Since our last update, a long 300+ mile day has brought us to the highpoint of the trip, as well as our first rains while riding. After a restful night at the campsite on Digby Neck, described in the last update, we rode on the “highway” to make up some time and get to Cape Breton Island, the north eastern part of Nova Scotia that is separated from the rest of the province by a small channel. The highway was what I would imagine travel was like in the US before the superhighways. It alternated between a high-speed two lane road, and a one lane rural road that meandered through a town built with the road as its centerpiece. Interestingly, while many of the towns did not have gas stations or any other services, two buildings were nearly always present: a church and an ice cream stand.
The long day got us almost to Cape Breton where we camped overlooking the water. Threatening clouds had been following us all day, but we made it safely into the tent before any rain fell. The next morning the clouds were still with us, as threatening as ever. We made a record time packing and getting ready to leave with the promise of rain adding speed to our usual morning routine. Perhaps as a courtesy due to it being our one year anniversary, the clouds waited to unload until almost the second we had zipped our last zipper and fired up our engines.
The rest of the day a persistent cold, light rain was with us. Although it was raining all day, our new gear kept us dry, and watertight bags on the bikes kept our clothes and gear dry. Despite the rain, the country we were driving through is beautiful. Rugged coastline with few, if any houses gradually rose along climbing hills, where small farms and evergreen forests hid in the clouds and mist. Pictures unfortunately were not on the agenda due to the rain and our objective of getting somewhere warm and dry to spend our anniversary, rather than cold and wet. Around 2PM we arrived in the town of Cheticamp, an Acadian town on the northwest shore of Cape Breton. The Acadians were French residents of Nova Scotia, who were scattered to various parts of the province by the British, and forced to live in exile. French is prominently spoken, and Acadian flags, similar to the French flag with a small star in the corner are flown everywhere.
A warm lunch, followed by some Nova Scotia wine and scotch (yes, they actually distill scotch here, representing the province’s Scottish heritage) had us warmed up, and we were safely housed in a local bed and breakfast to celebrate our first year of marriage, rather than a tent.
The next morning brought us more rain. We left the small B&B we were staying at to questionable skies, although a brief lapse in the rain allowed us to load the bikes in the relative dry. Soon after firing up the motors however, it began to rain again. The rain was joined by rather strong winds, according to a weather report, gusting up to over 50 km/h, which is around 30 mph. When riding a motorcycle, especially for someone with limited experience, a strong wind can be a bit disconcerting, and since the day’s agenda called for riding into the highlands of Cape Breton, Meghan was uncomfortable to say the least. After a quick conference we decided to turn around and head back the way we came, skipping the highlands.
Several miles into that trip, along a road that ran right along the coast, the strong winds continued, along with the rain, and after at least making an effort, Meghan decided she could not continue. We turned around again, and checked into a motel down the street from our previous lodging, perhaps for a change of scenery, or perhaps to avoid admitting defeat to the two Acadian women who ran the place that we left with a cavalier attitude scant hours before.
The aforementioned highlands were supposed to be a highpoint of the trip. The northern tip of Cape Breton, effectively the northern tip of the entire province is nearly all national park, and supposedly resembles the highlands of Scotland. A winding road runs through the park, climbing along the coast into the highlands, making a steep descent, and then climbing and descending again. Knowing how much I had looked forward to this portion of the trip, Meghan encouraged me to suit up and head out on an unloaded bike.
As I neared the entrance to the park, the strong, bitingly cold wind began to give me second thoughts. I stopped in the information center, remembering the insulated layer to my motorcycle jacket, still loaded in the trunk of my bike. I went in to pay the admission fee, and zipped in the insulated layer under the waterproof layer, ready to do battle with the elements. As if in a bad movie, after paying the admission fee and turning for the exit, it began to pour, in what can best be described as a Florida rain. After fielding several astonished questions from other tourists, and saying yes, I was going to ride in this weather, the only thing I could do was pull out the bravado, don my helmet and walk out the door into the rain, with my best swagger and look of a motorcycle bad ass.
My three layers were keeping me dry, and despite the rain, wind and cold, the beautiful road along the coast was worthwhile. The park is the closest intersection between sea, earth and sky I have ever experienced, with the main road winding along the coast while climbing into the highlands. Having come this far, I put my faith in Canon’s engineering and made several photo stops in the pouring rain, not to be left without some recorded evidence of my ride.
