tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-56067515622524224982024-03-12T16:28:37.771-07:00bike bike megsa cycling nomad makes her way across her home countrymegshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03687031759616638202noreply@blogger.comBlogger57125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606751562252422498.post-71344828898943926852011-05-30T21:18:00.000-07:002011-06-03T23:56:30.617-07:00Giving Thanks<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXLEF-tKr7PKhAGTrQ88agJJlyR35pnrDG4dSa54OGRUMzGdaU46CQ52GevO3HFK0f5nh8Ya4UTCLfVef44EsczbtCup8T6TrBBmWOeOJEdo9ltjNF8SMIOlLMWd6TygSZiaIY90k1SGc/s1600/Cycling+Eureka+to+San+Diego+Disk+2+210EDIT.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXLEF-tKr7PKhAGTrQ88agJJlyR35pnrDG4dSa54OGRUMzGdaU46CQ52GevO3HFK0f5nh8Ya4UTCLfVef44EsczbtCup8T6TrBBmWOeOJEdo9ltjNF8SMIOlLMWd6TygSZiaIY90k1SGc/s200/Cycling+Eureka+to+San+Diego+Disk+2+210EDIT.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612736587088324450" border="0" /></a> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%;">I still don't know why she slowed down. Maybe she was trying to pull over, even though there was nowhere to go, so traffic could cruise past. We headed south out of San Fran that morning, our bike tires gripped to the pavement as our legs spun round and round. On a narrow, curvaceous stretch of coast highway known as <span style="font-style: normal;">Devil's Slide, </span>we clung to the white line as an impatient stream of traffic raced past us. Together we spiraled up and down the shadowy mountains which divided us from the sea. My sister Alisha led and I followed. We were flying downhill when abruptly, she braked. I tried to stop but my back wheel skidded, bike frame wobbled. I screamed, “NO! GO! GOGOGOGOGO!”</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%;"> “What?! Go <span style="font-style: normal;">where?!</span>” she hollered, the words torn from her mouth by the angry wind. A split-second later I had closed in on her, only a few centimeters of mountain air separated our bikes. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%;"> “MOVE! Just move!” I screeched, my voice crackling as my nerves began to break.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%;"> There was nowhere to go. Hit her and cause both of us to wipe out, skid into traffic and cause a lethal multi-car pileup sure to headline the evening news, or veer into the metal guardrail (it only came up to our knees) and hope it would protect me from flying hundreds of meters into the Great Pacific. <i>Holy shit, I'm gonna die. Here and now. That's it, that's all.</i></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%;"> But, as you may have supposed by now, I didn't break on through to the other side. I made it. I guess Alisha deciphered my screams and sped up. At the next pull-out we pushed our bikes up against the rail and I sat down in the rubble, needing to be reassured that we were safe, not in danger anymore. <i>Just breathe. Thankful. Breathe again. Alive</i>. Really, that's all that I could think about. I was shaken, stirred, rocked. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%;"> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPJBQ-eV9iOGQYLs_3IBb0Nb0-2MMOZpSEudrXnQtqRzv4g4pCkK4G44v6qsyoGJ3bbEgXraQeQr2bHOlgh0OJsF2PMCpYiYPO3e_hm_OJ6lvFYsscNOFZ646puwpN62jwEgUSCWr24wM/s1600/Cycling+Eureka+to+San+Diego+Disk+2+169EDIT.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPJBQ-eV9iOGQYLs_3IBb0Nb0-2MMOZpSEudrXnQtqRzv4g4pCkK4G44v6qsyoGJ3bbEgXraQeQr2bHOlgh0OJsF2PMCpYiYPO3e_hm_OJ6lvFYsscNOFZ646puwpN62jwEgUSCWr24wM/s200/Cycling+Eureka+to+San+Diego+Disk+2+169EDIT.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612740553572457602" border="0" /></a>That was the last time I was truly scared. What I realized though, seated cross-legged on the edge of that cliff looking out over the Pacific, was that sometimes it takes nearly dying to appreciate really living. I felt an enormous wave of gratitude for being alive and in good health. Why, I began to wonder, did it take such a harrowing experience to realize how good I have it? How come I, and most people for that matter, put so much effort into pulling life apart, nitpicking the minor details, while completely ignoring the miracle of our own existence? We take the blood pumping through our veins for granted, and in doing so fail to see the outstanding brilliance all around us. Toes warm in wool socks, the majesty of towering cedar trees, the scent of brewing coffee and the soft fur behind a dog's ears. <span style="font-style: normal;">It's scares me how we've moved past showing appreciation for the simple things in life, instead dishing out criticisms for all the things that don't go our way and focusing on all the tiny irksome troubles that really, when you look at the big picture, </span>mean next to nothing. Traffic jams, empty milk cartons, spitty talkers and painful hangnails. None of these annoyances matter if you're dead. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%;"> What seems strange to me is how often we forget that life has no guarantee. We make all these plans, sign up for years of college or university and then get excited for retirement. But how do we know we're even going to be around for it? I suppose, statistically speaking, it's pretty rare for a person to die in a freak accident, by some random coincidence or horrible luck, but it could happen. And nearly going over the edge at Devil's Slide reminded me of that. I realized that not only could I feel pain, but I could cease to exist. There are concrete consequences which can be achieved from making a wrong turn, so to speak.</p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%;"> This notion that death was the flip-side of life first came to me at nine years old. My half-blind spaniel, Ginger, walked off our balcony, crashing hard on the cement below. She died on impact. I discovered her when I ran under the stairs to grab my bike. It was a rough morning, I cried a lot, but most of all I remember thinking afterwords, <i>What if that happened to me? What if I was the one lying dead, my parents the ones who discovered me and wept over my rigid remains? </i><span style="font-style: normal;">It was a scary thought, but I didn't dwell on it, and soon I'd forgotten my first brief encounter with existentialism.</span></p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> But am I really thankful for my existence? After each of these experiences I reached a new level of awareness about my frailty, followed by deep appreciation for my own life. But the gratitude quickly faded. Sometimes when I'm riding the bus, I notice a creeping angst boil up inside of me. As I watch the condensation build on the window panes, the rain pelting down on the pavement outside, I become more and more pissed off about the lousy weather, about having to rush from school to work with no time in between, about being 26 and not knowing where I'm going in life. </span><i>Simmer down</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>Meaghan, </i><span style="font-style: normal;">I conscientiously tell myself, </span><i>Just because you have no time, no money and no car doesn't mean you should be bitter. Just be happy to be here, right now. This is the only place you can be, and if you weren't here you'd be dead. So you should be grateful for that.</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> But I feel like I'm feeding propaganda to myself. But, isn't it true? Shouldn't it be true? Wouldn't it be better to stop rating life as good or bad, depending on the moment, and just accept that it is what it is? </span> </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; font-style: normal; line-height: 150%;"> Acceptance is something I have a hard time with though. I think a lot of people do. Dissatisfied with your small breasts? Get a boob job. Sick and tired of your mediocre job? Work hard for that promotion. We're taught not to accept the conditions that we're given, but to improve, excel, and rise above. it seems that we love life when we're living it up, but disdain much of the time in between. Our society puts so much emphasis on improvement and achievement that we neglect to show gratitude for life, just the way it is. </p> <p style="margin-bottom: 0in; line-height: 150%;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> I remember being in Newfoundland, and finding it surprising that everyone I met said grace before the meal. Just a few moments to pause, breathe, and think about the bigger picture. My astonishment faded quickly, and soon I began to wonder why it wasn't common practice to show gratitude for those tasty morsels, and everything else, which sustains us. Are we just too busy, think ourselves above giving thanks, or have merely forgotten how good we have it? Taking a look around the globe, it seems more than ever that access to nourishing food, clean water, and stable housing is privilege, not a right, of human existence.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIRDeRYpI04wGJmrW66Ot6Yy2pJTpQelDqh83kU5ssUXBXqEiWmylu_q9IipBUmKIbBGEdh2H8UwowJS0Unb04y7N7UKYCy0LFvWPOqvKweEZsYx-AuZOZ4MyuRzfv6vqj3_7F9Manc_k/s1600/Cycling+Eureka+to+San+Diego+Disk+2+193EDIT.