Kickin' the Cabot
It is Fall. The chipmunks are working overtime hording food. Our first attempt at supper has been thwarted by their thieving bravado. Campsite inventory is now minus one baguette. The salad remains. Since it's too late in the season to set up tent, we've booked an unheated cabin in Kejimkujik National Park, NS. It's rustic with no electricity. Thick, plastic pads resembling gym mats are the bed. Campsite rules forbid us from dining inside; still, a table with benches is pushed against the wall. Later we will set it with our map of Nova Scotia.
Tom now clings protectively to our second attempt at supper. Dry strands of spaghetti stick out of his shirt, like pens in a pocket protector. Our final menu yields a reliable, standard clump of salted noodles and wine. Toasting around the campfire we begin motorbike catch up. Shouting tales of, 'Did you see that (enter your own exciting bit of scenery)' or, ‘That (who, what, where, when, or why) was so close!' Before we turn in for the night we poke at the map under the beam of flashlight and calculate our distance. From Riverview, NB to Kejimkujik, NS we didn't break any personal records at 282.9 km’s. Being the only 2 motorbikes on the ferry from Saint John, NB to Digby, NS we indulge ourselves to include nautical miles in the final count.
Day 2
The baby in the cabin next to us screams through the break of dawn, ensuring we rise early and hit the road. Time to coffee down and gear up. Based on past trips around the Cabot Trail, weather predictions fueled visions of myself in snow pants, and Tom bound by layers of wool. Once our bags are packed, we waddle like puffy explorers to mount our bikes. I exhale and stretch a leg over the seat; in turn, the bike responds with a empathetic sigh under the weight of my winter gear. Leaving the National Park we blindly follow acres of Acadian forest which we can't see, feeling as though extras in John Carpenter’s, The Fog. A few hours later under a blanket of dew, we emerge along with the sun into the small town of Annapolis Royal for gas.
Towns along the South Shore and Annapolis Valley are quaint and pastoral, with walking groups, cyclists, and tourist traffic. It's hard not to find something charming about the scenery. But enough sightseeing, we're hungry. One sideways glance at a German bakery sign, and we stare down the street for a place to park. We roll to a stop at Sachsen Cafe & Restaurant, posing our bikes in front of the patio like bygone starlets readying for glamour shots. My gal, a 1974 R75/6 and Tom's R100/7 cool down, as I pack into a schnitzel and rescue molasses cookies off the shelf. German motorbikes want for a German breakfast. While the sun warms us down through our layers to an unheard of 17 C degree October day, we question our luck and re-check the forecast. Calm and clear ahead has morphed into a impending tropical pop-up storm. Boasting 120km winds and 10-15 ml of rain in our future, we crunch some numbers and chop our 5 day trip into 4. Our laid back loop is re-dubbed the mad dash around the Cabot and we vow to push forward. On the wings of a new challenge, we bend our heads to the wind and ride.
What feels like forever ahead, the road is sure and straight with miles of twinned highway. We drive until the urge of a pee break; want for coffee, insistence of a leg stretch, or fill up of gas. There's plenty of exits on offer, and we fit the above routine of needs into one stop. I'll see you in 6 hours from now, when I'm 'Kissin' the Causeway,' in Canso, NS.
A couple of gas stations sit neighbourly beside each other before breaking free from mainland Nova Scotia. They're busy, filled with tourist license plates moving in all directions. Forward going, we’re flanked by industry on the right side of the Strait and a rolling hill to the left. Gaelic signs mark our entry. They accompany us the rest of our trip, as I repeat over and over how to incorrectly say them in my head. You could ask a local the proper pronunciation, although it's up to you to believe their rendition or not. Leaving behind mainland NS, and approaching Cape Breton brings with it a bit of magic. It's as if we've reached the front of a long line for a ride at the amusement park, and it's finally our turn.
The lackluster sun drops in the late afternoon, and our double digit temperatures follow suit. Autumn brings shorter daylight hours, and with it, less assurance of avoiding wildlife. Moose and assorted company claim passage across the roads and we're not charmed by the high chance of a meet up. In Port Hawkesbury, we buy apples, cheese, and bread, for our no frills supper/breakfast. Feeling weathered we wait quietly to pay, interrupted only by a cheeky 4-year-old being pushed in a cart. Settling her gaze on Tom, she singles him out of the line-up, and lays claim amongst fellow shoppers that he is her dad. After a quick paternity test with a ‘yes or no’ answer, we make our way toward the Dundee Golf Resort on the Bras d'Or Lake. It's an hour Sunday vibe drive, following signs through the winding woods. Trailed by exhaust fumes and riding the coattails of sundown, we roll into our accommodations. My 50 year old bike is burning oil and smoking like Humphry Bogart. I’ll meet it’s needs in the morning. With a hot bath to settle my shivering bones, a drumroll km count reveals a 483 km day. Hitting the pillows (upgrade from last night) and grateful for a real bed, we fall asleep to the gentle sounds of another baby screaming into the night. I feel like they're following us, but I'm too tired to care.
