I was invited to stay the night with Zac Kurylyk, a Canadian motorcycle journalist and we sat at his kitchen table with maps and Internet comparing photos, routes and stories of riding in Canada. He had a charming family and a home right on the river with two trees perfectly spaced for my hammock. The sound of the government ferry rumbling back and forth in the night was somehow soothing when accompanied by the lapping waves. In the morning after a delicious breakfast prepared by his wife, I said my goodbyes and set out via a modified route south of St. John following ATV trails and gravel roads.
Riding through downtown was a bit slow and hilly so I quickly escaped the city for a route north along the Fundy coastline. The rural route dipped into coves with a rocky and bold coastline receding to tidal marshes pungent with the smell of wet sea plants, protein rich mud and expiring fish. The smell of the coast. I was surprised at the quality of scenery in NB, reminding me more of the mountains of the southeast than the coast of Maine. Quaint villages such as St. Martin's and Hampton exemplify the charm and history of the old coast from the 17th century to today.
I secured La Tortuga with soggy ratchet straps in the damp and fishy hold of the Fundy Rose and seated myself in a wicker chair on the aft deck. Tanning in the clear summer day, I watched the Digby Harbour and eventually the coastline of Nova Scotia grow smaller beyond the white frothy wake. No whales spotted on this crossing but I did enjoy the informative free lectures on Fundy presented by a naturalist from the St.John museum.
I sat on the starboard deck e njoying a cup of coffee , bemused by the menonite mother beside me shielding the sun from her cell phone. These are modern times indeed. The familiar fuel tank farm signals the entrance to St. John. Each tank is painted with tall bold letters spelling out IRVING, the principal family and company responsible for the economy in New Brunswick. I am to learn they own many gas stations, timber plantations, media companies and paper mills throughout the province.
The crossing was calm and the weather just perfect. I slowly roll our of the opened mouth of the Fundy Rose and on to a new province.
After three weeks exploring and relaxing in "Canada's Ocean Playground" I'm excited to head west on the Digby - St. John ferry to New Brunswick. A big thank you to Eric for giving me a tour of the capitol city and to my aunt and uncle for allowing me to cool my jets here in Sandy Cove. The road calls, time to spin my wheels.
After an enjoyable visit in Halifax and continued education down the eastern coast of Nova Scotia, I turned inland to cross the remote wilderness near Kejimkujik to arrive on the Digby Neck. Opening the sturdy front door, the smell of the home immediately drew memories of my late grandmother and the relaxing time spent overlooking St. Mary's Bay. This has always been a place of rest and relaxation as I grew older, a respite from work and travel where the quiet environment, rich views and warm community serve to embrace. Each night as I climb the stairs to bed, the faces of my family look down on me from the framed photographs hanging in the stairwell. I've spent roughly two weeks now at Sandy Cove and although I was mostly alone in the house, I never truly felt lonely, surrounded with the collection of family artifacts and feeling of "home" radiating from the walls and furniture. A special and heartfelt thank you to my Uncle Stephen and Aunt Kris for opening this special place to me and understanding how important it is to come up here for the personal connections and opening of a clear mind.
Situated on the western coast of Nova Scotia is the quaint village of Annapolis Royal. The world-renowned tides off the Bay of Fundy fluctuate as much as 15-20 feet per day leaving large tidal flats and marshes glistening in the sun. North of town is the only tidal power generation facility in North America producing 20MW annually. Originally known as Port Royal, the location served at various times under the French and English flag. For 150 years before the founding of Halifax, this site was the capitol of Arcadia, later known as Nova Scotia. The English town faced a total of 13 French attacks over the course of it's existence, making it the most attacked location in Canada.
Nestled at the southwestern end of the fertile Annapolis Valley and the head of the Annapolis Basin, the location is rich for both seafood as well as agricultural production and industry. The Saturday farmer's market offers a rich display of the produce, baking and folk art evident in this heavily European influenced valley. Fresh wood-fired oven breads, ripe tomatoes, pungent mushrooms, artisan cheeses and hand carved kitchenware are just a few of the items for sale. The intoxicating scent of sizzling griddle waffles, potato pancakes and strong coffee carries on the ever present winds. The live music of maritime accented sea shantys and the metallic thumbing of acoustic guitars solidifies the aural completeness of the busy market. It remains one of my favorite markets to attend in all my travels. Stop in, have a browned pretzel and buy some fresh savoy cabbage for homemade coleslaw...I know I did.
Following my engaging stay in Halifax complete with Cape Breton oysters, snow crab and my first donair, I said goodbye to my buddy Eric and began heading south down the coast. His advice to follow the coastal route as far east as possible proved valuable and I found that smile sneaking across my face as the road twisted above the rocky coastline through small coastal communities and old trawlers and traps. The quaint villages of Peggy's Cove, Aspatagun, Mahone Bay and Lunenburg offered a colorful environment with historic homes, roadside informational boards and picturesque seaside scenes. I even had a surprise "spotting" when a local resident recognized me while taking a snack break and pulled a U-turn to have a conversation about my travels and experiences. Later he would hop on his R11GS and scoot down the road for another hour of chit chat at a flea market before leaving me with a chunk of cheese, cuke and a sausage! In a strange twist of fate, he grew up in the same neighborhood as I did in Virginia and went to the next high school over. What are the chances of that!? It truly is a small world.
Pictures around Town
Shearwater Aviation Museum
The ferry docked at 7AM and I rolled onto the province of Nova Scotia with a yawn. I was tired! After a visit to the grocery store, I pulled in front of the McDonalds for wifi and to make my own cup of free coffee in the parking lot. Waiting for the water to boil, I noticed a man ogling the Ruckus while walking inside. I greeted him my characteristic greeting, "Howdy" and was surprised when he replied "Howdy". That's a first up here. Approaching me, I realized his face was familiar...then it dawned on me...this was Kendall Cranston, the Texan rider on a Triumph Tiger who shared his two bedroom lodging at Deadhorse Camp with me. Truly Remarkable. What are the chances of our meeting here in Port Sydney, Nova Scotia over a year later? Accompanied by his lovely wife Kaye in their large RV, this summer's caravan club is heading to Newfoundland for a couple weeks of travel. I was happy to hear the Triumph was nestled in the storage area for short trips exploring the island.
Cape Breton offers some of the best motorcycling in Nova Scotia. I often describe the twisting curves of the Cabot Trail as "The blue ridge parkway meets the sea", very similar to California 1 on the west coast. Alas, I have enjoyed numerous rides up here before and know the steep grades and limitations of La Tortuga in such conditions. Perhaps it was my fatigue or desire to continue south but I started down the familiar Scotch Lake Rd through the center of the island of Cape Breton. Road signs are bilingual here in English and Gaelic, a direct identification of the highland Scottish ancestry of the region. Canadian Gaelic has been spoken here since the first Scotts arrived in 1773 but the language is in sharp decline with fewer than 1'500 speakers in Canada today. The lilting language bent my ear when I overheard a conversation in a Sherbrooke pharmacy.
Travelling south through Cape Breton, the climate was noticeably more humid and warmer than Newfoundland. The abundance of deciduous flora, birch and various pine trees gave both the promise of milder climates ahead mixed with the emotions of leaving Newfoundland behind. The landscape there had really taken a hold on me and I know I will return. I explored a variety of gravel and sand roads south through the center of Cape Breton, eventually arriving at Port Hawkesburry and the Canso Causeway by 2 in the afternoon. A stiff wind tossed me around on the causeway which crosses onto the mainland of Nova Scotia, returning me to mainland North America. I celebrated by treating the empty fuel tank to a gallon of Canada's (re)finest. Turning east, I followed the Straight of Canso until it began to rain. Sure it was 70 and a warm rain but my body screamed for rest. I found my way to an abandoned section of road along the water and two apple trees which had grown into one whose sheltering interior provided an ideal site for the hammock.
Feeling like Rip Van Winkle, I awoke after sleeping for 14 hours straight. It felt good to be rested and I enjoyed the following few days heading south along the shore. through numerous communities of Acadian heritage. There was a small ferry crossing in Country Harbour to which I found the $7 flat rate vehicle fee somewhat humorous when a loaded dump truck and trailer disembarked, countless times heavier than my Ruckus. After a few days, I finally was nearing Halifax. The night grew cloudy but I found a busy beach front park at Cow Head that emptied out by 9pm after the ominous sunset. Tomorrow, Halifax.
