by Neil Peart
The Grand-Escoumins to Trois-Pistoles boat was hours away, but the one from Forestville to Rimouski was only a couple of hours later, so I decided to wait, rather than race to make the one from Baie-Comeau to Matane, which went at 5:30 or so. Good call, because this one, advertised as “the fastest ferry in Quebec” (compared to the Quyon to Fitzroy Harbour one, maybe?), it smoked, making that crossing in 55 minutes, with two rooster-tails of spray shooting out behind. By then it was 5:00, so I stopped in Rimouski at the Hôtel des Gouverneurs, right on the river — which already smelled like the sea.
Next day I continued around the Gaspé, the morning cool and cloudy, then gradually clearing, but never warm. The northern side was as scenic as I remembered from our previous tour, but much more populous, and it seemed like I was constantly slowing for towns and villages, and having to pass cars, trucks, and convoys of RVs. A 700-kilometre [438-mile] day brought me around to Campbellton, New Brunswick, with pauses to admire the lighthouse near Forillon (Canada’s tallest, apparently), and of course, the big-rock-with-a-hole-in-it, at Percé. Though tempted to stop there, I carried on, for I’d booked the ferry from North Sydney to Port-aux-Basques on the 2nd, and somehow had it in mind that August had only 30 days.
For once, that typical Scooter Trash miscalculation was advantageous, for when I turned on the Weather Channel the following morning and saw that it was the 31st, I knew right away what I had to do: cross that new Confederation Bridge to P.E.I. [Prince Edward Island]. In the words of that book you gave me years ago (about Labrador, as it happens), “And So I Did.”
(By the by, can you believe it? The Howard Johnson’s in Campbellton was full: the only time that’s happened to me in six months and 60,000 kilometres [37,500 miles] of travelling — with the sole exception of the Sunset Marquis in Los Angeles that one time, but it had been “Book Week” or something. Fortunately Campbellton had a new Comfort Inn, which was probably better anyway, perhaps even including the mediocre Chinese restaurant next door.)
(And what about the music they were playing in that restaurant? “Knock on Wood,” “The Letter,” “Time Won’t Let Me,” “Midnight Confessions,” “Kicks,” “Spooky,” “Kind of a Drag,” “Windy,” “This Diamond Ring” — play some of those in your helmet for awhile.)
Sublime weather down through New Brunswick, sunny, clear, and cool, and the bridge . . . was long: 12.9 kilometres [8 miles], to be exact, and from there I did a loop of eastern P.E.I., past all them farms and B&Bs (often both at once). My journal sums up a confirmation of our previous impression: “Pretty, but uninspiring, I’d say,” though I did stay at a nice place, a golf-resort kind of riverfront hotel with pleasant little cabins and a good restaurant, at Brudenell.
There I finally finished Saul Bellow’s Herzog, which I’d been chipping away at for months, between other things, and decided it was “definitely a great book — so different from Henderson the Rain King. Deeper and wider.” I’ve been reading a lot this trip already, including Jack London’s first book of Yukon stories, Son of the Wolf, a comical 19th century romp called Three Men in a Boat, by Jerome K. Jerome, which I heard of on my Sunday night CBC show, “Wind at My Back” (its sentimental innocence appeals to my 14-year-old feminine side!), the books by Max Braithwaite which apparently inspired it, and Night of the Caribou, which I picked up on the Newfoundland ferry of the same name, about the 1942 torpedoing of that earlier “Caribou” by a German U-boat. Now I only have one book left, Wallace Stegner’s Wolf Willow, after which I may have to actually read Moby-Dick, which I’ve been carrying for six months “in reserve” — like in case I got trapped somewhere because of a breakdown or something.
It occurred to me today that last year at this time I was in Alaska, about as far away as you could be on the roads of North America. And the year before that, I was in England. Ach.
Next morning L’Anse au Clair
Well, after seven days of near-miraculous good weather, it rained during the night, and is cloudy and gray today. Now I’m just waiting for ferry-time, thinking of heading down to Rocky Harbour, and maybe do a hike in Gros Morne [National Park] tomorrow.
