The Maritime Provinces

Prologue

Once again, in late summer my thoughts turn to riding through Canada. Last year, it was a trip overland to Labrador; this year it would be a ride to the northernmost point in Newfoundland to visit the site of my Viking ancestors' settlement of 1,000 years ago. I had been there before, thirteen years ago in a VW camper (and toured Newfoundland in the same camper on my honeymoon), but this would be the first time on "the rock" on a bike.

I had an ambitious plan: Leave my home in central Virginia Thursday morning (Aug. 26), catch that night's ferry from Portland, Maine to Yarmouth, Nova Scotia, ride the length of Nova Scotia on Friday, catch the Friday night ferry and awake in Newfoundland Saturday morning. Once there, I would speed north to the Viking settlement at L'Anse aux Meadows, and then begin the journey home. On the way back, I would slow down and smell the proverbial roses along the way, especially in New England, before getting home Labor Day weekend.

I had figured on catching the Iron Butt (www.ironbutt.com) checkpoint in Gorham, Maine on the way back as well. The riders (a couple of whom we sponsored) would be arriving between 4-6pm on the Saturday of Labor Day weekend, which worked well into my planning. It would be great to see the riders in and offer whatever encouragement I could.

Day One -- Thursday

Arising before dawn (I had packed my BMW F650 the night before), I headed out into the lightening day. The weather forecast was encouraging, and I would make good time. Until I hit the New York area, that is.

As I neared the city, I stopped for gas in New Jersey. Interestingly enough, I managed to fit more than seven NJ gallons of gas into my seven gallon fuel tank. Maybe the gallons in NJ are smaller? Maybe they don't check the pump calibration very often?

Probably the most I'll ever put in my seven gallon Acerbis tank -- and I hadn't even hit reserve yet! Wonder how much the boys at the NJ Dept. of Weights & Measures are making these days?

After refueling, I got caught in a horrible traffic jam. No accidents, no construction, just too much traffic. As I sweltered in the heat (in full riding gear), I figured I lost about 1.5 hours crawling along. Finally, I got the opportunity to bail and took the first highway north. I reasoned I'd hit I-84 sooner or later and then I could bypass NYC and skip into Connecticut.

Because of the time lost, it looked like a tight squeeze to make the ferry from Portland. I had reservations -- including a cabin -- and didn't want to miss the boat. I ratcheted up the speed a little and plunged ahead. Despite its full load -- me, full saddlebags, a waterproof duffel, and a tankbag filled to capacity -- the F650 had no trouble cranking along at 80mph. I made it, but just fifteen minutes before boarding started.

On the Portland->Yarmouth ferry, there are no real provisions to tie your bike down. The crew uses large rubber wedges to support each bike, but I always carry tie-downs and used a couple of them to secure my bike to pipes and bars along the side.

The crossing was uneventful, save for the fact that this is something of a party boat and can be noisy. There are slot machines, casinos, and entertainment, so people tend to stay up late and think nothing of sharing their good times through the thin cabin walls. Oh well, that's what earplugs are for, right?

Day Two -- Friday

Rolling off the ferry in Yarmouth, I noticed most of the Americans were stopping at the visitor center to change currency. I figured I'd hit some small town down the road and save time. Hah! I pulled in at a bank about twenty miles away to find that Friday, Aug. 27, was "check day" -- everyone was depositing their monthly social security checks. Another opportunity to remember I was on vacation.

After exchanging money and picking up some food, I stopped at a roadside picnic area to grab breakfast. While taking a photo...

Stopping for a roadside brunch brought with it an opportunity to chat with an elderly Nova Scotian.

...the owner of the house across the road came out to check his mail and chat for a few minutes. M. Charlton, easily in his 80s, shared with great interest his views on the weather, the crop results, motorcycling, and so on. Didn't want his picture taken though, which was a pity. His face had a lot of character.

One thing I've always noticed about Canada is the proliferation of flags at peoples' houses. While in the States, we usually show the colors on holidays (July 4, Veterans' Day, etc.), Canadians seem much more enthusiastic about flying the flag. Maple leaf banners are in the majority, of course, but when you travel to the French-speaking provinces -- primarily Quebec, but including much of New Brunswick and pockets in the other Maritimes -- you start seeing French flags all over the place.

The U.S. went through a separatist movement in the 1800s; I can only hope our neighbors to the north handle it better than we did. Not that I would ever expect it would come to this, but civil wars are the worst, pitting family against family, friend against friend. Living in the States, I know only what I read and hear from talking with folks I meet on my travels. I don't know what the solution is, but I my fervent wish is for all of Canada to remain united for the common good.

You cross the Canso Causeway to reach the Cape Breton part of Nova Scotia. Approaching the Causeway at Auld's Cove I noticed a business with a familiar name...

Believe it or not, my relatives running this shop wouldn't give me any free samples...

Despite convincing arguments on my part, the proprietors wouldn't buy my relationship to them. I continued on across the Causeway.

Across this bridge, you'll find Cape Breton Island, the northern section of Nova Scotia and home of the Cabot Trail.

There is a huge mining operation located adjacent to the Causeway, so chances are you'll be in the company of trucks hauling away various products. Keep your eyes open and stay alert; these guys don't want to bother with somebody on a motorcycle, so it's up to you to keep up or keep out of the way.

Arriving in Sydney that evening, I headed for the ferry terminal. While loading my bike, I got talking to a couple of other bikers, Carey, a Newfie with an old Yamaha Venture, and Steve, a Harley rider from Rochester, NY. We chatted for awhile and then bid each other good night.

Cars and bikes share a loading deck on the ferry to Newfoundland. Tie-downs are provided and there are cleats in the deck to clamp onto.

Day Three -- Saturday

While prepping our bikes, Carey, Steve, and I decided to ride together for a ways. We were heading the same direction and figured we'd stop for breakfast after about an hour. We rolled off the boat into thick fog at dawn -- this was going to be fun.

Heading north, we moved along at a pretty good clip. I was leading, and tucked in behind a string of cars, figuring if anybody was going to hit a moose it would be one of them. Did I mention the moose? There are thousands of them on Newfoundland -- almost as bad a problem as deer in the States -- and they're HUGE! When you're riding in the Maritimes, you must keep the possibility of moose high on your list of dangers.

They're not kidding! The authorities put the moose warning signs where there have already been accidents, so you know it's more than just a friendly word to the wise.

At breakfast, Harley Steve asked me about my bike and where I've ridden. I gave him a few details (BMW 650 single, all over the U.S. and Canada), and he responded with, "I wonder why, with all your riding, you wouldn't rather be on a big Harley?" Trying not to be snide, I said, "Because I like to do a lot of riding."

Carey just about passed juice through his nose. After a little reassurance, Steve was convinced I hadn't really insulted him or his choice of ride. I just like getting on my BMWs and riding 'til the roads end. I would not be comfortable doing that on a Harley.

After breakfast, we split up, Carey heading toward his home in St. John's, Harley Steve and I heading north toward L'Anse aux Meadows. Steve and I rode together for awhile, then split up as we stopped for different attractions.

I started feeling at home as I turned onto the Viking Trail at Deer Lake. This marks the beginning of the road through Gros Morne to the Viking settlements.

Travelers to the western coast of Newfoundland are greeted by this sign.

Approaching Gros Morne National Park is always a thrill. The mountains rise up close to the water, and the park includes fjords as well. It's listed as a World Heritage Site by the U.N. (as is L'Anse aux Meadows). There's lots to see and do -- hiking, boat trips through the fjords, and so on), but this day I would be passing through on my mission to the north.

The Viking Trail passes between the mountains at Gros Morne and the ocean to the west.

The winds in Newfoundland were just brutal. Of the ~450 miles from the ferry to L'Anse aux Meadows, I'd guess 400 were racked with steady 30mph winds and gusts up to 50mph. You'd ride along at a 40 degree angle for fifteen minutes or so, then the wind would shift to the other side and -- if you weren't alert -- blow you right off the roadway. There's no shoulder, either. Because of the boggy nature of the island, they have to build the roads atop a base of rocks, gravel, and dirt. The road is, in places, ten feet or so above the surrounding land. Go off course at speed here and you're talking serious injury.

Afternoon fuel stop in a typical Newfoundland fishing village. Dirt road, one gas station, lots of boats.

Late Saturday afternoon, I found a B&B near L'Anse aux Meadows. The Valhalla is a decent place at a good price (about US$35) and the owner also owns the only real restaurant (The Norseman, which she promotes relentlessly) in town. After cleaning up, I got dinner at The Norseman, enjoying live harp music while eating fresh scallops.

The Valhalla B&B (bottom center) has a fantastic view. This photo is from a hill across the street from which you get a panoramic view of the countryside.

It seemed almost all the customers were staying at the Valhalla. At dessert, I sat with a woman and her daughter (the Ericksons) from Brooklyn, NY and we talked for awhile. They, too, were of Norwegian ancestry and on a pilgrimage of sorts. Well, mom was on a pilgrimage -- daughter Laura was just enjoying her last vacation with mom before starting college in Vermont. We would see each other again Sunday at the settlement.

Day Four -- Sunday

Sunday morning, I packed up the bike and rode to the park. The visitor center is built alongside a low rock formation to be unobtrusive and to shield it from the winds and wintry weather. After enjoying a very well done film and perusing the various artifacts found at the site, I headed for the restored village.

Five hundred years before Columbus, six hundred years before the English settlement at Jamestown, Virginia, Vikings sailing from Greenland made their homes here in sod and wood huts just like these.

I caught up with the Ericksons on a tour and learned much about Viking life a thousand years ago. I'm something of a Vikingophile (if that's a word), so I already knew a lot of the information being given. My father and I shared a strong interest in our ancestors from Scandinavia, and when he died I inherited a number of books about the Vikings and their travels.

This largest of huts would have held thirty residents in three rooms. Fires would burn on the dirt floor to generate warmth, fight the dampness of the structure, and provide for cooking food.

Inside the homes, historical interpreters explained everyday Viking life. That life wasn't easy -- hostile natives (called Skraelings by the Vikings) and bleak weather -- but these were tough people. Finally, after some period (at most, a few years), the Norsemen packed up and headed home in their longboats.

Vikings used single masted boats such as this to cross thousands of miles of ocean from Norway to Iceland, Greenland, and eventually North America.

Exact details of their journeys and habitation in North America aren't available but scientists, combining physical evidence and the Sagas (oral histories now written down) have some pretty good ideas.

From L'Anse aux Meadows, I headed south again. Again to fight the winds, again to catch a ferry. Along the way, I stopped at Gros Morne for a brief hike to loosen up the legs and get a little exercise.

Typical terrain in Newfoundland is lichen- or moss-covered rock jutting out of the bog. Walking around on the boggy areas is eerie -- the ground is so soft, it's like walking on a giant sponge.

Along the way south, I met up with Harley Steve again. We decided to go for the ferry together. As we made our way towards Channel Port aux Basques (the ferry terminal), the sun set and the fog picked up again. With a tight deadline, we were forced to ride too fast through the conditions, but were very lucky. No moose in the road, though I saw two along the side as we passed.

We made it to the ferry after it started loading and they waved us aboard. That's one of the many advantages of a motorcycle -- they can fit you in almost anywhere! After we tied down the bikes, I headed for some floor space to sleep during the journey.

Arriving just in time for the midnight ferry to Nova Scotia, the bikes had to spend the night outside on the deck.

Day Five -- Monday

Rolling off the boat at Sydney, Nova Scotia, Harley Steve and I turned north. He had never been on the Cabot Trail, so I volunteered to show him. I knew from past experience he had some treats in store for him. The first was as we climbed into the mountains on the eastern side of Cape Breton Island.

If you take the overnight ferry from Newfoundland to Nova Scotia, then head for the Cabot Trail, you're treated to one of the most beautiful sunrises you'll ever see. I've done this three times and never been disappointed.

Steve was suitably impressed by the sunrise and, after taking it in for awhile, we hit the road once again. We made our way around the Trail counter-clockwise, stopping for breakfast and later a nap.

The Cabot Trail winds its way through mountains and fishing villages along the coast of Cape Breton Island.

Eventually, we arrived back at the Canso Causeway and split up again. I was headed for Prince Edward Island, Steve for New Brunswick. We bid each other "safe trip" and rolled on.

That afternoon, I arrived at the ferry terminal at Pictou, one of two access points to Prince Edward Island. I caught the next ferry -- enjoying some "Cows" ice cream, native to PEI, along the way -- and then rode into provincial capital Charlottetown. There's a youth hostel there, and I figured it'd be a good place to bunk for the night.

The Charlottetown youth hostel is in a barn-like building to blend in with the rural nature of the area.

I found the hostel, checked in, grabbed a shower, then walked around for an hour or so and had dinner. It felt nice to be moving around on my legs for a while. Among the other guests were a New Zealander touring North America for the summer and a Japanese motorcyclist who bought a bike in British Columbia and was riding it across Canada.

Day Six -- Tuesday

As I loaded Tuesday morning, a young couple complimented me on the bike. We got talking and I found they were Fadi, a Syrian living in Canada and his girlfriend, Jacqueline, a native Canadian living in Halifax. We ended up talking about all sorts of things for more than half an hour. Jacqueline was clearly ready to travel somewhere other than Canada, as Nova Scotia and PEI were the only places she had been. I almost offered to take her with me!

I picked up some bagels for breakfast from the Great Canadian Bagel Co. (recommended!) and soon after, I was heading across the Confederation Bridge (so named because PEI was the location for talks which led to Canadian unification) to New Brunswick. The bridge reminded me of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge/Tunnel in Virginia in that it traverses a large body of water, but the Canadian one is all above ground.

Passing through Bucksport, I stopped for an ice cream cone at a roadside stand. The "small" cone was two and a half scoops of premium delight! The daughter of the owner was as much a delight as the cone. Grace, who I'd guess to be about five years old, was only too eager to show me her pet snake, Sally.

Cute little Grace and her snake Sally.

She'd found the snake in her yard, and her folks let her keep it. She had a nice little container for the snake with vegetation and water, but I couldn't help but think the snake would be happier sliding along through the grass somewhere.

After the ice cream, I headed south toward Fundy National Park, location of the highest tides in the world. Passing through the town of Alma, New Brunswick, I saw ample evidence of the tides.

Boats sit near the bottom as the tide starts to back in at Alma, NB. It's about twenty-five feet or so to the top of the pier, and this isn't even true low tide!

Continuing on, I rode until I got to the New Brunswick-Maine border crossing, where I decided to stop for the night. There isn't a lot in eastern Maine, so I figured I'd enjoy a night at a nice motel. So I did.

Day Seven -- Wednesday

Sleeping in a little late, I didn't get rolling until about 10:30am. I enjoyed a leisurely breakfast at a diner on the Canadian side before crossing into the States. A few questions from U.S. Customs later, I was on my way again. I smiled in agreement at the state sign -- "Welcome to Maine, the way life should be."

I thought about taking U.S. Rt. 1, the coast road down to Acadia National Park. I decided instead to scoot across on Rt. 9 west and then Rt. 179 south to take me to the Bar Harbor area. I love Mt. Desert Island (home to both Bar Harbor and Acadia), and never miss an opportunity to visit. This route should be quicker.

Following the loop road around Acadia, I flipped up the front of my Nolan helmet to fill my lungs with the cool, salty sea air. God, that felt good! Every once in a while, I'd pull over to sit in the sun or watch boats.

Lobstermen head into the coves along Acadia National Park to check their traps.

I decided that afternoon to go ahead and make my way home. I was tired from fighting several days of high winds, I knew Hurricane Dennis was sitting off the Carolina coast, and the Labor Day weekend promised heavy traffic. Exiting the park, I pointed my little F650 to the southwest.

A Motel 6 in Southington, Connecticut was my final stop that night. I relaxed with the TV and double-checked the weather. Should be OK for the ride back to Virginia tomorrow.

Day Eight -- Thursday

Thursday was largely uneventful, as I jumped on I-84 west to Scranton, Pennsylvania, then I-81 to Harrisburg. At Harrisburg, I took an old friend, U.S. Rt. 15 south all the way into Virginia. I've been on this road seemingly thousands of times and it rarely changes. It takes me past historic areas like Gettysburg and through the beautiful countryside of Loudoun County (my previous home), Virginia.

The area near Loudoun is unfortunately being developed at a fantastic rate these days and where once the roads there made me smile, now they're just another stretch of congested, strip mall-filled asphalt to be endured. I'm asked frequently why I like to go to Canada so much. One reason is the parts of Canada I visit seem to retain the qualities of any stabile area. It just kills me to see historic, fertile, scenic countryside plowed under and paved. OK, end of slow-growth rant.

Epilogue

Another summer, another trip to Canada. This one was not as satisfying as past ones, however. The weather was tougher -- I had some rain off and on, but mostly it was the almost ever-present wind. On a small bike like the F650, that can beat you up pretty well.

Total distance for the eight days was 3,781 miles, an average of about 473/day. The longest day was the first one, 731 miles from my house to the Portland ferry. Newfoundland featured two back-to-back 450 mile days, normally a piece of cake but for the weather.

Much as I love my F650, it wasn't my best bike for this trip. I had expected to do some off roading or at least dirt roading, for which the F650 is perfect. I retrospect, I should have taken my very comfortable distance mount, my 1992 K75RT. The fuel mileage isn't quite as good, and it doesn't have the fuel capacity of the F650 with the aftermarket seven gallon tank, but I could live with that. The extra comfort and stability in the winds would have made the trip more enjoyable and extended it as well. I probably would have done more exploring because I'd have been more comfortable.

I also found myself getting lonely out on the road, which is a fairly new experience for me. Before I was married, I loved traveling by myself. After getting married, my wife and I traveled extensively, all over the U.S., Canada, Central America, and Europe. I found great pleasure in sharing those experiences and, now divorced, it's hard to go back. Perhaps future trips will include someone with whom to share the enjoyment and adventure. Applications are now being accepted :-)