TravelStream™ news feed for member therin on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/therin en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Thu, 01 Dec 2005 21:29:10 -0500 http://www.travelpod.com http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/therin/x-canada_2004/1088650800/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/therin/x-canada_2004/1088650800/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/therin/x-canada_2004/1088650800/tpod.html Thu, 01 Dec 2005 21:29:10 -0500 Travels with Gzowski: Our Motorcycle Trip Across Canada

Jump to the full
entry & travel map

Salt Spring Island, British Columbia, Canada

Up at 4:40 am, dressed and to the airport just after 5. Henry is very business-like and abrupt, but I know his horror of being emotional in public. He told me last night that it had been the trip of a lifetime, and that I was a wonderful woman and travelling companion, so I try to hold onto that as he bolts for the door. I am so very sorry not to be going back with him. I will miss both him and the adventure so much, and flying home now seems ignominious and even more of a let-down than the usual end of a vacation. My trip seems aborted halfway.

I grab a coffee on the way to check-in. There is a big line at Tim Horton's, and nobody at all at the (probably superior) alternate coffee stand. But I figure I must endure the Tim Horton's as a fitting end to my Maritime experience. Check-in is very fast, but there is a huge bottleneck at security. This seems completely ridiculous for a domestic flight. I suddenly realize that I have my nail-clippers in my carry-on. Anxiety strikes in a surge of sweat. Should I surreptitiously transfer them to a garbage can? Won't that seem more suspicious? I am an oldest child; I HAVE to follow the rules. Yet the security staff ignore them lying in plain view. The sign actually specifies no scissors. Perhaps they figure that even the most ardent terrorist can't clip anyone to death.

In the waiting area, I suddenly realize that my ticket specifies a different seat than 12A, which I had chosen by computer when buying my ticket. The staff assure me that 17E is also a window seat, so I decide not to bother having it changed. But once aboard, I discover that 17E is one of a 3-seat section, and both the other seats are occupied. 12 A & B are both empty. I point this out to the flight attendent, proud of myself for being assertive. She asks me to wait until just before take-off before moving to make sure 12A isn't occupied. I agree, but seeing several other vacant seats I boldly make the move a couple of minutes later and am able to cry in luxury. Wrung out, I subside into contentment. I have a bagel, buns and herbed cheese, V-8 Splash juice, nuts, fruit leather, and chocolate-covered nuts and raisins. I've never eaten this well on a plane before! There is hardly any cloud, and all of Newfoundland spreads below me. I wonder where Henry is in all that vastness.

Despite our late start from Newfoundland, there is plenty of time between my flights in Toronto. I have a long walk and a capuccino, then try to get my next incorrect seat changed. But the only ones free are middle seats, so I keep my window one with an empty seat between me and the very large guy on the aisle. I try to figure out where we are as we go, with little success. Turbulence over the Prairies and cloud over the Rockies yield to a fabulous view of the Coastal Range before a soft landing. As I wait for my luggage, a voice hails me. It is a high-school classmate heading to Victoria to see her parents. We make our muddled way together through the bus system to Tsawassen, where I am shocked to see how little money I have left. $60 appears to be missing, which could only have been taken by the big guy on the plane, when I accidently left my wallet in my bag when I went to the bathroom. But I am now so tired I barely care. I am fading fast as we get the 4 pm ferry to Swartz Bay, where I have to wait 90 minutes in the bleak waiting room for the 7 pm to Salt Spring. I phone our nearby summer home, but none of my family are there. I phone home and catch one son, only to be told that the son with the driver's licence is working until 9. I groggily phone work, where a co-worker immediately offers to come and get me at 7:30. Rescue! I have barely enough cash left to get a burger and fries. I have finished my last book, and use my credit card to buy "Oryx and Crake", but for once I am too tired to read. The ferry conducts a man-overboard drill, but it only delays us 5 minutes, which doesn't seem much out of my 20-hour trip home.

Everything is becoming surreal. The ambulance is returning to Salt Spring after delivering a patient, so I am able to snuggle inside it and attempt to summarize the past month for my eager paramedic friends. I stumble up the ferry ramp and am whisked home by my kind co-worker, where one child is miraculously home to give me a hug. He is puzzled by my desire to go to bed right away. How can I possibly convey the wonder of the journey out, which filled my soul and stretched my personality, and the wizening effect of the
prosaic, drawn-out return? It will have to wait til morning. In fact, as it happens it will have to wait for more than a year until time and thought have poured out in this journal.

Post-script: After only 10 days Henry returned to me, having averaged 1000 km a day through Canada and the States. He stopped enroute to impress his motorcycle comrades at the yearly meet near Vernon, finally able to claim the "longest ride to get here" award.
He drove up my steep driveway without any waitress aboard. Shortly after, he visited his mother in Victoria and gave her a bar of soap made from iceberg water. She was holding it in her hand when she died a week later, having waited for her son to come safely home.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/therin/x-canada_2004/1088562600/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/therin/x-canada_2004/1088562600/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/therin/x-canada_2004/1088562600/tpod.html Thu, 01 Dec 2005 21:14:55 -0500 Travels with Gzowski: Our Motorcycle Trip Across Canada

Jump to the full
entry & travel map

St. John's, Newfoundland, Canada

Over our porridge breakfast we discover that we have a Liberal minority government. We still don't know who got in at home, but the Green Party has increased its vote from 2000 to 500,000, which is very impressive. Henry says he would have voted Green to please me--sweet but scary! But I'll be mad if they lost by the 2 votes we didn't make. It's the first time I haven't voted in an election.

We ride off to Value Village where prolonged deliberation and measuring results in the purchase of a very large, very shabby suitcase with wheels and a better small black one which just meets the carry-on size requirements. My helmet doesn't fit in either, so I will carry it on as my second allowed piece. I think everything will be a tight fit, since Henry is sending several things home with me and I have to stuff in my sleeping bag, too. On downtown to the saddlery store, where Henry buys a politically-incorrect sealskin to make a seat-cover for his Indian motorcycle, and I am seized by inspiration and buy one for my middle son, who likes unusual things. At Devon House, a centre for Newfoundland art, I vacillate. The labradorite I had intended to buy is very expensive, and none of the pieces are to my taste. Instead, I buy an intriguing pewter medallion with a Viking symbol for myself, and a sodalite necklace for my daughter. Henry has waited patiently, and is rewarded with lunch. I have cod au gratin and salad. Yummy. We go up Signal Hill for a spectacular 360 degree view. The sad reality of going home soon is really hitting me as I take a last look over St. John's. But they have labradorite in the gift shop inside the signal tower, and I find a simple necklace to console myself.

On the way back to Holly's to pack, we stop at a Sobey's grocery store to get food for dinner and for me to eat on the plane, since my extremely cheap flight does not include food. Since we had already sorted everything the night before the packing goes fairly quickly and I am relieved to find that everything fits and I am still under the weight requirement. We check if there are any storage lockers at the airport, hoping I could leave my gear there overnight, allowing Henry to carry on from there tomorrow after dropping me. Alas, he will have to do a double trip. We do an empty trial run to see how long it will take in the morning--only 7 minutes!

Continuing along Highway 1 west, I fondly believe that we will see a turn-off to Cape Spears, the eastern-most point in North America. But I have misread the map, and we have to go all the way to the Witless Bay turnoff (obviously suitably named in this instance) before we can go across and back up the peninsula. I had been told that Witless Bay was pretty, but it wasn't particularly. Picking up ice cream cones for us and wine for Holly, we follow the road, but it, too, misses Cape Spear and we end up back in St. John's. A passerby gives us directions through Shea Heights, which Marion had told us to see anyway. It is considered the "wrong side of the tracks", but has a view which any other community would have reserved for the bigwigs. At last we reach our goal. We are officially all the way across Canada! The Cape Spear wind makes a good excuse for watery eyes as we hug on the edge of the continent. The cliff is too high for us to fill a bottle with Atlantic water as we intended, but the feeling of accomplishment is strong and bittersweet.

We find another innovative route through St. John's, seeing more historic houses and arriving back just in time to say goodbye and profuse thanks to Holly and Michael as they leave for Michael's place. Henry cooks a fabulous steak dinner and my mini-bottle of wine goes straight to my head. I try to talk him into doing a last drive along the marine coast above St. John's, but he is too tired after all my bad navigating. I am frustrated, but try to focus on the many wonderful things I have seen, and the fact that it is my fault that we drove so far. I watch the sun set and go to bed early, very tired.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/therin/x-canada_2004/1088199780/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/therin/x-canada_2004/1088199780/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/therin/x-canada_2004/1088199780/tpod.html Wed, 30 Nov 2005 14:37:11 -0500 Travels with Gzowski: Our Motorcycle Trip Across Canada

Jump to the full
entry & travel map

On the Atlantic Ocean, Nova Scotia, Canada

We must have re-set our internal clocks firmly, because we both awaken at 5:30 am. No time to doze off today; we pack quickly and zoom off for many miles before stopping for breakfast. I order french toast with fresh fruit topping. I am mentally picturing berries of some sort, but instead the "topping" is a side bowl of fruit salad. I am disappointed despite the generous size, since it is mainly composed of melons and grapes, neither of which I particularly favour. Our orders are preceded by a basket of tiny hot, fresh, free muffins which would have been ample for me if I had only known. I grumble about having too much food, which even I can see is an unreasonable stance, and Henry rightly has little sympathy.

I have always thought of Cape Breton Island as a single island as its name implies, but careful examination of our map seems to show that it is actually three islands which almost meet at various points. However, since one of the narrow channels is named St. Peter's Canal, it may be artificial. The gap between mainland Nova Scotia and the southeast corner of Cape Breton is equally tiny, and spanned easily by a bridge. Our limited time forces us to travel up the middle away from the coast, although some of the time we are on the Bras d'Or scenic route, which hugs a large inland sea misleadingly called Bras d'Or Lake. Or is it actually fresh water? In our anxiety to make the ferry, we never do get our curiosity satified, even when we stop for gas. Sea or lake, it is a lovely sight and aptly named as it gleams in the sunshine.

We branch off northwest toward the coast on the Cabot Trail itself. Maddeningly, we get trapped behind two enormous motor homes, one of which is pulling a car. They crawl along ahead of a pickup truck and us at 40 kph. Presumably they are aware of the truck at least, but they rudely hog the road and we lose precious time waiting for a safe place to pass. I can feel my stress level sky-rocketting. Have they cost us the ferry? By the time we are finally able to pass we both have to go to the bathroom, but we can't risk letting them get by us again, and we hold on grimly until we figure there are enough miles built up to let us make a brief pit stop in Northeast Margaree.

The scenery has been largely unimpressive, and I have been wondering whether the Cabot Trail is really worth all this angst. But now we reach the coast, and by the time we are in the park proper we, too, are in awe of the steep plunges from sparsely treed, rugged mountaintops through precipitous river valleys to white ocean coves and back up. The road twists and turns around sheer cliffs, and Henry has to drive with caution. Back in Wolfville we had laughed at the proprietor's story that he crashed a brand-new bike on the Cabot Trail when he rode off the road awestruck by the beauty. But now that seems like sober fact.

We stop for a quick lunch at a little roadside cafe in the tiny village of South Harbour. Unfortunately its menu is considerably less impressive than its advertising. For example, "Mexican!" turns out to mean only nachos. "Chinese!" is frozen egg rolls. We stick to burgers; a good choice. I phone my kids and actually catch them all at home. A warm lump rises in my throat on hearing their voices. Between that, gobbling my food, and realizing that we are only halfway around the Cabot Trail when I thought we were almost finished, I suffer great protests from my stomach as we make our final push.

I can't believe it when Henry pulls into a blacksmith/sculptor's rustic studio. But he is adamant that he must have a break. I darkly suspect his motivation, since Henry is a blacksmith himself and is always interested in talking with a fellow artisan. On the other hand, I am now desparate for a bathroom again. There is no public toilet, but the smith good-naturedly agrees to let me use his own facilities. The toilet is spectacularly filthy, but I am in no mood to be delicate. Business accomplished,I herd Henry away in a process similar to sheepdogs darting repeatedly at sheep, although I don't have to go as far as actual nips.

Now we have to make a tough decision: there is a choice of routes ahead. One is shorter, but involves a short ferry ride across St. Andrew's Channel. The other takes us about eight times farther by road and bridges. We have no idea when the ferry will go or how long it will take. It looks like we have just enough time to take the long route. We plump for the long but certain route and have a beautiful, if tense, ride down one side of the channel, around the end, and right back up tantalizingly close to where we had been in the first place. A long bridge tests our mettle with a stiff breeze, and then we are homefree on the big highway leading to the ferry. We arrive, laughing with relief, with 25 minutes to spare!

So of course the ferry is one hour late. We have plenty of time to get our tickets. We are informed that nobody is allowed to lie down on the floor to sleep. One can pay the regular fare and sleep in a regular chair. Or increments of extra cash can purchase a daynighter reclining seat, a bunk in a dormitory, or a bunk in a private stateroom. Daynighters seem OK to us, so we have a modest splurge.

There are lots of other bikers, and we chat while eyeing the ferry, which is much more enclosed than our west coast ferries, and clearly intended for open ocean. Finally we get the word for motorcycles to proceed. But Gzowski won't start! Henry tries repeatedly as I yell, "We just have to PUSH it on!" An agonizing eon later, the motor roars and we drive off our penultimate province in style. The huge interior deck has regular permanent tie-down brackets, and Henry sets to work and ropes Gzowski solidly in place. We will not be allowed to return to the car deck once underway, so we lug a considerable amount of gear with us to the higher levels. A long trudge later we finally locate the daynighters. They are disappointing. A huge room is pcked with them and they barely recline at all. We have just about decided to make a change when another couple shows up: they have been assigned the same seats. The four of us go down to the purser and I shell out another $22 to get dormitory bunks instead, leaving the daynighters for the other couple. The purser informs us sternly that all the dormitory bunks are now full, so we will be sharing our pod of four bunks with two other people. But I feel it is money well spent if Henry has a better chance of getting some sleep. He needs to be cosetted after all his hard work. As it turns out, the purser is lying. Nobody else ever shows up, so we decide that he just wants to cut down on nookey. In any case, we now have a more secure location for all our stuff, so we leave everything but our wallets there and go in search of the cafeteria.

The food is reasonably good, and beer and wine are available for those who want to spend the money. After dinner we go to watch the floor show, "Bugs Green and Friends". Bugs is horribly hearty, and is accompanied by his determinedly sparkling wife. They plow jauntily through pub songs and sentimental standards. I can't stand it and retire to the cafeteria to catch up on my journal and read. But Henry watches for a long time, even appreciating Bugs' home videos, which apparently feature Bugs "and Friends" carousing mildly at a backyard barbeque. I forgive Henry his low tastes when he liberates an unopened mini-bottle of wine somebody has left unused on another table and presents it for my late-night drinking pleasure.

Although we had looked out the windows repeatedly until dark fell, there was never anything to see but ocean. Now it is pitch-black and we are tired from our long day, so it is an easy decision to turn in early and try out our pricey bunks. One more province to go!
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/therin/x-canada_2004/1087962360/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/therin/x-canada_2004/1087962360/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/therin/x-canada_2004/1087962360/tpod.html Wed, 30 Nov 2005 14:24:15 -0500 Travels with Gzowski: Our Motorcycle Trip Across Canada

Jump to the full
entry & travel map

Port Williams, Nova Scotia, Canada

The sun smiles on us as we pack and ride to the very tip of the Bay of Fundy, South Maitland. The world's highest tides of 32' or more are recorded here. The sides of rivers, streams and coastline are massive, sloping and almost as red as PEI. We stop at a cafe/grocery where an old gent "not the cook" nevertheless produces a tasty breakfast for us while running back and forth to store customers. He suggests river tide rafting, which sounds great, but we don't have enough time, and the predicted tide today is "mellow" anyway. I call Bessie North, who is the daughter of my great-grandmother's sister. She has met my grandmother and mother in the past, and would love to meet me, so we make a date for the afternoon. We follow the fascinating shore, sliced by nacrous ochre riverbanks. It is very beautiful and strange. As I read directions to Henry his ears perk up. "Wolfville? That's where all the British motorcycle parts come from!" But we pass through Wolfville, a pleasant and interesting university town, without seeing any sign of the motorcycle shop. We stop at a farmer's stand to track the shop down by phone. The farmer's produce looks delicious, but they won't sell us any in small quantities. Henry gets the address and I call Bessie again. Oh, oh. She doesn't remember my previous call, and is only able to give vague directions. Obviously she has a little dementia, but she is very welcoming again when I re-introduce myself.

On the way to the motorcycle place we hit what is officially the worst bump of the trip. I think it is a pothole, but Henry says it is a sunken storm drain. Since it is in the middle of an otherwise smooth road I am completely unprepared. My spine is severely jarred, and my bad hip hurts again. After this and two wrong turns my limited enthusiasm for the motorcycle place is waning fast. However, it turns out to be wonderful. We are given a tour of the busy rabbit warren created in an old house, filled from floor to ceiling in every room and passageway with motorcycle parts. Our host, Mike, talks a mile a minute and triple-tasks the whole time we are there. We apologize for taking his time, but he gives us a cup of tea, enters Henry in the computer, and gives us a thick motorcycle guide to NS while accomplishing several other things simultaneously and with undiminished good cheer. Everyone congratulates us on our trip, and we leave in a glow of good wishes.

Port Williams is the home of the Healy family, my relatives. We are unsure if anyone besides Bessie North is still alive. After inquiring of some locals who aren't much help, we drive to the house where my great-grandmother Mildred Healy Maddaford was born. I called her Grannie Millie, and used to hate visiting her in the smelly nursing home in Colwood. My mother has been here before me and met Paul, Grannie's nephew, and his wife Blanche. We know Paul is dead. Now a young boy living at the Healy house tells us that Blanche died a few years ago. The boy's mother works night shift and is asleep, so we can't see inside the house, but Henry takes a picture of me in front of it.

We see a sign for antiques at the house next door. The owner is thrilled to meet me. She has very fond memories of Paul & Blanche, and shows me a photo of them. I can see the resemblance between Paul and my grandfather, Harry Maddaford. She also has a pleasant landscape in oils painted by Grannie's sister, which Henry urges me to buy. The lady will ship it to me. I do my usual Jack Benny imitation, but Henry and the lady plead hard, and I give in. A few houses down is another heritage Healy home, also housing an antique shop and another lady befriended by the Healys. She has a fascinating genealogy of the Healy family, right back to Sir Roger Hele in the 1200's. It was compiled by Paul's daughter. She promises to photocopy it for me if I can't get a copy from Paul's much-younger sister Sheila, who we will visit down in Yarmouth.

Bessie's home, Canning, is just a few miles away. Both women have assured us that we will love her. We stop at the wrong house, only to meet a former pupil of Bessie's who goes on in loving detail about what a great teacher she was. He points us to the right house. It is open, but there is no sign of Bessie. She had told me that she would go for a walk that afternoon, so we settle down to wait outside. I read to Henry as we lean against a shady tree. All is idyllic except for the strong smell of a nearby pig farm. A neighbour drives by and stops to question us protectively. Re-assured, she says we're in for a treat.

Finally we see a lean figure walking steadily towards us. I go to meet her, and am immediately struck by her resemblance to a younger Grannie Millie I didn't even know I remembered. Bessie is a spry 84. She shows us over her lovely old house, sparsely and beautifully furnished, with bare board floors. She laughs about such a big house being occupied by one old lady. "Why is that always so?" Lots of her own art is hung in the house. It looks quite primitive to me, though Henry likes it. But later I will see some exquisite cards done by her at Sheila's house, so it seems Bessie is right when she blames her bad eyesight for her current level of artistry. I show her photos of my children. She comments on Elizabeth's dyed red hair, thinking it is natural. Apparently one of her sisters was red-headed. I guess that solves the mystery of my cousin Jennifer's flaming locks. Bessie is still quite pretty, vivacious, funny, energetic and a great reader. I wonder why she never married. She says she just fell into teaching; she had been expected to stay home to look after her parents.

I feel so drawn to this wonderful woman, both for herself and for the sense of history and family continuity I get from her. The women of that side of the family all seem so strong. Bessie's aunt, my Grannie Millie, taught school in Saskatchewan, married, and left her cheating husband to go to Hollywood with her small son. Later, she travelled to Victoria to live with her estranged husband's parents. What strange convolutions of relationship caused such long journeys, and such an unusual living arrangement? What other personalities lie in these small green towns? Bessie urges us to stay overnight, but it is only afternoon despite the emotional depth of the day, and we must move on. Bessie and I hug fiercely, knowing we will probably never meet again, but loving each other despite the shortness of acquaintance and the miles that will separate us.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/therin/x-canada_2004/1087870620/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/therin/x-canada_2004/1087870620/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/therin/x-canada_2004/1087870620/tpod.html Wed, 30 Nov 2005 14:19:29 -0500 Travels with Gzowski: Our Motorcycle Trip Across Canada

Jump to the full
entry & travel map

Under an overpass, Nova Scotia, Canada

It is sunny but still windy. However, not windy enough to break off the food-supporting branch above the table. It is shattered nonetheless, clearly the work of the raccoon. The nefarious beast has dug into the oatmeal, eaten ALL the raisins, and turned up its nose at the carrots. All this despite our having left out the uneaten stew for it! (Although it did eat that, too.) Henry says it was probably working a racket in cahoots with the squirrels. Most of the milk has escaped, so we have a desultory morning making plain porridge and writing postcards, and have to rush at the last minute to make the 11:00 checkout. We head off to do as much of the east side of the island as possible. Once again the route is hard to follow, and we end up on the outskirts of Charlottetown inadvertantly before veering off again. Henry is annoyed at me for navigating so badly, but it is impossible to see the little changes coming up unless I keep the map held up flapping in the wind and my body simultaneously tilted out at a very uncomfortable angle to see around Henry.

The landscape is just as beautiful on this side of the island. We see a lovely heritage house set in acreage, which turns out to be the residence of a former Lieutenant-Governor. We later discover that it is on the market for $169,000, a price that wouldn't even buy a rundown bungalow on Salt Spring.

PEI has an interesting spirit. Neat, prim farms with clean white buildings are set tidily on a barbarically bright landscape constantly swept by wild winds. No wonder Anne is such a satisfying character. Her sense of duty and her home-making skills are both challenged and enhanced by her passionate nature, and the truth of the portrait is recognized even by those who have never been to her island home.

At a lovely harbour on the north shore, St. Peter's, we sit in the sun at Rick's Fish & Chips for a long time writing postcards and enjoying the sun sparkling on the bay. I have a lobster roll and fries, which is very tasty but not worth the extra money over fish & chips in my opinion, although I'm glad to have finally eaten lobster in the Maritimes. We decide not to go all around the coast as Henry is very itchy to get to Nova Scotia. Instead, we cut down to Montague, a charming village. We explore an antique store and a jewellery store with the same gorgeous Thai jewellery we get on Salt Spring, but at much lower prices. I am sorely tempted to buy something, but can't make up my mind between so many lovely things, and so leave empty handed.

I console myself with the prospect of a swim in the Atlantic at the provincial park nearby. It is inside a long, narrow bay, so I figure it will be as warm as anywhere, but it is still nippy. I dash in and out pretty fast, but bravely repeat the experience five times, getting progressively numbed as Henry tries to get a photo. The cheap batteries aren't working well, and the only picture he manages makes me look enormously fat, but I can't erase it as it is my only proof that I actually went in! Henry is smugly warm and dry and unphotographed. Further along the coast we stop for a snack at a corner store, and I get new batteries for an outrageous sum. An ominous back cloud is building as we continue to the ferry at Woods Hole on the south coast. Bad timing: we have missed one by an hour, and there won't be another for 2 hours, at 7:30 pm. There is nothing interesting nearby, so we meander east with no destination. It starts to rain and I insist on riding until the next little town. I think it is worth it to get gas, fresh sub sandwiches and shelter while we put on our rain gear, but Henry objects to the extra miles on dangerous wet roads. After a soggy ride back to the ferry, we retreat to the barren cafeteria, where we meet Carl, a biker from Quebec. The exchange of road stories shortens the 75 minutes ferry trip nicely. We dock at Caribou under a spectacular stormy sky lit in places by bursting sunrays, worthy of a Hollywood epic. A fast hard ride to Truro in the gathering darkness lands us at a late-night gas station. We have decided to hit up Henry's nephew Tom, a navy guy, for a dry place to stay. Although he is in Halifax, we can probably make it by midnight. We try calling cards, a collect call , the cell phone, directory assistance but nothing seems to connect to Tom's number. We just get a series of odd electronic messages. Finally we call Henry's sister back home: no wonder, Tom has just unexpectedly shipped out to Hawaii! This is definitely not Hawaii.

The kind gas station attendent helps us locate a campground, but the rain has stopped and we opt for a guerilla campsite instead. Following Henry's nose, we find a perfect spot off a cul de sac under a highway overpass. Long grass cushions us and we are unobtrusive and safe (unless someone has an accident and flies off the upper highway onto us!) We are in our second-to-last province, but still eager to explore.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/therin/x-canada_2004/1087614000/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/therin/x-canada_2004/1087614000/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/therin/x-canada_2004/1087614000/tpod.html Wed, 30 Nov 2005 14:08:31 -0500 Travels with Gzowski: Our Motorcycle Trip Across Canada

Jump to the full
entry & travel map

Jacquet River, New Brunswick, Canada

We wake early to a different shoreline: the tide comes in this far! After a quick bagel breakfast we ride into the sun before 8 am, one of our earliest starts. We move over to major Hwy 20, since the route to New Brunswick branches off it somewhere soon, but we're not exactly sure where. We still have quite a way to go in Quebec despite cutting off the Gaspe, and Henry nicely stops for me to get a photo of a last, lone example of the type of stone house so common between Gatineau and Quebec City. The countryside becomes very rolling and we travel for miles beside a huge, beautiful lake. When I comment on it later, Henry hadn't even seen it because he was too busy being "safe, courteous and responsible". I guess that means I can be wild, rude and flighty! Henry certainly does have all the hard work of this trip and I hope I am telling him often enough how much I appreciate it.

We cross into New Brunswick--yay! six provinces done. I am sad to leave the French culture, though. But I soon find out that I have mourned too soon. NB is VERY bilingual, and there are still lots of French signs and accents. Our route will take us over at least 3 of the 5 scenic routes designated by Tourism NB. The first bit from Edmondston to Saint-Leonard is the River Valley route, and it is suitably pretty. We get groceries for a picnic lunch in Riviere-Verte, and are thrilled to discover picnic tables complete with a roof right on a nearby grassy corner (not that we need the roof in this weather.) Delicious sandwiches enhance our already mellow mood. Life is good.

We soak and scrape an almost continous coating of squashed bugs from our windshield, even though the next leg from Saint-Leonard to Saint-Quentin is not on a scenic route. The road is very bad and there is lots of ugly logging. It seems to be a poor region, with run-down houses and a general air of struggle. We are barrelling along to get to somewhere more interesting when suddenly an on-coming semi pulls off onto the shoulder in a cloud of dust. We realize why a split second later as another semi comes right up on our tail and blasts its horn. It is trying to pass us despite our going 110 kph in a 90 kph zone! The shoulder is gravel and we can't possibly pull off; the other semi has already been forced off because there is no room. We endure several tense and terrifying minutes hurtling over the extremely bumpy road at 120+ kph until finally there is a straight stretch with a passing lane and he can get by us. I spend the next several miles shaking and fantasizing about getting his licence plate number to report him. I compose a scathing letter to the local paper which will get him fired and ostracized by decent society. Alas, a car also passes us (safely in the passing lane) and so I never get the trucks's number, although ironically both vehicles are just ahead of us as we arrive at Saint-Quentin. We pull into a Tim Horton's to recover, along with the car that had passed us. The young men inside commiserate with us about the homicidal jerk of a truck driver. We reward ourselves for being alive with iced cappucinos. Henry is disappointed that they are frappe; he had expected ice cubes, and it is an extra let-down because this is the first coffee he has had since we left.

We have seen lots of bikers in town, and now discover that there is a rally. We start to discuss the passenger seat on a parked Honda. I maintain that it is quite good, because it is long, though narrow, and length is what makes for comfort. Henry says, "Well, if length counts I'll cut this off" and hacks off the back of our upholstery foam despite my cries of protest. I am pissed off, especially because I have asked repeatedly how the seat is for Henry, and he has always said, "Good". Now he says he has always been forced too far forward by it. We ride off and I find that the bag bounces against my butt unless I force myself backwards to hold it down. The end of the foam compresses under my weight. Henry stops again to complain that he is still too far forward. I say that I am as far back as I can get, and he needs to move back into the vast gulf (well, at least several inches) between us. We shoot furiously along the Appalachian route with Henry refusing to move back despite my hauling on his torso repeatedly. Neither of us can focus on the green vales and hills displaying themselves so generously for our pleasure. Henry finally deigns to stop in lovely Tide Head at the tip of Baie Chaleur. I tick him off in (as I say) words of one syllable which he cannot misunderstand. I start to enjoy my ability to think up appropriate words of one syllable so quickly, and the corners of Henry's mouth start to quirk up. Safely ensconced on the funny side of things, we are miraculously able to settle ourselves comfortably on Gzowski. We stop at Canadian Tire, which makes me grumpy again, but Henry starts a playful game of hide-and-seek in the aisles, and I melt into delight at his inventiveness.

The coast still has a French flavour, but is also starting to look distinctly Maritime, for reasons I can't quite put my finger on. We pass through Campbellton, where the bridge crosses from the distant, lovely Gaspe. At Charlo the road becomes the Acadian Coastal route, which we will follow in its entirety. Some little animals--marmots?--frolic at the roadside. A janitor at the Caisse Populaire where we stop for money recommends a restaurant called "La Source". I have a delicious seafood casserole with salad and rice. Henry orders chowder, meaning the chicken and corn chowder special for $4.95. I am in the bathroom when he orders, and so am not surprised when the friendly waitress brings him a big bowl of seafood chowder. Henry eats half of it before complaining that it sure tastes fishy. I say, "Well, it IS seafood chowder" and the mistake is discovered. Henry finishes it anyway, but is dismayed to find that it costs $9.95.

Dusk blooms softly as we drive along beside the calm ocean. We stop at a provincial campsite at Jacquet River for $15. There are 3 small shops, but none have NB stickers or, more importantly, books. I am almost finished Anne Tyler's "The Clockwinder" and am getting pathologically nervous about my potential booklessness. But a walk along the beach and catching up on my journal pass the evening. I am so engrossed in writing that I don't respond quickly enough to Henry's sotto voce call, and the skunk he has spotted has already disappeared. We are a little worried; the RV next door houses 2 yappy little dogs. What if the owners let them out and they annoy the skunk?

The evening is so clear that we leave our gear out on the tables and reluctantly zip the tent door, shutting out skunks but also the starry sky.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/therin/x-canada_2004/1087437600/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/therin/x-canada_2004/1087437600/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/therin/x-canada_2004/1087437600/tpod.html Wed, 30 Nov 2005 13:59:00 -0500 Travels with Gzowski: Our Motorcycle Trip Across Canada

Jump to the full
entry & travel map

Lavaltrie, Quebec, Canada

Bad news: Sandy has been called in to work and won't be able to accompany us to Shawville as planned. But she cooks a great breakfast for us and we have time to say thanks. Strange to think we may never see her again, as she doesn't usually come with Dave to the Coast. I pack away my leather pants; all I need is my jeans and a T-shirt under my leather jacket in this heat. Henry bought a piece of 3" upholstery foam yesterday and duct-taped it to the seat. It goes under both of us and curls up behind my back, and with a towel on top it seems to be the ideal solution for my battered butt.

Dave takes us on the scenic route through Pembroke to see the lovely old brick houses and the docks. Then we ride through sunny countryside, across a covered bridge, and we are in Quebec! We stop to enjoy the view. I am trying to frame the perfect photo of the bridge when the guys start yelling, "Take the picture!" I think they are just teasing me, but it turns out that a huge bird was flying right across the scene and they wanted a picture of it. I didn't even see it! They rib me unmercifully. We say farewell to Dave in Shawville without too much heart-wrenching: we know he'll be roaring onto Salt Spring sometime soon. We're very grateful that he let a mere Yamaha into his shop; Gzowski is all checked over and running great.

Henry's aunt Winnifred lives in Shawville. We locate her house by stopping a local woman and enquiring. Yes, of course she has heard of Winnifred Smart! She kindly goes out of her way to lead us right to the house--I love small towns! Aunt Winnifred makes exquisite hand-sewn quilts, and shows me some of her colourful work, as well as her thimble collection. We view family photos and sip tea as genteely as one can in motorcycle boots and jeans. Regretfully declining lunch, we hit the road.

We follow Hwy 148. The houses here are often gray stone, and every hamlet has a church with a tall, aluminum-coloured spire. Funny how much human habitation changes the flavour of a landscape. Getting through Hull-Gatineau is tense, as we stretch our lamentably poor directional and sign-reading abilities to their feeble limits. But somehow we manage to shoot out into the countryside with only a couple of false turns. We stop for a late lunch at a perfect little "resto", ignoring the zillions of "casses-croutes" (burger & fry joints). I have a healthy hot chicken-vegetable wrap, but Henry orders poutine, which he graciously allows me to taste. French fries and cheese curds topped with gravy: Mmmmm! I will definitely indulge at some point.

Hwy 148 follows the St. Lawrence, with a constant string of picturesque villages. I am enthralled, and eager to immerse myself in Quebecois ambience. Lachute is a very pretty larger town with many sidewalk bistros, and I would love to stop for a drink or an ice cream. But Henry keeps going to the outskirts, and then pulls into a McDonald's. I am annoyed. This is not my idea of experiencing Quebec. I ask Henry if he could pull into a "laiterie" in future. He says he craves a McDonald's cone. We end up leaving without anything, in mutual antipathy.

What with the kerfuffle, I haven't re-checked the map. I had carefully planned a route that would take us north of Montreal, since we really wanted to prove that everyone was wrong when they said you HAD to go through Montreal. I do know that 148 will end at some point, and we need to branch off onto 135 and then 138. I watch for those numbers and don't see them, so I think we are still OK. But then we get to Ste. Eustache, which I don't remember being on the route. Where is Repentigny, which I fondly imagined would be right on our way? Things become more and more urban as I gaze at shop windows trying to get a clue of our location. We cross an arm of the St. Lawrence. This is ominous. Suddenly there is a small sign: "148 Fin". Even Henry's French is good enough to figure out that one. We are now in a residential area. We stop wearily and consult the map: we are in Laval, a suburb of Montreal! Montreal has sucked us in, taking unfair advantage of our fight in Lachute, where it now appears we should have turned off.

However, we have just passed the on-ramp for north/south Hwy 25. It appears that we can take it up to Terrebone and then head east on Hwy 40, the major route to Quebec City. We accomplish this with some scary high-speed manouevering. After some fast but boring highway travel, we pull off to get gas and ask about camping nearby. Apparently we will find some if we take the exit for Lavaltrie. In that town we try a depenneur for groceries, but they are only convenience stores. The clerk kindly directs us to a super-marche, where we get the makings for sukiyaki. My high school French is holding up reasonably well, although the silly fact that we were taught Parisian French rather than Quebecois French makes communication more complicated than it could have been if the federal bilingualism program had been planned by anyone with brains.

We are directed down Rue Notre Dame, where $18.40 gets us a spot in an RV park right on the St. Lawrence. We set up hurriedly in the dusk. I walk to the river and dip my hand in. It is probably polluted here, but I still rub the water on my cheek, awed at the influence this river has had on my country. I stand for a long time with the St. Lawrence rolling past my feet and gulls circling above.

When we check the map to plan our route for tomorrow, we realize that Rue Notre Dame is actually part of Hwy 138, so we have fortuitously ended up exactly where we planned!
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/therin/x-canada_2004/1087357140/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/therin/x-canada_2004/1087357140/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/therin/x-canada_2004/1087357140/tpod.html Wed, 30 Nov 2005 13:53:36 -0500 Travels with Gzowski: Our Motorcycle Trip Across Canada

Jump to the full
entry & travel map

Pembroke, Ontario, Canada

I start reading Anne Tyler in bed as Henry sleeps in so long I have to wake him up. A cloud of bugs ushers us on our way, but we leave them behind as we ride into the sun. A $3.95 breakfast sign lures us in, and we have a good talk about Manitoba--at least from my viewpoint; Henry regards anything to do with our relationship as a blot on an otherwise perfect road trip. But we are in harmony now and have a great run to North Bay. I spot the Dionne Quintuplet museum, but we can't find a way to get to it from the highway, and we must push on, anyway. It's wilder again, and we have two narrow escapes from deer, which Henry says are just poised in their starting blocks waiting to spring out when they spot potential victims.

I'm finding it difficult to get comfortable again. The pillow is not doing the job, and although I run through my usual repetoire of pelvic tilts and foot position changes, nothing seems to work. I am thankful when we pull into a Home Hardware in a small town. We need spark plugs and Gaz butane, but they don't have the right versions of either. Henry buys some string so he can haul up his aluminum footstand rest while on the bike. (This is a 4" square flat sheet of aluminum used to prevent the footstand from sinking into sandy or muddy ground.) Now I won't have to pick it up anymore, a chore I am happy to dispense with, especially when wearing full gear, which makes me about as bendable as the Michelin Man. We would also love to buy some of the snap-together laminate flooring they have here, which looks like tile rather than the hardwood-strip type we have at home. Maybe it will make it out to the coast some time soon.

We repeatedly pass acreages where the pine trees have hardly any understorey, succeeded by areas where there is lots of deciduous bush around the trees. Are the trees-only sections plantations, or is there some other explanation?

We roll into a big gas station in Pembroke and phone Harley Dave, so-called because he rides and restores only Harley-Davidsons. He has ridden out to the coast on business regularly for 15 years, and has stayed at Henry's often since they met in a coffee shop. Even though we regularly mock Harleys (in Dave's presence, if not that of Hell's Angels), we are grateful for Dave's hospitality and the chance to do some maintenance on Gzowski in his extensive shop. He comes to meet us and I guiltily take up his offer to ride with him. The seat is SO cushy, and I don't feel the bumps even when he tries to hit some on purpose to show me how good the shocks are. I am a traitor.

We have a suite to ourselves in the Victorian brick house Dave and his wife Sandy are renovating. We all sit in the sun and chat. I am finally able to wear the tank top and shorts I optimistically packed. Sandy heads off to work and the fellows get parts and settle into some serious bike work while I shower and do laundry, then bask in the sun reading, writing my journal, and knocking back several glasses of Sandy's very tasty homemade cranberry wine.

When Sandy gets home again we have a yummy dinner of hamburgers, hot dogs, cole slaw and excellent potato salad. (I am very fussy about potato salad.) In the midst of the dinner, I am attempting to squeeze out some mustard when the whole top pops off instead, drenching me in bright yellow. I shriek and mop up as best I can with my napkin, giggling. What makes it even funnier is that everybody else carries on as if nothing had happened at all. Apparently they have a mustard-error policy similar to my family's fart policy: if someone is so unfortunate as to perpetrate it, the duty of everyone else is to ignore it into oblivion.

Another friend of theirs popps in for a visit, and we all admire Sandy's orange and white Harley Sportster, which Dave is threatening to sell if she doesn't ride it more. She promises to ride into Quebec with us tomorrow. I have to excuse myself at 10 pm, since I just can't keep my eyes open another minute. Too much sun and wine and pampering, I guess. If I don't watch it, I'll get too used to civilization again.
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/therin/x-canada_2004/1087005600/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/therin/x-canada_2004/1087005600/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/therin/x-canada_2004/1087005600/tpod.html Wed, 30 Nov 2005 13:41:40 -0500 Travels with Gzowski: Our Motorcycle Trip Across Canada

Jump to the full
entry & travel map

Whiteshell Provincial Park, Manitoba, Canada

It has not rained overnight; Henry was right. Damn. I lie warily waiting for his first communication of the day. "I will pay for everything from now on", he states. I'm not sure what this is intended to convey, but from his manner it's not good. "Would you rather I take the bus?" I respond with dignity. "I don't care." Dignity does a fast exit as I crawl around the tent packing amid hysterical crying. Henry tells me to get a grip, which of course makes it worse, and a battle royal ensues. But it's amazing what an effective peacemaker a single motorcycle is. It's either make up or the dream ends here. I can't ride the bike myself, and Henry to his credit does not take off alone. We scrape together a tentative rapprochement.

The rain does start again soon, ending any temptation to linger in Riding Mountain National Park. But it is a very pretty drive, with many small lakes and a variety of trees. Despite warning signs, we see no moose, nor any other wildlife. On to Neepewa, which is so precisely how I pictured it from Margaret Laurence's books that I laugh aloud. We seek but don't find a Manitoba sticker, and have weak tea and enormous muffins in a rather seedy hotel. Henry is being very blank, and when I say in surprise, "I thought we made up!" he looks hunted. Now I am upset and confused again.

The countryside quickly becomes flat and uninteresting (and remains so past Winnepeg). We stop in Gladstone to find my great-grandfather's grave. But most of the memorial flowers we see are at roadside crosses for traffic fatalities, a sad reminder that some things are the same across the country.

Our route takes us inland away from the big lakes and we never see them, which seems a shame in this very watery province. Quite a few French signs appear as we near Winnepeg, and we stop for a late lunch in a little town called Elie. A vat of delicious soup is $2.50. I only manage to eat half of it. I try valiantly to make conversation about items in the newspaper lying to hand, with no response. I cry my way around the Winnepeg ring road, and am furious when I realize that Henry is exiting on Hwy 1, which we had agreed to avoid whenever possible on the trip. A perfectly good smaller highway parallels it. Huge trucks pass us hazardously, and the wind is very bad again even when the trucks aren't. There is water all along the roadside despite the spillways being opened today--no wonder they worry about flooding.

As we near the Ontario border the countryside gets pretty again and the highway is less busy, but I am now convinced that either we have already broken up, or that I SHOULD break up with the unfeeling monster on the front of the bike. We turn into Whiteshell Provincial Park while still in Manitoba. I fight tears in the little grocery store and buy myself a banana. Henry says, "Why didn't you get me one? Are you trying to start something?" I remind him in a martyred tone that I'm not supposed to buy his food.

The campground is almost as soggy as I am, and we circle around repeatedly trying to spot the driest site. After setting up in silence I say, "I guess we'd better not tell Rosalie [Henry's daughter] until we get back. She would worry." "Tell Rosalie what?" Consternation. "That we broke up!" "We did?!" Mutual recrimination and explanation follow. Apparently Henry had been attempting to be neutral, so as to avoid saying the wrong thing and upsetting me (!) We manage to talk things through again, and have just enough energy left for a walk to the lake. Despite the name, there isn't a shell of any colour in sight, but it is lovely nonetheless.

Back at the campsite another motorcyclist pulls in to say hello. (Bikers tend to be chummy on the road.) As he pulls off his helmet we stare at each other. "I know you..." "Ambulance! Salt Spring!" It is one of the young recruits who worked briefly on the ambulance crew with me. We kiss in amazement and have a good chat. We offer to share the site, but his handsome face has already earned him an invitation from some young people at another site. Retiring in harmony to our own cosy tent, we speculate on whether he'll get lucky. It would be a bit of a challenge finding a dry spot outside...
]]> http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/therin/x-canada_2004/1086921000/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/therin/x-canada_2004/1086921000/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/therin/x-canada_2004/1086921000/tpod.html Wed, 30 Nov 2005 13:38:49 -0500 Travels with Gzowski: Our Motorcycle Trip Across Canada

Jump to the full
entry & travel map

Dauphin, Manitoba, Canada

Aunt Mary makes us porridge, which is welcome since the day is gray and windy. I'm finding it hard to wrench myself away from civilization, but I know my road spirit will return, and being adventurous is the whole point. We are off by 8:30, having left behind most of the olive oil, the Pledge (for cleaning helmet visors), the Delia plate and Henry's travel guitar (afraid it will get warped). We add a "Salt Spring Isl,BC" sign done in black felt pen on the board from the homestead, and a bigger pillow for Henry. The wind is blowing hard. I try riding without plugging in, but by the time we get to Henry's birthplace, Nokomis, I am too cold. It's quite a long way and I wonder in horrified sympathy if Henry's mother made the trip in active labour, or if she went there ahead of time. Nokomis is very pretty and I judge it worthy of having produced Henry.

The wind is so strong that it flips open my visor several times. An old farmhouse slumps wearily back into the prairie. There continue to be many trees--groves of them. It is unusual to have a vista without trees, whereas I had expected the reverse. There are also many ponds and sloughs sporting little black birds with orange splotches. We stop in Wynyard for a snack. They have a delicious folded pastry I've never seen called an applejack, but the coffee is too weak even for me, normally a tea-drinker. In an antique shop Henry finds what he has wanted for years: a set of Dionne quintuplet spoons. They are asking $125. His face falls from delight to sorrow. "I can't afford that." "What can you offer?" His eyes zip back and forth in an agony of calculation. "$80!" he blurts. "I must consult," says the woman majestically, disappearing behind a curtain. On return:
"I'm sorry, we cannot accept $80. It must be $80 plus GST." There are few sights as charming as an excited Henry.

We are expected in Yorkton by my grandfather's cousin John and wife Myrtle. We don't make it until 2, but fortunately Myrtle does ask if we've had lunch--we haven't! She makes toasted Velveeta on white buns. My mouth is occluded with hot, voluptuous, slightly cheesy goo. Trashy heaven! I expect the Trailer Park Boys to walk in any minute. Gherkins and the candied cherries in the fruitcake provide "greens" and the rest is pure carbohydrate overdrive, homemade doughnuts and all. We are so stuffed we can barely struggle into raingear as the first drops fall. John and Myrtle kindly urge us to stay, but it's off to Manitoba in increasingly heavy rain.

The landscape becomes more rolling with lots of deciduous trees and shrubs, like my idea of Tolkien's Shire. In tiny Gilbert Plains we stop to see a giant Golf Ball Man. The cafe has pie for $1.25 and Henry indulges while I struggle through all the wet layers to pee. Locals are predicting 3 days of rain, and I am worried at the prospect of getting drenched for days with my sore throat. Now we see that the time zone has changed and it is already 7pm. I propose that we get a hotel room in Dauphin. Henry reluctantly agrees.

But when we actually get there he is in a foul mood. He refuses to get hotel info and wants to camp, since it is no longer raining. I agree bitchily with proviso that I can complain as much as I want if it rains overnight. In mutual antipathy we shop separately for food and motorcycle oil. I decide that a nice stew will cheer him up and satisfy my craving for vegetables, but when I show him my basket he says I should have know he wasn't hungry, what nerve to shop for him! I burst into tears, buy cauliflower (which he hates) and noodle soup and return to the bike in a state. Henry phones his sister, who sides with me. This does not improve matters. He calls me a wimp, I swear at him, more emotional mayhem ensures. We spend the remainder of the evening pointedly ignoring each other and retire to separate sleeping bags. I guess we are breaking up. I cry most of the night.
]]>