Near Death Experience
Trip Start
Jun 06, 2004
1
14
27
Trip End
Jun 30, 2004
Jacquet River,
New Brunswick,
Canada
Saturday, June 19, 2004
We cross into New Brunswick--yay! six provinces done
Dusk at Jacquet River, NB
. 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
Not the prettiest stone house, but the last
. 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 skunk is there somewhere
. 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
Therin gets "art-y"
. 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.