As I climbed the first pass into the highlands, I entered the clouds that were creating the storm, and visibility dropped to around 30 feet. As I contemplated turning around for about the fifth time, a looming mass appeared in the fog ahead, and a large bull moose, complete with a massive set of antlers ambled out into the road ahead of me. He either regarded the motorcycle as some form of kin, or at least a beast he could best in a fight, and other than a passing glance at me, barely increased his gait as we passed in the fog.
Taking this as some kind of omen, I continued on, riding along alpine tundra and scrub pine reminiscent of the above tree line hikes I’ve taken with my father in New Hampshire. The scrub was occasionally broken with a small lake, and other than a few other cars, motorcycles and even a couple of cyclists, I was alone with the fog and my thoughts, somewhere between earth and sky.
As I descended on the other side of the park, the fog lifted but the rains increased. My goal was Meat Cove, a strange name for the northernmost point on the island, reachable only by riding about 10 miles of dirt road. Each time I contemplated turning around, I ‘d see an interesting bird or vista, and would push on, until I had gone so far as to make turning back an impossibility.
The road to Meat Cove was equally amazing. A dirt and gravel path, barely wide enough for a car was cut into the side of the island, with a sheer 500 foot drop to the ocean on one side, and windswept land on the other. My speed was limited as much by the condition of the road as by the amazing vistas. The cove itself was a jumbled mass of rock and land, with only a few houses dotting the otherwise raw coast. A campground and ice cream shop are the few notable features of Meat Cove, save for an handful of houses. The campground juts out into the water, and has several test sites for the brave that have a 270 degree vista of the rugged ocean, almost sticking out as if to bridge land and sea, with neither neighbor being particularly hospitable towards the other.
Snapping one last photo, again hoping my camera would live to tell the tales of the trip, I turned around thinking “I’m coming back here someday and staying at that very spot.”
The ride back was more of the same: rain, wind and fog you could smell, feel and almost taste. As I slowly made my way across the final section of highlands, a female moose again ambled across my path, in almost the same place. Unsure whether this was a coincidence or a sign of some sort, the thought had barely left my head when I began my descent, broke through the clouds and entered an absolutely beautiful day.
I gave the throttle a twist, rain flying off the windshield and my waterlogged gloves finally hitting dry air. I joyously flicked the bike down the mountains at just-below-unsafe speeds, happy to be alive and riding in a place and time few others will get to experience. I nearly giggled each time I stopped at a turnout, taking the same photos I had snapped through rain and fog in the clear sunny weather, smiling as I passed a minivan of tourists that were still in the visitors center when I had departed over three hours ago.
My bike and I bounded down the pass, stopping for a quick photo between sessions leaning into corners and doing my best super motoard impression. As I rode back into town towards our motel, I looked out on the water, in awe at the visible barrier between clear sky and storm front, hanging just at the base of the mountains. Looking out towards the sea, the sun slipped behind a cloud, creating what photographs call “god light,” the near-magical rays of light that stream out of a cloud like a laser beam. I snapped a couple more photos, and pulled into our motel with a huge grin.
“It cleared up right after you left, must have been a great ride!” said Meghan as I pulled in, and I rolled my eyes, beginning my tales of fog and rain. We spent the rest of the day walking around town, and had a supposedly traditional Acadian dinner, followed by an early bedtime.
This morning we were once again greeted with rain, although it let up as we packed, and we spent the day riding along the “no man’s land” between the clear weather and the storm front, eventually breaking out into a full blown blue sky as we left Cape Breton. We spent the rest of the day riding down the Marine Trail, a sparsely populated road hugging the southern portion of the island, just south of Cape Breton. While the road was occasionally rough, we were treated with views of the sea, small seaside villages and forests ranging from scrub pine to larger hardwoods.
We did not cover the distance we had planned, and a consensus among two sore butts decided on camping earlier than planned. We found a small campsite right on a lovely lake, and when I say right on the lake, as I am typing this I can see water about fifteen feet from where I am sitting. We’ve covered 1500 miles thus far, and while each day brings an adventure, it was a little sad waking up this morning and knowing that each mile is one step closer to the end of this tale rather than the start of some new adventure.
We’re hoping to cover some distance in the coming days, and if things go according to plan, spend a night or two with my parents in New Hampshire. We’re hoping she won’t be too scared by the dirty motorcycle-adventure bums that come through the door!
Pictures are here: