Weathering Bill

Saturday, August 22, 2009

This is a good news/bad news story. The good news is that insects will not be a problem tonight. The bad news is that this is the case because I'm parked in front of Wal-Mart in Yarmouth Nova Scotia, not at my Campground Host Site in Ellenwood Park. Alas, I will not be getting my swim today. The approach of 700-KM-wide Hurricane Bill off our shores panicked the Nova Scotia Parks Department to close down their parks system for two days. Never mind that the winds here at the coast will be 30 miles an hour higher than inland, there are no trees to fall on me in this asphalt jungle. At least I'm on a hill well away from the shore and parked beside the Nova Scotia Liquor Commission with it's walk in beer cooler if I get too warm. The park is closed until Monday at least when parks staff will assess the damage.

 

It's remarkable how different campgrounds in the same parks system can be despite the fact that they operate under the same voluminous set of regulations and statutes. The first surprise is that this campground has a non-descript beach monitored by two provincially sponsored lifeguards 8 hours a day 7 days a week even though they often guard single swimmers.  People in the know walk over to the smaller but kinder campers beach in the park. The campground host site is drive-through and strategically located at the entrance to the two campers loops with a steep walk up to the comfort station and a short walk from the beach. No racoons here to visit the garbage and aside from red squirrels and chipmunks not much wildlife. So far I've heard the resident barred owl at 4:00 AM, a mourning dove, a boreal chickadee and seen a female cardinal and a loon out on the lake at dawn.

 

Whereas the majority of campers in Cape Breton were from Quebec or out of province, here at Ellenwood most people are locals who return repeatedly over the course of the summer to their favourite sites.  Weekends are the most popular times to camp which makes the fact that the beaches were closed last weekend due to an error collecting samples by the resident lifeguards and now again this weekend due to Bill tough on park statistics. Parks staff here are welcoming and friendly making an unexpected addition to their compliment feel instantly at home. Save for the fact that the gate to the day-use area is locked at dusk no record is kept of visitors there. The campground is gated and the office open 24/7 and manned by a female staff. I have met the Kevlar-vested and armed conservation officers in their brand-new air conditioned SUV complete with onboard computer.

 

Just before notice came down that the park was closing I managed to drum up business for the nature walk this morning and rode over to join Matt and the two people who showed up to take it. When we got back learned the park was closed and finished packing up for the move to Wal-Mart in Yarmouth. On the way paused at the visitors centre to catch up online.

 

Sunday, August 23, 2009

Woke at 4:30 to the insistent sound of pounding surf at the coast. The wind picked up gradually and imperceptibly. The rain arrived at 6 AM just as if someone had turned a water sprinkler on high. By 1:30 the sun started coming out and the sky clearing but the wind, if anything is still picking up and gusting heavily. Across the province broken tree branches and tree falls are taking out the expected number of power lines and along the coastline police are finding it necessary to protect thrill-seekers from their own stupidity. The cynic in me says let them go and allow natural selection to improve the overall intelligence level of the gene pool. I'm waiting to hear if Mark got surfing in the 30 foot rollers. The workers in the park to which I'm attached the next two weeks have been told not to report to work today so I'm waiting for someone to tell me what the assessment is tomorrow morning. I'm not expecting much more than a few broken branches and blown leaves.

 

I just moved my RV in closer to the store so it can break the wind for me and turned my RV nose into it. I'm about to go visit my hosts who seem to be doing a bang up business. Weather, it would seem, does nothing to curb the urge to shop. The rain, however found all the building's leaks and the wind has done an excellent job of sweeping the parking lot.

 

Monday, August 24, 2009

After looking out and seeing the heavy morning fog pulled the covers back up and went back to sleep. Decided to patronize my hosts again and went in to pick up some new socks and undies. Drove down to the visitors centre to send my E-mail and got them to call my park and establish that yes, they are open. As of nearly 5 PM I'm the only camper in the park so visiting will not be a challenge as long as I manage to get along with myself. The life guards in the day use area were paid to stay home yesterday. Slowly but surely I'm getting my campsite back in shape. Before supper I'll go for a swim.

 

 

 

 

On Being a Campground Host

So this is where reality meets romance. Yes, I get a complimentary campsite and in return I get to meet fellow campers and answer their questions. I also get to interact with campground staff and have discovered the reception there is mixed.  It would seem that just because a park tech who works in an off-site office has decided his park should have a campground host doesn’t necessarily mean that the staff who actually work on site are totally sold on the idea. Opinions there seem to be mixed. 

 

Neither the North Atlantic nor the Minas Basin can be expected to accord swimmers a warm welcome. The patch of gravel that passes for a beach at the Battery will cool one off quickly. At Five Islands the expansive shoreline begins with a 30 ft pebble shingle followed by mudflats that extend up to a mile and a half out to sea at low tide.  At the turn of low tide the sea rushes in quickly and at the turn of high tide the undertow sweeps all out to sea. Ellenwood will have fresh water lakes and I’m hoping that rumours of high fecal coliform counts prove to be incorrect. 

 

The art of meeting people has its ups and downs. One can never predict what kinds of questions one will be asked. I now know all about the proper preparation of clams. Are the mackerel running—they are here at the Battery. Are the squid running—they only show up here once every 5 years and if they were the locks would be coated in ink, try Canso. Where are all the Bald Eagles? I can now say I saw one perched early this morning in a spruce tree adjoining the water near the lock and alas my camera was in my RV a half-mile distant.  I also witnessed a British Lass stretched out on a blanket in the sun have a panic attack because an inch worm crossed into her view.  Luckily she didn’t witness the 3 inch slugs I saw at Five Islands or she’d have been traumatized for life.  Is the Newfoundland Ferry likely to be busy—call them.  When does the coffee shop open—Tim Horton’s is 24 hours. Where would I buy lobster—at Lobsters-Are-Us in Little Harbour on the way to Point Michaud Beach.  See I’ve picked up a bit of local knowledge. 

 

Every park seems to be different.  Some are gated and sign visitors in and out, some have given up on gates that just don’t work.  Day use in Nova Scotia Provincial Parks is free.  The Battery Park, I’ve discovered lacks a sewage dumping station but most have comfort stations with warm showers.  The fire wood here at The Battery is the driest I’ve encountered anywhere in my camping experience but soft wood has no staying power.  The campsites in most provincial parks tend to be spacious and here at the battery afford one magnificent views of St. Peter’s  Bay.  The town of St. Peter’s is a short walk across the lock.  The St. Peter’s Canal adjoins this park and one can sit and watch boats pass through all day and the swing bridge operate to allow sailboats with tall masts passage. I have never seen as much Cow Parsnip in one place as I have here at The Battery.  In mid August sunny days are bringing goldenrod and asters into bloom. 

 

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Entered Nova Scotia as a fog bank ate Tantramar Marsh.  No piper at the visitor's centre on weekends.  Found a bank in Amherst along with Sobey's.  Stopped at the Masstown Market near Truro a local phenomenom that combines beer/liquor/wine, nursery, bakery, meat market, fruit stand and grocery store/knickknacks all in one.  From there drove up to Five Islands along a pot-holed Hwy 2 with tire-eating breaks in the pavement.  Five Islands is a place to watch the tide pour in and out of the Minas Basin.  My Campground Host Site up beside the hilltop comfort station was seeded days before I arrived and the sign put up that very morning.  A long walk down a steep hill takes you to the cliffs overlooking the East River and the five offshore islands.  The 'beach' has 30 feet of sharp pebble shingle leading to mud flats  that extend for over a mile at low tide and disappear at the rate of 1 ft a second when the tide roars back in.  An offshore rock approachable at low tide bears the image of the old wife-she was definitely an old hag.  A Mi'kmaq from Millbank came in Saturday Night to tell us how Glooscap created the Five Islands by throwing rocks at Beaver in the Bay.  A Korean is busy buying up businesses in Five Islands including an entire island where he built a resort with materials barged and helicoptered in.  Parrsboro has stores and a Geological Museum.  Joggins has a fossil museum. 

 

At my sister's in Lake Fletcher got my laundry done, to sleep in a double bed, and to bathe in a large bathtub.  Visited my Aunt Muriel in Bridgewater area after driving down through dense fog.  Got carrot cake for my birthday and then my brother-in-law engineered a complete washing and waxing of my RV along with various repairs and bike adjustments.  We got in canoeing on a local lake becoming becalmed after fighting our way a mile up the lake against a stiff breeze.  Watched The Watchmen and the Curious Case of Benjamin Button.  The former a marathon watched over two nights, the latter better than I'd expected.  Sunday got out for deep fried clams and chips-I treated. 

 

The ride up to Cape Breton on a Holiday Monday was blessedly uneventful.  The Canso Causeway looks miserable as the sea has been chewing away at its banks.  St. Peter's is a busy little town with local bars featuring Ceilidhs-live Scottish/Irish music.  Authentically the word connotes an informal kitchen party.  St. Peter's is the home of Wallace MacAskill a sailor who began a career in black and white photography of the sea and ships after a tourist gifted him with a Kodak Brownie camera in thanks for his assistance.  His photo of the Bluenose graces our dimes.  There is also a small museum and a so-called wildlife museum with inappropriate donated specimens manned by a local boy who will work until the grant money runs out in two weeks.  Talking with him was more interesting than his museum.  The Campground Host's Site near the comfort station actually has jury rigged 30 AMP power on crushed rock surrounded by mud, a Campfire Circle, and a twenty-foot canvas Teepee from Ohio the purpose of which no one can explain.  It is not appropriate to the local Mi'kmaq traditions. 

 

St. Pedro began as a Portugese Colony until the French made it St. Pierre with a fort named Toulouse.  It was leveled after the British captured Louisbourg.  A French Trader named Nicholas Denys held sway here for twenty years until a granary fire leveled his holdings and he left for Bathurst New Brunswick.  The British established Fort Dochester here on the height of land after capturing New France.  Nothing but signposts mark any of these sites.  The remains of a farm owned by a family named Kavanaugh remain as foundation stones but his home ended life as an insane asylum.  Adjoining the park the National Parks Service maintains the St. Peter's Canal as the oldest working canal in North America.  It affords passage from St. Peter's Bay on the Atlantic to Bras d'Or Lakes boats being lifted or dropped according to the tides.  Bras d'Or-Shoulders of Gold-Lakes are salt or brackish but with only two narrow outlets onto the sea vary by less than 1 foot in height so are barely tidal.  Being protected waters they are ideal for canoeing and kayaking. 

 

Monday the third the fog didn't lift until noon and settled back in by 4.  A large boat negotiated the locks but all anyone knew of her was the sound of her echoing fog horn.  I spent the forth of August cycling around town and today, the fifth settled in for a lazy day in camp.  Only a dozen sites in the park are occupied.  There's a campfire tonight with a talk on the canal.  I have been strongly encouraged to visit Arichat, Point Michaud, and Marble Head Beach and may strike out if the rain holds off tomorrow.  There's a weak but warm sun shining in my window but fog all but obscures the far side of the bay.  The park has more cow parsnip than I've ever seen in one place before.  Have talked with people from Maine, Quebec City and Montreal, along with families from Moncton, Halifax and Ontario.  A family from California and a couple from South Carolina and New England.  Gave travel advice to a Moslem Bosnian couple from Toronto.  They were sleeping in the attached rear of their pickup truck.  One of those enclosed box jobbies. 

 

Just was out for a walk to drum up business for this evening's campfire and must now get a bite of supper before things get interesting around here.  The campfire circle is part of my host site.  After another week here I head for the southern end of Nova Scotia six hundred kilometers distant.  Getting there involves driving most of the way back to Halifax, then down Hwy 101 to Yarmouth.  I expect to give myself two days for the trip.  I'll want to stop in Yarmouth along the way.  Finally, there I will get a chance to go for a daily swim though it will be a fresh-water lake, not fifty degree salt-water.  Guess I've gone soft.  I don't take cold showers any more either.  Today is warm and the humidity nearly 100%.  Haze still obscures the far shore of the bay but at least we aren't socked in with fog. 

 

Be careful what you ask for.  The ankle I sprained in Five Islands is still bothering me but then sprains heal slowly especially if you keep walking on them.  That's life in the wilds of Nova Scotia.

 

My second week at The Battery began after a sunny weekend broken only by one brief spritz of rain. Last Friday I went for a drive to see the recommended local sights.  Finally haze-free skies afforded clear views of the bay and Ile Madame opposite.  The park filled up with campers eager to take advantage of one of the few fine weekends we’ve enjoyed this summer.  The St. Peter’s Canal did a bang-up business with a great deal of excitement attending the passage of a 42 ft wide 246-ft luxury yacht with four feet to spare on either side and scant room fore and aft inside the lock, half the town came down to witness the show. 

 

I’m not sure that most people who arrive here have any clue what a campground host might be or why he shows up at their campsite but I’ve only met one group who out and out didn’t wish to be pestered. As with any job that entails meeting the public one never knows what to expect and it would be impossible to predict the questions one is likely to be asked.  Sure, I can recharge your camera batteries.  I even volunteered to dogsit while a young couple attended a Ceilidh. I’ve now met three people who know my first cousin in Bible Hill near Truro.

 

On Thursday the Thirteenth I got out to the band shell in town beside the Catholic Churches Glebe House where the audience was treated to Cape Breton Fiddling and a local folk/rock group.  Dakota from Ile Madame played three guitars, a banjo, mandolin, and National Steel or Dobro. I made it back to camp for the evening campfire where a local fisherman explained the ancient art of building a lobster  pot from scratch and ended with a demonstration of knitting the end webbing and parlour. 

 

Last night I demonstrated that if you build it they will come.  Built up a roaring fire in the campfire circle and settled back to read and people started arriving. A couple from the Ottawa Valley showed up fiddles in hand and just like that I had my own Cape Breton Ceilidh happening right here beside my RV.  People wandered in and out until 10:00 at which point everyone went home to bed.  With any luck we can stage another such event again tonight.  Today is Saturday August 15^th marking the halfway point of August and the temperature is headed for the scalding mid-thirties. After I finish typing I believe I’ll wander down and try out the waters of St. Peter’s Bay—should be a bracing experience.  This being my last full day in camp  I am busy wrapping up the paperwork I have to fill out to fulfill my duties as campground host.  I will also sort through the park’s campground host box and add the bits and pieces I have collected along the way for the next hosts. 

 

 

Home Impressions

Home: where one is treated the best and complain the most.

One can’t go home.

 

After months in a home that sways in the wind sleeping in a double bed that didn’t rock when I rolled over was a revelation.  Having someone else cook meals and do my laundry was certainly a luxury.  Be careful what you ask for.  I’d hinted about a brush to wash my RV and soap my brother-in-law would recommend and it arrived on my birthday but I wasn’t expecting to get the RV scrubbed from stem to stern with a polish job bumper to bumper including the roof.  Applying polish to a 22-ft, 8 foot high vehicle is no minor matter.  I was told I should do the four wheels on my own time.  My brother-in-law also took the kinks out of my bike rack, did some fibreglass repairs, and helped me with a few other niggling repairs and adjusted my bike.  Having a mechanic/handyman in the family is a useful fringe benefit. 

 

I don’t wish to sound blasé and world weary but after 35,000 KM certain trends seem to fall into place.  It is remarkable how many people who live next door to landmarks others have travelled half way round the world to view have never seen them.  This is equally true of urban sophisticates and rustic peasants.  I have long-since lost count of the number of places boasting the world’s best beach, covered bridge, tallest or longest whatever.  Shediac, New Brunswick is the Lobster Capital of the world, Austin Texas the  Music Capital of the world, Long Beach Oregon has the world’s longest beach no one can swim.  Famous people or legends seem to get around.  Alexander Graham Bell for example invented the telephone in the US and in Cape Breton Nova Scotia and Brantford Ontario.  Paul Bunyan dug the Great Lakes and St. Lawrence but there’s a statue of him and Blue Babe along the US Pacific Coast and he’s claimed by the East Coast as well. I hadn’t expected to find a 300 foot statue of Davy Crockett in the middle of the Texas Desert. 

 

There’s only one right way to pronounce words, name a plant or animal, cook a food, or perform certain tasks.  Across Canada, for example there are at least a dozen plants referred to as Mayflowers.  In the US South tea comes iced in a tall glass with lemon slices; coffee?, forget it.  In places where the temperature regularly tops 100º F don’t expect to find chocolate bars which melt at 80º F.  With my Germanic background I don’t feel comfortable saying you’all or effecting a southern drawl and have my pronunciation of place names regularly corrected.  Don’t go camping in an Arroyo—a dry stream bed—it may become a raging torrent due to thunderstorm activity hundreds of miles away in the mountains.  I was recently informed by a local with a Scottish brogue thick as porridge that she did not have an accent.  I was taken aback when my Aunt sliced my entire pound of bacon in half and heated her frying pan on a red hot burner before she put it in the pan.  Her pan is too small for a full slice of bacon and thin so over high heat bacon might well stick.  Therefore she believes  you have to heat the pan before you start the bacon.  A large well-seasoned cast iron frying pan works best if you start the bacon slowly in a cold pan. 

 

Chicken-fried steak has nothing to do with chicken and comes deep-fried in batter smothered in milk gravy.  What passes for hot salsa on the west coast wouldn’t even rate as mild pasta sauce in Texas.  Anyone for prickly pear salad?  Fried rattlesnake?  Rapi-pie?  Poutine—gravy, BBQ Sauce, and cheese curds on French Fries.  Hodge Podge?  Canadians wear out their kidneys attempting to get a buzz off most American Beer.  In some provinces it would be too low in alcohol content to legally rate as beer and patrons would accuse the barkeep of watering down his draft. Anyone for possum, squirrel, grits?  Grits to me seemed like watery cream of wheat. Biscuit and chicken gravy?

 

Along the East Coast a black flag indicates a hurricane is on the way.  Coastal areas have signs marking the storm surge levels, evacuation routes, and public shelters. At least they generally get fairly good advance warning.  In the Mid-West if the sky turns greenish-purple and the siren goes off you have five minutes or less to make it to your storm cellar or the lowest or most protected area in your home before the tornado hits.  On the west coast tsunami warning signs mark evacuation routes to high ground.  If the tsunami siren starts undulating make tracks for safe ground.  Unfortunately science has yet to perfect a method of predicting earthquakes in other than geologic time-frames.  California highways are shut down when there are major rain showers—they are not built to shed water.  In Seattle and Vancouver snow brings all traffic to a standstill—no one has snow tires and the municipalities have no ploughs.  On the west coast expensive homes are built in areas prone to brush fires, land slides, and coastal erosion; Miami is built on a sand bar.  In the Rocky Mountains no stopping signs mark areas prone to avalanches and land slides.

 

In Florida one is cautioned to beware of plunging into a fire-ant colony and not to feed the crocodiles.  In Texas turning over rocks or logs is likely to disturb a scorpion and walking past tall grass calls for care lest it be inhabited by a rattler.  If you camp and leave your boots out it’s wise to tap them out before putting them on to dislodge potential tarantulas or scorpions inside.  In Texas and New Mexico look fast because as Wiley E Coyote will tell you Roadrunners are quick.  In Saskatchewan and Manitoba Greater Prairie Chickens, a large bird over a foot tall will freeze in the middle of the road and refuse to move believing this makes them invisible.  One didn’t move until I nudged him with my bumper—I wonder why they’re endangered.  In bear and mountain lion country make lots of noise and don’t fall behind or strike out ahead of the pack.  If you encounter a bear back away slowly and do not establish eye contact—remember, black bears are excellent climbers.  It charged make lots of noise and as a last option play dead and protect your vitals.  For cat encounters one is advised to look at big as possible and to charge first.  If attacked fight back aggressively.  Don’t hike alone, in their territory these animals consider us prey. 

 

The world may be a dangerous place but man is still the most dangerous creature in it and highway traffic the most dangerous place to be.  Seeing a full-page spread on the ten most wanted in the Coastal News in Southern California was hardly an inducement to become a tourist.  Learning that in LA a policeman is killed weekly makes one wonder why anyone would answer a full page ad placed in the local tourist brochures.  Graffiti, vandalism, theft, and gang activity mar too many urban areas and the cliché about billboards blocking a view of the natural wonders they would advertise is all too real.  Despite these concerns common sense is still one’s best protection and a locked vehicle one’s best defence. At home or abroad don’t leave valuables in plain sight. 

Back on Home Soil

Continuing along New Brunswick's Acadian Coastline I stopped a night at a poorly run campground in Bouctouche before spending Friday and Saturday night in Shediac near Parlee Beach.  Declaring itself the Lobster capital of the world the tourist bureau has a strip of small shops featuring local cooking, crafts, and knick knacks plus Le Homard Gros—the Big Lobster.  At my campground managed to catch up online and read 6 weeks worth of CBC News updates.  Reading about all those murders, violence, political intrigue, and natural disasters in one sitting is quite an experience.  In the last month I've also made a concerted effort to read my way through 10 month's worth of MacLean's Magazines, now it's on to 16 month's worth of Reader's Digest along with PC World and Backpacker.  In Shediac spent an evening in Pascal Park listening to a public outdoor concert of Acadian Music and took the bike trails down to see the beach and other attractions associated with it. 

 

Before leaving Shediac I got my RV in order, my propane tanks filled, my holding tanks emptied, and my water tanks filled.  Left Shediac Sunday morning and entered Nova Scotia through a fog bank that concealed Tantramar Marsh.  Also missed being piped into Nova Scotia because the person who plays the pipes takes weekends off.  Found a bank and shopping centre in Amherst and drove out to Masstown Market near Truro to stock up on the likes of Brown Bread, Dulse, fresh strawberries, Valley Apples, Maple Syrup, and Strawberry Rhubarb Pie.  On the way to Five Islands on Highway 2 discovered that what I'd read about the condition of Nova Scotia's roads in MacLean's Mag was no exaggeration—tire eating potholes.  

 

At Five Islands was given a warm Nova Scotia Welcome, a tour of the park, and led to my campsite discovering to my elation that they'd installed a 30 AMP hook-up for me.  Since I'd been led to expect I'd have no hook-ups I was delighted to be so surprised.  Shortly after my elation was dampened when I spun out on my bicycle on the loose rock covering the hilly roads in the park and skinned my left knee, sprained my right ankle and bruised both palms.  Nights in the park are punctuated by marauding racoons who stage raids on the garbage cans, scattering their contents.  Doe's with fawns wander through the park one showing off twins and another a singleton.  Overhead soar bald eagles.  In the forest especially in the early morning the fluty calls of Wood Thrushes vie with the ubiquitous robins.  Near my campsite the "Quick, Three Beers" call of the Olive-Sided Flycatcher sounded and a black-throated green warbler posed just below the campground office. 

 

The joys of Five Islands Park are esoteric ones best appreciated by those satisfied to spend the hours it takes to see the dramatic rise and fall of the Fundy Tides.  For those who can get a campsite with a view of the Minas Basin or who take the time to make the half-mile hike to the shore the rewards are great.  However  these waters are more for looking than swimming as when the tide is in the beach is covered by coarse pebbles leading to muddy tidal flats.  Once past the waters warmed by those mudflats the deeper waters are chilling and plagued by dangerous undertows.  The change of tides is marked by powerful currents and at low tide the mud flats stretch for miles.  For those who would dig clams conditions are ideal and for those properly shod a walk to check out "the Old Wife" rock formation and the exposed cliffs is rewarding as long as one remembers to keep a weather eye on the state of the tides.  Boating is not advised.  When they can be seen, sunsets are spectacular. 

Heading to the Maritimes

I last wrote from St. Williams, Ontario on the North Shore of Lake Erie. The area affords quiet, flat backroads for safe cycling. One wonders that there be enough market for the amount of Ginseng that has replaced the former tobacco fields. Campers may not appreciate rain but after overnight showers one can practically hear the corn growing. The Tobacco Exchange is about to be permanently closed illustrating the demise of a once proud industry in this area. In an area famous for fresh water fishing the Port Dover Legion sells fish sticks and frozen fries at its Friday Night Fish Dinners. The sign on the St Williams United Church announced last service June 28^th. There are outdoor services on the pier in Port Rowan. Life is definitely taken at a slower pace here. A local complained about the Mennonites who let others fight their wars and took over family farms that came on the market because with their boys overseas aging families couldn’t make a go of them. He also complained about the effect these new neighbours had on local service clubs and businesses. His take on half a million bikers arriving in Port Dover on Friday the thirteenth was not particularly charitable.

After stopping half a day in Oakville I headed East across the top of Toronto and the next day braved more traffic on Highway 40 through the middle of Ile de Montreal. Packed camping at the Ivy Lea KOA was $55 a night. The next night I camped near Trois-Rivieres after negotiating with a non-English Speaking Quebecois. There’s more traffic on Highway 40 to Quebec City than I once encountered and St Hubert have changed the formula for the sauce that comes with their chicken dinners. It now comes with rice pilaf as well. The roadbed is also in need of repaving or actively being repaved. So far I’ve been lucky not to be held up by major construction projects. After crossing the Saint Lawrence I drove up Highway 20 through the Eastern Townships with a stop for gas and a visit to Subway for lunch. Last time I drove this highway through dense fog following a transport truck for safety. This time I had a brilliantly sunny day. At Rimouski all that was left was a parking site beside a motel parking lot; there was a 30 AMP hook-up, water, and high-speed Wi-Fi.

I encountered stiff cross-winds driving down the Matapedia Valley amid the steeply rolling hills and farmland. At the Bay of Chaleur crossed the bridge into New Brunswick and returned once more to the land of Salt Water. Was accorded lucky to find a campsite in Beresford near Bathurst. Acadians definitely exude joie de vivre. A local complains that this year lobster brings in only $3 a pound—not enough to cover the costs of the catch. Whether or not the price at the markets or on the menu reflect this I have yet to see. My attraction to rain continues and I spent an entire day at Malybel Park watching as shower followed shower, indeed I couldn’t even leave the park without first waiting out a reverberating thunderstorm the next morning. Fortunately I drove out of the rain as I headed south from Bathurst along Highway 8, crossed the Miramichi River and took Highway 11 to Kouchibouguac. Provincial Highways may provide an efficient route from point A to point B but they certainly don’t provide much scenic value however there are fewer speed zones, traffic lights and stretches of broken pavement.

Kouchibouguac National Park protects miles of tidal plains in the middle of New Brunswick’s Acadian Shoreline in a area where there is an uneasy peace existing with the local First Nations Mi’kmaq population. The park boasts 40 miles of biking trails and miles of boardwalks through sand dunes and salt marshes. The sandbars provide protected waters for canoeing and kayaking as well as habitat for a colony of 3 to 6 hundred seals, nesting terns, and protected nesting grounds for the endangered Piping Plover. The river estuaries are home to eels and fish populations. The summer interpretive programme is superlative. After camping at so many campgrounds with sites crammed together it is refreshing to see spacious level sites with long entryways and plenty of woods separating neighbours. This also enhances wildlife viewing opportunities by providing loads of natural habitat. I was pleased to have a mother ruffed grouse and her brood of 5 as neighbours.

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Wash lines are in again even in areas that once banned them by local ordinance. Whether clothing hung out to dry in smoggy Toronto can actually smell fresh is another question.

Halifax Sewage Treatment Plant. How could the failure of one valve cause $333,000,000 worth of damage? Did someone sabotage the place? Is it possible the people running the place could be that incompetent?

Talk about being a marked man. When a bank robber stuffed the loot down the front of his jeans the exploding dye-pack in the bundle of cash turned his crotch brilliant scarlet and left him with second degree powder burns in the area.

News of the Weird

In North Carolina a pregnant bank robber took a cell phone call in the middle of a robbery and became so involved in her call she walked out of the bank ignoring the cash the teller was trying to hand her.

In my book there is no circumstance in which it is other than extremely rude to abandon the person standing in front of you with whom you are dealing as a customer to answer a phone as happened to me at Kouchibouguac National Park today. Keeping that customer waiting while you talk to a fellow employee is right up there behind it as a turnoff.

In a CBC Comedy Podcast today I got a laugh at the suggestion that the seal hunt is good for the economy whether or not the hunt itself is still a profitable undertaking. The hunt attracts celebrity protestors who hire helicopters to get out to the ice flows, occupy expensive rooms and eat at pricy restaurants at a time when tourism is nearly non-existent.

To support the local tobacco industry in a province in China government workers are now required to buy a set number of cartons of cigarettes a month and schools have been allotted a similar quota. Are they actually attempting to reduce their population due to premature death by cancer? Are they taking into consideration the costs of health care?

In Canada our governments are shelling out our tax dollars at the rate of $2,000,000 per auto job they are supposedly protecting. Wouldn’t it be a better investment if they gave us a tax credit for the motor vehicles we buy? Those same automobile manufacturers are renting extra space for the cars they are unable to sell.

I'm Overdo for a Rant

I never believed in Santa Claus because I knew no white dude would come into my neighborhood after dark.

Dick Gregory (1932 - )

 

I've gone into hundreds of [fortune-teller's parlors], and have been told thousands of things, but nobody ever told me I was a policewoman getting ready to arrest her.

New York City detective

 

Psychiatry enables us to correct our faults by confessing our parents' shortcomings.

Laurence J. Peter (1919 - 1988)

 

I've done the calculation and your chances of winning the lottery are identical whether you play or not.

Fran Lebowitz (1950 - )

 

Things could always be worse; for instance, you could be ugly and work in the Post Office.

Adrienne E. Gusoff

 

 

There is no sign marking the crossroads community of Dog’s Nest north of Lake Erie, seems it was such a collectors item township workers couldn’t keep them on the post. 

 

I’m a bit behind in my magazine reading so I recently came across a new tale about the challenges of preparing the Christmas Turkey.  The turkey helpline regularly publishes lists of beleaguered chef’s gaff’s like the lady who called to report that she’d accidentally set her oven on auto-clean with the turkey inside or someone attempting to bake a deep frozen 25 lb bird—2 days defrost time in a refrigerator.  Seems in an ever widening range of methods that have been developed to prepare the perfect bird someone came up with the idea of deep frying it.  Unlike a turducken that takes 12 hours deep frying takes 20 minutes however miss steps with over-heated oil can result in more than a flambéed fowl.  Other hazards include overfilling the container with oil and upset.  Placing an improperly thawed bird in hot oil can cause rather spectacular boil-overs when the hot oil suddenly hits the ice and turns it to steam.  Some things, it would seem, are best left to the professionals.  The same issue of MacLean’s also talked about heritage bronze turkeys but who can afford turkey at $100 a pound?  

 

In honour of Obama’s inauguration Ben and Jerry’s introduced a special Butter Pecan flavour called Yes Pecan with a picture of the prez. 

 

In Germany a scrap metal firm cutting up an old safe found it to contain over ¼ of a million Euros left behind when a bank disposed of it.  OOPS!

 

When did provincial park and conservation campground guides become more about the hazards, do’s and don’ts and even a listing of offences and the fines appertaining thereto than about the parks resources and how to enjoy them?  After reading the park’s brochure for Turkey Point, for example, why would anyone who didn’t already know the place want to go there?

 

What better way to  ride down a bobsled run than in a Chinese Wok or that’s how they do it in Germany of all places. 

 

“Will you have fries with that?”

 

The Golden Arches is not on my list of gourmet stops so I had to read MacLean’s back in Canada to learn that with profits falling and franchises closing up shop in the land of super-sized fries MacDonald’s has started charging patrons for the privilege of squeezing ketchup and vinegar out of those infernal blisterpaks.  Airlines, you may remember have the problem licked by not feeding their patrons in the first place, even bottled water sales are down—the only drink available since onboard reservoirs on planes, trains and boats were discovered to be contaminated and the cost of cleansing them  deemed to be too high. 

 

 

 

Out Again for a Not so Dry Run

Whether or not as a friend asserts I attract rain I am once again seated in my RV listening to the sound of rain on the awning outside my window.  Certainly given the sight of fields upon fields of corn barely a few inches high rain is welcome here north of Lake Erie.  Why it has to arrive at this precise moment is the issue. 

 

In the first place may I make a pitch to those who read these ramblings that they leave a comment or let me know in an E-mail that they do so that I might know that my work is not entirely in vane.  Secondly I would inform you that for the next 3 months as at present I am going to be without internet service for weeks at a time so that my postings and responses will be erratic.  Yes, I have decided that my odyssey will continue, I have not yet exhausted my wanderlust nor have I seen as much of America as I would like to visit. 

 

After sweltering in the Gatineau I crossed back across the Ottawa River for a couple nights in Renfrew.  There was a time when I might have been attracted to the idea of white-water rafting in nearby Beachburg but having done so in an open canoe the idea no longer holds so much appeal.  Instead I spent a good deal of time attempting to catch up with a week’s worth of E-mail and browsing.  On Monday, June 29^th I drove down to Marmora on Highway 7 through rolling farm country and  forests with my host’s words in my ears.  “Highway 7 is like Highway 17, either it’s under construction or it should be.”  For a good part of the trip I drove over newly paved roads so fresh they lacked proper markings.  At least I was fortunate in not being held up by flagmen or jostled across newly built washboard. 

 

In Marmora I was faced by towering thunderheads and failed to get off the highway to visit the local cheese factories or go to a grocery store.  Highway 7 is much improved since I drove it decades ago.  When the rain held off I decided to join the campground hosted ‘hayride’ around the park.    It was not as lame as it first appeared, seeing how people have their seasonal campsites set up from an elevated view was interesting.  The rains did not in fact come until I set out for Oakville next morning. 

 

My return home was for the purpose of tying up loose ends.  It’s discouraging how matters one believed to be dealt with keep coming undone because others can’t seem to get it right the first time.  When cloudbursts returned with a vengeance I decided to find a place to park and sleep in my own bed overnight. 

 

Canada Day Morning I arose early and drove out to the RBG where I found the Centre still in the throes of remodelling and everything else gated and locked.  Giving up on that idea I drove out Governors Rd, Hwy 99, in Dundas toward Brantford and checked out an RV park near Burford—no I had no idea it existed either—and decided it was an old folks home in a trailer  park.  When did Brantford rename the town Gretskyville?  From a large parking lot at the LCBO in Burford I decided to head south to Lake Erie and try out Woodland RV Park in St Williams.  Sad to say its now cheaper to camp in a private campground than in nearby Turkey Point Provincial Park.  I have electrical, water and sewer hook-ups here but no internet access. 

 

St Williams is a crossroads community with a garage, general store, grocery store, Book Nook, and pizzeria.  For anything else it’s a 10 km trip to Turkey Point with its shoppes catering to beachfront clientele or the small town of Port Rowan where the Legion has a weekly Friday Fish Fry.  My campground has a heated swimming pool with adults only hours, a couple of trampolines, the requisite horseshoe pitches which seem to be a campground staple and here in use, a games room with “penny arcade”, and the usual laundry room and play areas.  As suggested by the name the park is surrounded by the St Williams Forest and infested with black flies. 

 

I still need to sort through the clothes in my RV wardrobe and see what else needs to be removed in a weeks time when I drive through Oakville once more but  otherwise I seem to be ready to strike out again.  Before I leave here I should take time to give myself a haircut for the sake of my 88-year-old Aunt in Oakhill.  One of these rainy days I’ll probably spend some time planning a route to Nova Scotia.  This time I’ll probably take a route along New Brunswick’s Atlantic Coastline. 

Wakefield Quebec

It’s hard to remember just how slow a dial-up modem is until you’ve been offline an entire week and finally get an opportunity to reconnect.  Somehow paint actually dries faster these days. 

 

After three days attempting to avoid the clouds of pine tree pollen in Cantley, Quebec I headed out toward Wakefield.  At least I was able to make use of a couple fine days to open my storage areas and sort through the items I have stored, combining food stuffs, and repacking to save room.  On the way south of Cantley to find the nearest bridge across the Gatineau River I found a general store open on St John Baptiste Day to sell me some orange juice and Ginger Ale.  I also managed to locate the Gatineau Park Visitor’s Centre in Chelsea and pay it a visit.  They have some interesting interactive exhibits but not that much by way of guides or tour books on the park.  Their campgrounds, I discovered are not managed by the parks department but rather farmed out to a private company.  When I reached the fee station there was a multi-car line-up at the kiosk and when I went inside the main office to see about camping the single person present spent 15 minutes on the phone while I waited.  Even when she finally hung up she interrupted serving the people in front of her to answer the phone—a practise I abhor.  The fact that someone was an hour late for work should not have been my problem but it certainly became so.  The person serving me was not with it and after three reminders still tried to rent me a site for 2 days rather than the 3 I’d requested.   The Philippe Lake area of Gatineau Park is emphatically in shield country and negotiating its roadways is an exercise in dodging rock outcrops.  The forest however is a hardwood/softwood mix.  The place was  quiet although the odour of campfires hung heavily in the air and the heat of the day didn’t ease until well after midnight.  Sleeping was definitely a clothing optional experience.  The predawn chorus of birdsong awakened me every morning.  Alas it was way too hot to essay the it was way too hot to essay the 14 km hike to Lusk Caves so on my off-day Thursday I sat inside with my curtains drawn and read my book. 

 

Wakefield is an English Community in Francophone Quebec.   The first surprise I received when I drove into town to reconnoitre was that there was no Black Sheep Inn as I’ve always heard it referred to on CBC—it’s Le Mouton Noir.  Took me a moment to make the connection and by that time I’d driven past.  Driving up Riverside Dr one discovers that the sidewalk on the waters edge runs between two rail lines which in places abut the roadway and in other locations are mere inches from houses on the riverfront.  Obviously people who park there must take care as the line is actually still in use by Le Train Vapour.   To prove the point the train blew its whistle and rumbled through town before Friday’s performance making its return run shortly after.  Although that train boasts a steam engine and tender car it seemed to me that the majority of work was being accomplished by the diesel unit behind it which obviously also powers the passenger cars and dining cars. 

 

Just outside town, on the road in from Hwy 105 is an artesian spring which is a popular spot to get cold, gushing refreshing sweet water.   If you can find parking a wander along Rue Principale reveals an odd mix cafes and eateries, bookstores and giftshops, clothing and whatnots.  There is a library if you can find it open, the schedule defies logical examination.  Main street was in need of repaving half a decade ago and at the entrance to the community centre a rapidly expanding sinkhole threatens to eat anything that gets too close.  Le Moulin is a quarter mile up Mill St along a road with forest and rock outcrops on one side and a rushing stream on the other.  Certainly a peaceful idyllic location for a five-star Inn. 

 

What can I say about the Sheep?  Le Bistro Rutherford which manages its kitchen serves up a yuppie version of pub fare and lacks a liquor licence and like many other establishments in town accepts only cash.  Hence I approached the place to find everyone outside in the boiling hot sun eating on the Black Sheep’s patio which is licensed.  That an overweight pug has the freedom to wander wherever it pleases including a seat on the sound board was a revelation—strange liquor laws in Quebec.  In spite of the fact that having dinner there was supposed to assure me priority seating for my evening concert staff failed to inform me that the doors had been opened prematurely until all the seats were taken.  As it turned out the improvised seating on the covered pool table in front of an open window proved to be the most liveable seating available.  Wednesday’s program managed to start on time.  Not willing to be hoodwinked twice I had dinner before I arrived Friday night and got myself in the line-up at the entrance around 6:30 with my book in hand.  This night the doors did not open until 7:45; allowing the audience in before the opening act has arrived not being a wise act.  It was not until 8:30 the opening act performed their sound check and that completed they decamped to the patio for another beer.  The performance did not begin until 9:15.  All the more time to make alcohol sales it would seem.  I’m still not clear on why Blue Grass or any other music needs to be deafening but I’ve definitely decided that the ability to understand the words is not important.  Venues where the audience talks all through the performance and the performers drink beer on stage are not my usual stock in trade.  I did get 76 pages of my book read before the performance began Friday. 

 

Fred Eaglesmith attracts a devoted following of Fred Heads.  With no introduction he launched into his first set and moved seamlessly from song to song.  To say that his commentary, when it did come, was salty is an understatement.  When sweating profusely he opined he might go out and jump in the lake as he has on past occasions an audience member was told to f… off when he was informed that it’s actually a river.  Similar language was used to describe audience members who gossiped away in the middle of his performance and came up frequently.  It would seem I haven’t listened to my CD’s often enough to have recognized most of the numbers played.  I do find it novel that one who so offhandedly insults his audience maintains such a devoted one.  The opening act was so utterly forgettable that most of the audience ignored him and continued their conversations. 

 

The tardy Grass Mountain Hobos are a 5-piece combo fronted by Josh Ellis who shares singing duties with a couple of his mates.  A double bass player provided rhythm while a fiddler added grace notes.  Despite their hayseed front their music is an eclectic mix.  This we were informed was their concluding performance of a cross-country tour that will see them returning to home base in PEI to launch their sophomoric album July 1^st. 

 

The United Steel Workers of Montreal are a 6-piece combo in which the tiniest player works and even balanced on top of a huge double bass and the hulking gruff-voiced no-neck grimacing lead singer played the smallest.  The group boasts a female accordionist who sings, a banjo/mandolin and lead, rhythm, and electric guitars with a fife and other instruments thrown in as the mood struck.  This night the audience was attentive to both acts. 

 

As much as I enjoyed the live music I doubt I’ll be making the long trek to Wakefield again given the many drawbacks.  This morning after a quick bowl of cereal and a walk to the comfort station I set out for Renfrew Ontario.  Once again I was dependent on my GPS to take me there as much as I sometimes wonder at allowing myself to be at the mercy of an electronic wonder—particularly when it leads me along 22 km of washboard dirt road.  I should be grateful that a kampsite was waiting for me but I must say it’s been some time since anybody called this old curmudgeon “sweetie”.

Off Again on the Road

It's ironic.  One does not realize the ambient noise level of a modern city until one has spent time in an environment of absolute silence.  Having again had that experience returning to Oakville has been somewhat of a shock.  It is a fact of science that a sound that has been present in one's living space since birth is experienced as silence—we tune it out.  Since I grew up in an agricultural area of Lunenburg County, Nova Scotia where farms were worked by horses and oxen it was possible to hear the waterfall three-quarters of a mile away and the steam train whistle 30 miles distant.  If I were to get homesick for that place I would think of sitting under a lone white pine in the middle of our home pasture and listening to the breeze sigh through its needles.  But it's impossible to go home—both the tree and that silence are gone.  When I first moved to a university residence in Waterloo Ontario the humming of fluorescent light ballasts in the corridor kept me awake at night and the water tasted worse than sucking an aspirin.  Returning to Oakville this time round gave me a similar experience. 

 

It was with some relief that I sifted through 8 month's worth of mail and found no bills for toll roads I'd accidentally entered and no parking tickets or red-light camera citations.  That is not to say that other rude surprises were not awaiting me.  It is truly mind boggling how slowly the bureaucratic process grinds and computers capable of trillions of computations a second have served only slow it down exponentially.  It takes 4 weeks to get a driver's license, 6 weeks to get a police background check, and three months to make a specialists appointment.  It was with a sigh of relief I learned that the passport I applied for before I left last fall had been waiting for me since November.  So was a cheque for an amount Bell Canada had over-charged me last summer which was now too old to process.  After making the rounds of financial, insurance, governmental, and police institutions for 10 days I had more than enough. 

 

Friday June 19^th at 11 in the morning I struck out east along the 401.  In the GTA it is a reality of life that getting there is not so much a matter of finding a route that will take you where you want to go but finding a time when it will not more resemble a parking lot.  The time to reach a destination is not so much a factor of distance as it is traffic congestion.  Despite a car fire in East End Toronto I was fortunate in having crossed the top of Toronto without slowing below 30 KMH.  Minimum speed and no stopping signs somehow seem ironic.  I remember with some nostalgia an itinerant peddler who travelled by horse-drawn caravan and spent much of his time drowsing on the driver's box while his horse plodded along at its own pace knowing full well the destination of its next meal of oats, hay, and sweet water.  In those days before traffic lights and superhighways the horse needed no direction to get where it was going. 

 

Finding a suitable campground is always a challenge.  To fully enjoy the facilities of my home-on-wheels I need a 30 AMP plug-in.  With some constraints I can survive for up to a week at a time with no plug-ins but such 'dry land' camping imposes a great deal of discipline and uses a lot of propane especially in cold weather.  I access Woodall's campground database via my computer and MS Streets and Trips to get an exact address and location.  Woodall's listings give sometimes nebulous directions and MS Streets supplies addresses and locations on its maps.  Alas Microsoft has been out by over 50 miles in locating many parks placing some in the middle of lakes or out at sea.  National and State Parks which give a mailing address that can be hundreds of miles distant are not much help.  Microsoft and my Tom Tom GPS often  use different names for the same road.  Internet access ideally means Wi-Fi accessible in the privacy of one's own home.  Using a manually attached modem to read E-mail and browse in a public setting is not particularly comfortable.  When one is already paying up to $40 or more a night for a campsite forking out more to access the internet and feeding coins into a machine to get a tepid shower feels like petty larceny. 

 

My recent experience serves to illustrate the vagaries involved in pulling into a park. 

• Cobourg East Campground is just outside Grafton East of the town of its name.  My site was in the middle of a grove of hardwoods close by the central office and washrooms near the entrance road.  Their Wi-Fi, when it worked was slow and inconsistent.  The place was quiet, had an adjacent river and many well-maintained permanently placed trailer-homes. 
• Camp Hither Hills near Manotick just off Hwy 416 south of Ottawa offered parking with hook-ups in a rectangular field beside the entrance road next to Bank St in Ottawa.  A strip of trees provided scant shade from the sun when it appeared and the office demanded payment in cash for their services.  Their Wi-Fi worked consistently and was ultra-high-speed. 
• Camping Cantley just east of Gatineau Park charges $40 a night for a rough-hewn site in a pine forest offering no Internet service at all and a meter that needs feeding did you wish a shower.  The staff are roughly bilingual.  The place has been quiet save for the nearby baseball game Sunday Afternoon.  I had to ask to be re-assigned from a site beside the entrance next to the highway. 

 

Having listened to taped concerts from the Black Sheep Inn in nearby Wakefield for several decades I am fulfilling a lifelong dream of dropping in to take in two concerts there.  Fortunately I did online research to learn that the venue does not sell advance tickets to its own concerts and stopped in downtown Ottawa on Sunday to buy tickets at a one-stop Folk Music Centre.  My ticket is merely a reservation that ensures I get in the door, seating is by general admission.  Tomorrow, before the evening concert I hope to find camping in nearby Gatineau Park.  Besides allowing me to get out of town and attend these concerts this trip affords me the opportunity to discover what more I need to pack or get rid of before I strike out for 6 to 8 more months.