip off and planned our return to Montreal. Tickets and reservations made, what does one do then? You walk 6km in the rain to a bakery to buy some decent bread for the taxi, bus, and train rides needed to return.

And in the intervening time, Raymond, the proprietor of the Inn, had a bench grinder I could use to finish off the bolt so I could safely transport the bike without losing the axle or having the wheel drop out. I was feeling productive. My bike was finally repaired, but I had nowhere to go but home. And that is OK.

Grinding the bushing/nut

Finally repaired

And the tiny spring that broke on Mariya's
bike, rendering it un-rideable.

The storm raged overnight; we lost power, and flooding and downed trees made the taxi ride to Wycocomagh rough, and we barely made the bus to Truro. Perhaps as a metaphor for the end of the trip, the storm hit our mood as well, but with the decision made and implemented, we felt this was the right and best option. Storms always pass to clearer days ahead.

As I write this post, VIA Rail is gently rocking along its return tracks to Montreal. And as a colleague wrote to me after learning the news:

Who needs an official finish line anyhow. Success is in the journey.

FINAL STATS:

Mariya: 1270 kilometers, 11,420 meters elevation gain

Peter: 862 miles, 34,160' elevation gain (and 7 lbs lost on the way!)

IMAGES FROM THE TRIP