Day 3
It's foggy again. Thick as pea soup. Our brains aren't fully engaged as we clamber toward our bikes, neglecting to top our gear with rain suits. An hour later with nowhere to pull over and fix our error we're wet, worse, we knew better. Fuel stop time, and I barricade myself in the single stall bathroom. Contorting my shivering body into non-bathroom positions, I hoist my boot to the sink. Successive blasts from the hand dryer enable me to squeeze the bad weather out of my jeans. Gathering my hands around a 5 minute tea break I concentrate to seal in the memory of heat. Back on the road the fog is lifting, and the landscape starts to reach out of the mist. Cars begin randomly swerving off the road to catch a photo.
We skip the sign saying, Cabot Trail Entrance. Our sites are set further down the road where we’ll cross on the Englishtown Ferry. In our Hero's Journey, we've reached the part in the story where we encounter a Wise Sage (local Dave), who helps us on our way. He tells us, ‘Skip the line, there's always room for bikes.’ (Stay tuned for what not to do in New Brunswick.) On the sideline, Dave steps between us and the ferry, surveying the line of cars. We’re beckoned to board. Tucked in at the end with an inch to spare we wave proudly to our tour guide. Crossing allows just enough time to remove our gloves, snap a few pics, and start our engines.
Once on solid ground, we're instantly climbing up steep hills, and powering through twisties shaped over and around the cliffs and mountains of the Cape Breton Highlands. Traffic can be slow, but with so many lookouts, our risk of being stuck behind someone for too long is minimal. There’s also no use in complaining if we are. We pull over generously and take pictures against the backdrop of quilted multi-colored trees, packed solidly into one breathtaking stretch of earth. The scenery is here to show off and demands we pay attention to it. Since Tom and I chose to travel in the off-season, we meet only a handful of view blocking RV’s lumbering up the hills, We’re stubborn and storm-bound to do the trail in a day, which means no lengthy breaks. Filling our tank is no exception and we pull into a landmark gas station at Wreck Cove. It’s traditionally full service, but with enough motorbike traffic wanting to top their own bike it turns into a ‘do it yourself’ scenario. We’re handed a piece of paper written with the amount owing and pass it to the cashier inside. Gas stations are scarce around here so make sure you top up when you can. If all else fails and you run out of fuel, follow Tommy's advice and, "look for a fella with a lawnmower."
Our sage at the ferry encouraged us to go around Neil's Harbour and we’ll being taking this route again the next time. The chowder house gathers a crowd, while we park by the lighthouse and unpack leftovers. Riding all day makes it hard to re-condition to life inside, so we opt for a picnic on the rocks. We watch the birds do the same. Once fed and back in the saddle we’re soon in Cheticamp, an Acadian village near the end of our trail. While we’re out of the Highlands, the weather is temperamental off the Gulf of Saint Lawrence. Topping up on gas we don’t linger. With cliffs and mountains behind us the urge to turn around and do it all again is strong, but we still have a length to go. Soon we’re back on the mainland and crunching highway. It’s later than we want. The sun has set and it’s cold. We see a few bikes on the road but they’re dressed n heated suits. I still don’t wish to be them. Pulling into Pictou, NS a long line of emergency vehicles make their way across a road we can’t see in the dark. The reflection of the lights on the ground gives the illusion they’re floating. We approach slowly. Sirens are on full alert. The sidewalks are lined with unconcerned people reclining in lawn chairs. The only ones heading into town are us. The only vehicles which appear to be leaving are the rescuers. It’s a strange welcome to an otherwise drop dead quiet place. Our bed and breakfast host nonchalantly informs us it’s a once a year parade honoring service workers. We unload our bikes and carry our tired bodies up the steps. Our room feels like it was decorated by someone in 1950 who disappeared mid-shift, later emerging in 1990 to complete a few upgrades. After a quick change into dry clothes we hike about town until we find amazing pizza at A-1. Eating slices as we walk back through town, we fight the storm winds to keep the box from flying away. Big day count of 548 km.
Day 4 The storm rages most of the night and greets us in the morning with the same tempo. Hoisting ourselves into our raingear we creep the bikes through deep puddles as we drive out of town. Within 5 km were fully soaked and happy. The skies are grey, the leaves are falling and we’re in farm country, dodging cow manure and muddy tire tracks like pros. We take the highway home, where we're typically backroad bikers. Pushed by crosswinds on the Tantramar Marsh we feel lucky to be out on our bikes today, with a storm surrounding us and a great trip behind us. A carful of kids approach, keeping pace they press their phone against the window for our picture. We’re famous for one split second of a shutter. Shivering from the cold, we dismount the bikes in Sackville, NB. I’m consoled by the woman at the cash register while I pay for gas. She sympathizes, telling me her private washroom is now all mine. My teeth chatter around a thank-you. In typical Maritime fashion I haven’t seen since childhood, she offers bread bags to tuck my feet into and dry clothes if we need them. With one hour until home, I politely decline.
Removing my sopping wet gloves for the final stretch, the rain needles the backs of my hands. I’m tired, wet, and satisfied, as I make my way home.
The Cabot isn't as hard as they say. It's a rewarding rollercoaster ride more beautiful than any picture can capture.