So . . . from Brudenell it was across on the ferry to Pictou, then down to Cape Breton and around the Cabot Trail, like the four of us did back in ’95. Again, the weather was stunning, and again there were too many other people out in it.
That really is a spectacular ride, however, though the tight stuff showed up some flaws in my relationship with the K-12. It’s certainly not the power (I love to turn that “loud grip” alright), and despite its weight and length, it certainly handles willingly, even scraping the pegs a few times, but when you’re leaned way over, carrying high RPMs in lower gears, it’s very hard to get smooth throttle control. It will tend to sag, or surge, or flatten out, and doesn’t seem to offer the seamless balance of speed and lean angle I can achieve with the GS.
Journal entry:
Had thought of stopping at Keltic Lodge, but . . . didn’t need memories. And, did need synthetic oil, and real whisky, and probably won’t find either for awhile. Had also thought of changing plans and heading for Halifax for tires, but they don’t look any worse today, so hopefully they’ll get me around and back.
Amazing how much I’ve remembered of those rides — even opposite way around Gaspé, and places we stopped etc. Especially poignant today, around Cabot Trail. Often best not to think about it — which may be a deeper insight than it first appears.
So, I got into Sydney in time to buy oil and whisky, stayed at the nice Delta Hotel there, then caught the “Caribou” the next morning — another sparkling one, and warmer every day. When I came off the ferry it was about 6:00 p.m., and I’d thought about staying in Port-aux-Basques, though I noticed that “one of us” (probably the Ghost Rider himself) decided to put in earplugs.
And sure enough, it felt too good to be riding, and once clear of the ferry traffic, it was a lovely, fast ride. Touched 220 once [137 mph], and 200 several times; looks like 250 should be an easy reach, given the right piece of road. Gorgeous weather, rolling spruce country, sweeping turns — what this bike was made for, I guess. Fast touring . . .
Until the next morning, riding out of Stephenville on the TCH [Trans-Canada Highway], when a Mountie appeared in my mirrors, lights and siren going. Fuck — 136 in a 100 [85 in a 60], he clocked me at — and ticketed me for it. Bastard! Now my nice clean record is besmirched by what will probably be a whack of points, and I’ll have to worry about it whenever I travel in Canada. For two years! Die, die, die!
But on we went (cautiously now, alas) up the Great Northern Peninsula on the Viking Trail. Passing the home village of “that woman,” I rode around the few streets and paused on the wharf to toast her with a smoke — wherever she is, whatever her thoughts and feelings are. (Perhaps her “job” with me is done? If so, amen.)
Back at you tomorrow, I’m sure . . .
Later I looked back on that scene. I had stood on the wharf in the small fishing village that clung like a barnacle to that harsh, barren coast, looking around at the huddle of plain little houses, the scattering of equipment shacks along the shore, and the work-scarred fishing boats in the harbor. My mind’s eye could conjure the little girl who had grown up in that setting, and compare her with the ambitious, “hardening” young woman I had met in Hollywood.
It was a long way from that fishing village to Sunset Boulevard, by any measure, but, for better or worse, she had made that journey. When referring to my own character, it pleased me to say, “I am what my life has made me,” and so it was with her. For one so young, she had lived much.
I smoked a cigarette among the lobster traps and concrete blocks of the breakwater, and all unknowing, began to get a grip on reality. She wasn’t “from there” anymore; she wasn’t who I had thought she might be, and I was free of my foolish illusions. From that moment on, I came to realize, I was completely over her.
Sept. 5, ’99 Ocean View Motel Rocky Harbour
Back again, Spa
ceman Spiff —
(As I was calling you on that long-ago trip here, on account of the very cool sunglasses you were wearing. And leaving everywhere.) Riding out of St. Anthony yesterday, I smiled to think of us using those hare-brained “communicators” on that trip, remembering our morning ride out to Goose Cove, and you announcing, “I’m down.”
My ride across from St. Barbe to St. Anthony this time was not unlike that day: blowing like the devil, and cold too. Checking the Weather Channel when I got in, I learned that it was 8°C [47°F], blowing 40-50 kph [25-31 mph], and giving a windchill of -1°C [31°F]. And that’s if you’re standing still.
I stayed at the same Vinland Motel (the years haven’t been kind to it, though it’s undergoing some kind of renovations), and the next night I had wanted to stay right in Red Bay, on the Labrador side, but all four cabins were full. I even considered stooping to one of the two B&Bs, but no; after a walk around the brand-new Visitors Centre, I followed that excellent road back to L’Anse au Clair. (I think we were probably too freezing that morning to appreciate what a great road that was.)
I noticed how so many of the houses on both sides of the strait seemed new: bright siding on variations of pre-fab designs, and many with attempts at decoration — garden gnomes, old bicycles with handlebar baskets filled with flowers (ditto one-lunger stationary engines, coaster wagons, sleds, wheelbarrows), flags, two little plaster boys, black and white, on a bench.
There were also several closed schools, one being converted to a Seniors’ Home: ironic and telltale. [Because so many of the young people of Newfoundland left in search of jobs and raised their families elsewhere, so that only the old folks were left at home.]
Tomorrow I’m going to try the hike up Gros Morne, then maybe head for Fogo Island, then into St. John’s for a couple of days. I’ll see if I can get a cabin on the Argentia ferry, and if not, probably ride back across to Port-aux-Basques.
Then Halifax — and . . . ? I don’t know, we’ll work it out.
I want to get this mailed tomorrow, and I’ll probably talk to you in St. John’s, before you even get this, so I’ll close for now.
Down and out from Down East, your —
Skipper
Sept. 7, ’99 Fogo Island Motel
Yo Brewis,
[All salutations in this letter refer to obscure Newfoundland foods.]
Sure, I know I just mailed a letter to you last night, from Rocky Harbour, but jeez: who else am I going to write to from this place? After all, wasn’t it our plan to ride from Rocky Harbour to Fogo five years ago? At least, until we realized that you’d gone and buggered everything up. (Again.) (And again.)
I had a great ride down from Rocky Harbour along the Viking Trail, and I got to thinking about Wallace Stegner, the way he described the torments of his boyhood, then grew up to be a great writer (Wolf Willow was such a good book), and yet . . . now he’s dead. And you know, that reality colors all my thoughts about anybody doing “good work” and achieving “immortality.” Like, what good is it? You’re dead.
Cynical, I suppose — like Paul Theroux’s definition of a cynic being a disappointed idealist. That’s me, all right.
And all the time I’m thinking about all that heavy stuff, “Invisible Man” [by 98°, Gaia’s favorite “boy band”] is playing in my head, in the “background” (amazing how many levels one little brain can work on sometimes), and I’m riding that great road, lost in it all.
That’s the reason for Ghost Ridin’.
So, when I finds myself at Notre Dame Junction, and it’s only 12:00, what else can I do but go for them all: “all around the circle,” right? [From a Newfoundland folk song, “I’se The B’y,” with the line, “Fogo, Twillingate, Moretons Harbour, all around the circle.”] So off I go, “down north” to Twillingate, take a photo of the bike in front of the Masonic Hall (built in 1906), then whip ’round to Moretons Harbour, take a picture in front of the museum, then race over to Farewell and catch the Fogo Island ferry. (“Farewell to Fogo,” cool.)
Course, don’t it start to rain like blazes about then, as we stop briefly at the lonely looking Change Islands, then wallow over to Fogo. Before leaving this morning I’d checked out the Newfoundland travel guide for accommodations, settling on either the Quiet Cannon Hotel, or this eponymous establishment. Well . . .
The Quiet Cannon squatted in the rain just past the ferry dock, like an overgrown Legion Hall, with restaurant and “lounge,” so I rode on up toward Fogo town, picturing this quaint New-England-style village along the harbor, with a cute little motel, and (ha!) maybe even a bookstore to browse in.
In turn, the Fogo Island Motel squatted in the rain in the middle of nowhere (at the junction with the road to Joe Batt’s Arm) and looked . . . equally uninviting. In the pouring rain, freezing cold, and with my reserve light coming on, I rode on to Fogo town.
On another day, the town is probably fairly picturesque, with a few old Victorian houses and three churches huddled around a circular cove, where the surprisingly well-wooded island of white spruce, balsam fir, and tamarack gives way to barren headlands blasted by wind and salt spray. And did I mention it was raining? Hard.
So, I circled the town, took a photo in front of the post office to complete the “all around the circle” set, then swallowed my illusions and headed back to the Joe Batt’s Arm crossroads, and this place.
Turns out, of course, it’s clean, friendly, and cheap (or at least reasonable, at $55), and I had a decent dinner of “homemade” turkey-vegetable soup (well, I’m sure they opened the can at home!) and catfish with “mash” potatoes and a glass of drinkable white wine.
Speaking of meals, I forgot to tell you I went back to the Lightkeeper’s Café in St. Anthony, and it was still really good. Far out on the white-capped sea a couple of icebergs drifted by as I feasted on chowder and the special of steamed snow crab. That last time there with you was my first taste of bakeapple parfait; this time I had partridgeberry; and the next night, in L’Anse au Clair, partridgeberries and ice cream, and the last two nights, in Rocky Harbour, partridgeberry pie. I loves them some lot.
I also meant to tell you about the “fisherman’s plate” in L’Anse au Clair, with shrimp, salmon, halibut, smoked capelin, scallops, and cod tongues (kind of “mooshy”).
But the biggest flashback I had was at the Gros Morne Visitors Centre, of all places. I don’t know if you’ll remember, but I’ll never forget walking back out to the bikes that day and telling you how good I felt, how happy, how full of life, how simply, existentially, complete. Ah, will we ever feel that good again?
Probably not for a good long while.
Anyway, yesterday I did the hike to the summit of Gros Morne. At least, I took a picture of the sign up there. It was raining all the way, and so foggy I could only see about 50 feet around, but it was still a good hike, and since I was not “distracted” by the fabulous scenery, I did the 16-kilometre climb in four-and-a-half hours, rather than the seven to eight hours the guidebook suggested it would take.
Then I went back to the Visitors Centre, watched a slide show of all the stuff I would have seen, and took my wet and muddy clothes to the laundromat in Rocky Harbour. Then a “battered cod” dinner at the Fisherman’s Landing.
Now, here in Fogo, it’s getting dark, and still raining hard, though the air does smell great. Why is it that the Atlantic coast always seems to smell more “oceanic,” more pungent, fragrant, saline, and “estuarine” than the Pacific? Is it the tides? The sea-life?
Anyway, the ferry is at 7:00 tomorrow morning, so I’ll be rising at 5:30 and heading for St. John’s. I’ve got a couple of different scenic routes to choose from, depending on the weather. And then I guess I’ll be talking to you.
Later, tickleace . . .
Sept. 8, ’99 Hotel Newfoundland, St. John’s
Hey Scrunchions!
The rain poured down most of the night, then let up before the cloudy dawn, when I was loading up and riding down to the ferry. I took
the long way around, through Musgrave Harbour and Wesleyville, and it was a very nice ride, much of it along the sea, with the sun peeking out occasionally through three layers of cloud, each at a different altitude.
Not finding anywhere suitable for breakfast until I got on the Trans-Canada Highway at Gambo, I had to survive on the coffee and muffin I had on the ferry. The rest of the ride in was quite pretty, though the weather was a bit . . . fickle. Cold, then warm, then drizzly, then clearing, then, just as I struggled out of my rain gear, of course it came flooding down, and I had to do the classic under-the-overpass change again.
I was into St. John’s by about 1:00, so I rode out to Cape Spear [the easternmost point in North America]. Man, I can’t believe I did that so blithely on a bicycle all those years ago; it’s quite a climb.
I just got off the phone with Andrew in Los Angeles, who tells me “that woman” has been trying to get hold of me lately, and is back in L.A., and wanted him to give me her new number. Well, we’ll see about that. He’s also sending me a Polaroid of the photo assistant he’s been telling me about, who’s young and pretty and smart, and “so wants to meet you.” Yep, it’s a nonstop babefest for old Ellwood . . .
[Later] Now I’m in the Cabot Club restaurant, here in the Hotel, with a view of the harbor and the Narrows, the shores lighting up as it gets dark, reflecting on the still water. And, oh dude — it just wouldn’t be fair to tell you about the meal I’ve just had. I’ll only say that, after everywhere I’ve been so far, and all I’ve been through to get here, “Ça vaut la peine.”