I headed directly for the ferry with knowledge that most of the cars and trucks passing me through the afternoon were also intending to take the 12AM crossing. I paid the $98 to the attendant and received a card putting me into the "late arrivals" line with no guarantee that I'd make it aboard the night crossing. My boarding pass read TUESDAY but if I had to kill a couple days here I could. After the rows of vehicles loaded on the full ship, the ferry terminal crew waved for all the bikers in line 18 to come forward and proceed onto the ship. There was just barely enough room in the stern to accommodate the bikes but I had made it! WIth the scooter strapped down,
I grabbed my air pad and started up for the upper decks to watch the island of Newfoundland slip away in the yellow harbour illumination lights. Saddened to see the magnificent island slip away behind me, I rejoiced at the opportunity to ride in Nova Scotia and the myriad of adventures which lay ahead. Eventually I made my way to the bar where I found Milt, the Santa Claus reinactor and Justin, a sailor and wrestler, sharing a table and sipping back some brews. I grabbed a round and joined them for a number of Milt's fabulous one-liners and to hear Justin's story of growing up in Corner Brook, getting into motorcycling on his Vulcan and seeing the world differently on two wheels. By 2AM, the bar maid was well ready for us to leave the area so I retired to the only place on board fit for a cheapskate like me, the kid's room! Muting the annoying TV show, I prepared my air mattress, tossed the Aerostich jacket over me and prepared for a few hours of rest before the boat docked at 7AM. Nova Scotia...here I come :)
One benefit of the many potholes along the Burgeo Road is they forced me to slow down and enjoy the scenery. The barren landscape exhibits a stark beauty with each life form struggling to maintain it's hold in this land of ice, frigid temperatures and wind. The retreat of glaciers that once scoured this land, left behind many small lakes, raging rivers and the occasional boulder fields placed randomly like child's marbles about the landscape. It was nearly 100 mi to the TCH but I had a full tank of fuel and a gas can as well. To my dismay I noticed some water settling in the bottom of my fuel can and a few black flies that had worked their way in past the seal. They really are tenacious bugs! As the day slipped forward, I realized that the Port Aux Basques ferry was easily within range for the evening crossing. I had planned to spend a bit more time cruising around the west coast but something inside me told me it was time for a change. Perhaps it was the mental strain of the journey and lack of sleep but I was ready to get a move on and knock out the miles. Port au Port Peninsula and it's memories from the last trip would have to be enough to hold on to until next time.
Deciding to keep breakfast light and simple, I had some toast and tea with George Fudge around 6:45AM. We had a memorably conversation about the state of the fisheries and his experience living in Francois for 46 years. Despite his time here, he is always ready to say that he isn't "from" here, but originally from Burgeo, a growing community to which the boat was destined today. One could easily write a book about his life, the seas he has seen and the fish caught back in the golden age of the fishery. At 7:30AM, I eased into one of the old airplane seats (complete with ashtrays) bolted to the floor of the lounge and prepared for the next 4 hours at sea. It was a bit rougher than the day before and I was quickly feeling it, keeping my eye on the horizon and trying to get some fresh air whenever possible. The smell of diesel exhaust and the heat of the bilge room below didn't help matters much. I was quite happy when after an hour and a half, the small outport of Grey River appeared ahead. The sight of deciduous trees, alders and a few spruce was quite a change from the barren coastline surrounding Francois and McCallum. The boat barely touched the dock before quickly loading a few items, some passengers and continuing on back to sea. The spray was too much for me to remain on the bow of the ship so I stood on the upper deck for as long as possible before the noxious fumes of the exhaust overwhelmed me. Back inside the lounge, fatigue kicked in and I leaned against my motorcycle jacket trying for some rest. Needless to say, I only slept for a few short minutes before I was jolted awake by another crash of the hull. The sun spilled forth from behind the fog bank and soon it was a beautiful and warm day out on the water. Soon the milling about of passengers and excitement in the cabin signaled that the final port of Burgeo was not too far away. I happily climbed on deck to watch the seas calm nearing port and the busy nature of the wharf. I had survived the final section of the crossing but it would take me at least a day or two to recover from the queasiness of the sea. I'll stick to two wheels any day over a boat in the open waters. The unloading of the bike went smoothly and I felt the effects of the ocean for quite a while after setting foot on land. My first stop was the grocery store for some bananas, a provision I'm rarely without except for when going on a ship...age old superstitions and all.
The rollicking journey to Francois was probably a 2/10 as far as the North Atlantic goes but I could feel it in my head and belly by the time the coast appeared out the open porthole. The town of approximately 100 residents is a strong community who, at the most recent resettlement vote, cast only 37% for resettlement. In a place where you rely on your neighbors for safety, friendship and care, the town is closer than most I've explored. A hat worn by an elder resident at the dock read "Fransway", that's just how they pronounce it here. Along the far flung out ports, there exists an endearing dialect cultivated out of their isolation and community so that many outsiders would wonder exactly what was said. I'll admit I had some trouble at times understanding a few commands from the ship's crew when loading my bike or paying for my modest fair. Most of the crew of the MV Marine Voyager was from Francois, and would now be welcomed home for the evening. A flier on the cork bulletin board advertised "Francois Days" with many events for the kids and a few evening parties, dances and friendly community competitions. Colorful pendant banners hung throughout the town as I grabbed my camping gear and disembarked for the night. The ship spends the night here then continues on to Grey River and Burgeo in the morning. With bag in hand, I climbed the steep wooden boardwalk into town, admiring the colorful homes and creative engineering and architecture. Although sheltered from the harshness of the sea, this town no doubt sees some terrible winds, rain and ice in the winter. Nearing the school, I ask a woman where I could pitch a tent for the night and she looked at me like I was crazy. I briefly explained my trip and how I came to be in Francois when she suggested I head over to Miss Fudge's Boarding House. It was not my intention to pay for a spot this evening but her suggestion and gaze provoked me down the path and to knock on the front door. A matronly woman with caring rosy face opened the door and I explained I was looking for a place to spend the evening. The smell of a home-cooked meal wafted from the kitchen as she led me in to my bedroom in her small but clean and well appointed home. Seated at the kitchen table with some other travelers from the ship, she served me a meal of salt pork, potatoes, dressing and gravy and a side of potatoes. Her peach cobbler dessert and cup of tea hit the spot after having just a nibble of crackers and a granola bar for lunch. After the meal, I explored the many walkways through the town, waving at the curious faces in windows and snapping many photos of this isolated and wonderful place. As the darkness of evening neared, I noticed folks heading in the direction of the community hall for the evening's games. 75 people had gathered in the small room and I ordered a light beer from the bar tender and took my seat as a fly on the wall. Loose family teams played many games and small competitions with each other such as putting on a jumpsuit in a sleeping bag, tossing cheese curls onto a shaving cream covered head, putting on a diaper and feeding beer through a baby bottle and everyone's favorite, the beer chugging competition. Watching the town "let loose" and laugh at each other was a great way to break the ice and join in to their flavor of community. Afterward, I was told there would be fireworks and made my way down to Killick's Pub, a ramshackle fishing stage -turned pub by two brothers from Nova Scotia. It serves as the late night heart of the community where folks can bring their own drinks, kick back and have a yarn. They taped up the $500 of fire works they personally contributed to the community event then we all sloppily made our way to the rotten dock to set them off. I held the flashlight as we braved the windy night to set off the 50 fireworks. The dock's rotten beams bowed under our footsteps and it was a wonder nobody fell off or through to the cold water below. It was 12:30AM before I made it back to Mrs. Fudge's home but I had one hell of a memory I would not soon forget. The 6AM alarm would come all too early in a few hours but the experience was absolutely worth it.
It was a misty morning in Hermitage when I rolled down to the fish plant wharf where the MV Marine Voyager was loading it's cargo. I was a few hours early but happy to learn that this boat was indeed travelling to McCallum and Francois tonight, then completing the trip on to Grey River and Burgeo tomorrow. On a map, the total passage is roughly 80 miles by sea but negates at least 250 miles of travel by road if I were to take the TCH. Ron Fudge, the Chief Engineer, tossed me a set of soggy freight slings and I got to work positioning them underneath the seat frame and the front triple tree. With my fingers crossed, I secured them into the crane's hook and he winched the bike from the wharf and into the hold of the ship. Climbing down the rusty and sloping rebar rungs of the ladder into the hold, I smiled knowing this plan would ultimately come together after all. For a few days I was fretting that I had the times wrong, or that the wasn't the right boat. The online documents for this crossing are somewhat hard to follow but alas, here I was with a scooter dangling over my head after two days of camping in the park.
The ferry continuing along the southern shore from Hermitage, NL toward Burgeo only leaves on Thursday so I had two days to kill in the region. Finding the peaceful Hermitage Municipal Park, I set up camp beside a picnic area on the water and went out to find some fish in the lake. Unfortunately nothing was biting for the remainder of my stay but the sound of the surf on the stone beach relaxed me like no other. As night came on, the sounds of music and celebration sounded from a nearby collection of RV's. I met the many youngsters who took a liking to the bike and enjoyed sitting on the diminutive scooter. Accepting their invitation to stop by, I made my way over to Grandpa Morris's 72nd Birthday Party! With 10 children and their many grandchildren about, it was a lively bunch. After an introduction where all eyes were on me, I was handed an ice cold brew and welcomed in to the celebration with a plate of pulled pork BBQ and the best baked beans I've ever had. Making my way around the fire circle I chatted with the matriarch who was interested in my journey, as well as the younger family members collected from all corners of the province. Wrapping up the night with a bright display of fireworks and the freeing of Chinese Lanterns, I finished my beer watching the two glowing orbs float high into the still night sky. Just another perfect evening in Newfoundland with great company and conversation.
It isn't everyday that one has their motorcycle loaded onto a ship via crane...I have Dave Murphy's advice to thank for this excellent episode of travel along the southern shore. The MV Northern Seal completes a daily trip from Bay L'Argent to the isolated outport of Rencontre East (French for 'Meeting') and terminating at Poole's Cove. This ferry ride negates the hundreds of miles of TCH all the way to Gander and Grand Falls as well as offering an opportunity to see the epic coastline of the south. I was awake at 6AM and scooting around town, mistaken that the ferry arrived at 7AM when it actually showed at 9:15AM. I sipped cup after cup of coffee at an RV Campground nearby while the fog collected into droplets on my beard. By 9AM, I heard the hollow blow of the ship's whistle break the fog as the silhouette materialized like a pirate ship in a film. The vessel slowed and the crew tossed the mooring lines to the dock and began loading the freight headed to Rencontre East. The crane operator lowered a small metal basket which I pushed the scooter on to. A box of boxed furniture joined the bike and was swiftly but skillfully hoisted into the air and lowered onto the deck.
I climbed aboard the ship and situated myself on the aft deck for the crossing. The water was silky smooth and the wind nearly nonexistent as the fog burned off to reveal a spectacular day on the water. The fog shrouded coastline disappeared behind me as porpoise, jellyfish and a whale dotted the bay's surface. Fisherman raced past our wake heading out to catch their daily quota of 15 cod/boat. I enjoyed the conversations on board with some friendly locals and watched the coastline pass by a mile off the starboard side.
Within an hour, the outport of Rencontre East materialized before us and the engines wound down as we gently bumped alongside the wharf. Families waited for loved ones and goods to arrive, eyes searching for familiar faces on board. The passengers were given 30 minutes to explore the outport with most choosing to get a bite to eat at the only spot "Salty Dog Eat-In/Take-Out". There are no cars or trucks in the village with residents relying upon ATV's in the fair months and Ski-Doo's in winter. The roads are narrow and the houses clustered on flat spots of land and heeding no conventions of orientation with one another. The many colorful fishing stages look well used and functional while their small crafts are tied to buoys in a row out front. After a few quick photos and a stroll around the streets, I return to the ship for the last segment of the journey. The captain steers the ship closer to the coast than the usual route offering a great view of the barren rocky cliffs and short shrubs that struggle in the face of Belle Bay's winter winds.
Following my memorable stay on the Burin Peninsula, I headed west toward Fortune Bay. The road was pretty rough and in need of repair but that was something I had come to expect from most remote highways on the island. I had the whole afternoon ahead of me to ride around the small communities of Fortune Bay; St. Bernards - Jacques Fountaine, Bay L'Argent, Little Bay East, Little Harbour East and Harbour Mille. The roads were nearly empty and the few cars passing by gave me plenty of room. The sky was a beautiful blue, reflecting it's color in the lakes and bay. With weather warming considerably, I took many breaks to read or take photographs. The small fishing communities were quaint and smelled of the sea. Waving kids and friendly faces greeted me as I passed the modest homes and rickety wharfs.
After a revitalizing shower in a TCH truck stop, I motored south down the Heritage Run onto the Burin (pronounced Byorn) Peninsula. The sun in my face and wind to my back as clear blue lakes dotted the ice chiseled land. Large expanses of barrens and bog comprise this unique landscape. Home to ptarmigan, caribou, hare, berries and abundant salmon rivers, the land offers all needed to survive if one knows how. On the first night I camped along the Black River beyond the 1939 railway bridge, cooking beans on the fire and enjoying the sound of the cascading river. I slept in the following morning waiting for the rain to pass and then continued up to the high plateau around 600ft above sea level. Low clouds spit soft mists on the breeze but I was just happy to be dry and warm in my suit. After some side road explorations, I turned down toward the quiet outports of Grand La Pierre and English Harbour East. At the wharf in GLP, I befriended a lifelong resident who, after a 20 minute chat, unfastened the lid on a white salt beef bucket to reveal a dozen cod fillets. "Here me buddy, have some feesh". I gladly wrapped the white meat in a trash bag and thanked him for the token of frindship.
Returning to the Heritage Run, I thought it prudent to camp, knowing I had all evening to fish for trout, collect wood and enjoy the scenery. Numerous side trails with cabins and campers looked great for an RV but offered no hammockable trees. By chance, I turned down the trail to Grandy's Pond, a 10 mi long lake abutting a small mountain range separating Terrenceville from the main road and coves of the eastern shore. To my surprise, a sandy beach, campfire pit and stand of trimmed spruce proved the perfect campsite for the evening, or two. I cast my line into the mirror calm water and immediately felt a tug. Hungry trout. A couple rowed out into the picturesque calm , offering some advice on where to fish as they floated past. I'd later meet them on shore when they introduced themselves as Bill and Connie F. from Mt. Pearl, their white cabin I had passed on my way in. We chatted briefly before Bill offered to bring me a load of wood. How could I refuse? To my pleasant surprise, he brought two cardboard boxes full and a plate of cheese, crackers, chips, pickles and a dessert pastry! "This is from Connie". Wow! I'm conistently amazed and warmed by the abundance of kind souls on this island. As Dave said "it's how it used to be, it's how it should be " So true. I cooked up the cod and trout on my frindship fire then watched for the last boat who hadn't returned. By dark I grew concerned and rode up to their cabin to ask about the vessel. They assured me that they often went salmon fishing 30 min after dark and had to travel across the pond. Before I know it, I've got a cold Molson in hand and am sharing stories on their front porch. I listen intently to their shared hobbies here throughout the seasons and of children my age in St. John's, of family that married Americans and have gone away. Still to many who leave, the island of Newfoundland will always be "home". After a second drink, we return to the shore to happily find the ATV idling and the three neighbors safely returned. The stillness of the water reflects the low clouds shrouding the mountain and a hollow call of loons echoes through the humid air. What a place.
I decide to spend another day on the beautiful quiet shores, fishing in the AM then reading in the sun throughout the afternoon. I may have caught a tan, maybe a sunburn. who cares, I was warm and even went for a swim! A local Terrenceville native drives over and has a yarn with me as I lay shirtless on the hot sand. He tells me about life here in the 40s before the road was built, of horse carts and caribou hunts, rock partridge and hare stews. Sitting on a tuft of grass behind me, he laments the progress of society and how young folk have no time or interest for ways of the past. I most certainly do but realize I'm not so young anymore. The day slides effortlessly away and I kindle a fire to cook my beans. No fish today and I thank Bill and Connie for offering me their four trout of the day. I couldn't accept them after all they've done and hope I didn't offend them.
The recent month has felt much like unseasonal depression with an inversion of cold and wet weather. After arriving in Placentia on a dreary wet night, I slept in the dry shelter of an abandoned schoolbus hoping for a break in the wind. In the morning, the sun began to burn through the clouds. The land takes on a new appearance in the sunlight with verdant hillsides in shades of green and lakes reflecting the azure sky in deep blues. The town of Placentia, formerly the French capital of NL, then known as Plaisance, is rich with international colonial history. Up on Castle Hill, the site of the fort protecting the harbour, I imagine troops amassing and the sight of canvas sails on schooners long gone. Walking along the historical signs down at the harbour's edge, I gain a better appreciation for the shelter it provided during foul weather, imagine the manicured stone beaches covered in salt cod and the smell of fresh baked bread from a small french oven. The Treaty of Utrecht in 1713 eventually ousted the French settlers who turned south , eventually establishing the fort at Lunenburg, NS, a location I hope to revisit after crossing the Sydney -PAB ferry.
In May 2014 I quit my job to ride a Honda Ruckus over 55'000 mi and counting. Wild camping most nights and cooking most of my own meals, I keep the costs low and the landscape changing.