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIRDeRYpI04wGJmrW66Ot6Yy2pJTpQelDqh83kU5ssUXBXqEiWmylu_q9IipBUmKIbBGEdh2H8UwowJS0Unb04y7N7UKYCy0LFvWPOqvKweEZsYx-AuZOZ4MyuRzfv6vqj3_7F9Manc_k/s200/Cycling+Eureka+to+San+Diego+Disk+2+193EDIT.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612740558748407986" border="0" /></a>So I'm thankful, for everything. And I'm grateful for that day when I nearly went crashing over the edge. Without realizing what I had to lose, I wouldn't have been able to see how much I have to live for.</span></p> <span style="font-size:100%;"></span>megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03687031759616638202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606751562252422498.post-14168839493061517662011-05-26T15:43:00.001-07:002011-06-22T21:27:40.322-07:00Pedaling the Pacific Marine Circle Route (and then some)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbIYw0VEhkOSSw1e89BqktQ48nU02Ee9gocnDZn4OlXLM4v2V32mVStlmuhiDk60x3fz8aNspfDvPdRqVQrV8FXi2X-8f7PrM84tfi3yXhcCjnLTpN5xhDbLjBvmPj-C2UTSr-e19qWkc/s1600/spring+and+bike+tour+2011+069.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbIYw0VEhkOSSw1e89BqktQ48nU02Ee9gocnDZn4OlXLM4v2V32mVStlmuhiDk60x3fz8aNspfDvPdRqVQrV8FXi2X-8f7PrM84tfi3yXhcCjnLTpN5xhDbLjBvmPj-C2UTSr-e19qWkc/s200/spring+and+bike+tour+2011+069.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612752406028679058" border="0" /></a> Yaaaa! I hope you're all<span style="font-style: italic;"> suuuuuuuuper </span>stoked, cus my blog is back! I don't have any epic adventures planned for 2011 (as of yet...), but even though I'm working a real job, I still might do a thing or two worth writing about.<br /><br />Last weekend I did a spur of the moment tour of Vancouver Island. Sometime on Friday afternoon I realized that I didn't yet have plans for May Long, and a cold fear gripped my heart. <span style="font-style: italic;">Why, Meaghan, are you not doing anything for the long weekend? Have you grown old? Lame? Are you wasting you life away on purpose?</span> It's not totally true that I didn't have plans: I had a Raw Meat skate session on Saturday morning, and I was called in last minute to work on Saturday night. But still, I wasn't planning on leaving town, which struck me as odd. Last year I was gearing up to cross the country, and now, I was gearing up to drive to work. Lame.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);font-size:130%;" >Day One, Sunday May 21st</span><br /><br />So I dusted off my tent and packed my panniers. I needed to break the cycle of mediocrity which has become my life. On Sunday morning at 6:45 I was awake, and by 7:20 I was gone; flying down the hill towards the Tsawwassen ferry terminal with my dad in tow. I rode along the dyke, Mud Bay and all its oceanic inhabitants to our left and a smattering of farm buildings and golf courses to our right. We hoofed it to the terminal, my heart rate climbing with anticipation as I felt the familiar crunch of loose gravel under my wheels. Patch kit? Check. Spare spokes? Check. Lube? Nope. I made a mental note to pick up a bottle once I got to the island and figured out where I was going. (My final route is outlined<span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);"> </span><a style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(51, 102, 255);" href="http://maps.google.ca/maps?f=d&source=s_d&saddr=surrey,+BC&daddr=tsawwassen,+ferry+terminal+to:Victoria,+BC+to:Sooke,+British+Columbia+to:port+renfrew+to:Cowichan+Lake,+BC+to:Crofton,+British+Columbia+to:Salt+Spring+Island,+British+Columbia+to:Surrey,+BC&geocode=FelL7QIdTMut-Clbpz9NA9yFVDHgmNWrmEiL0g%3BFTDN6wIdLjSp-CFf-xwMbN4Dqg%3BFUP24gIdTJel-ClxYbDdi3OPVDHtSLsedPPoOA%3BFVsp4gId2-if-Ck1H78yEwWPVDHCaFzcjqYbcw%3BFQbc5AIdZXeV-ClTd7xwTNeOVDGmbFH37Na1AQ%3BFR_N6QIdyNmX-Cmnnl4yh86IVDFNHagYjRXvsQ%3BFXqa6QIdxlCh-CmNq_28lVGPVDEe7BzNFniHZw%3BFRbi6AIddGej-CmHl21iGVqPVDFbxaiM5Ngy8Q%3BFelL7QIdTMut-Clbpz9NA9yFVDHgmNWrmEiL0g&hl=en&mra=ls&sll=48.734455,-123.640137&sspn=1.02711,2.90863&ie=UTF8&z=9">here</a>)<br /><br />We made it to the terminal with 15 minutes to spare. My pops let me draft off him for the final stretch, as there was a nasty headwind and he could see I was already fading with my loaded panniers (<span style="font-style: italic;">note</span>: if there's one thing this trip has taught me it's that I need to get back in shape). After a perfunctory hug good-bye, he headed back home for breakfast and I boarded the <span style="font-style: italic;">Queen of New Westminster</span> bound for Swartz Bay.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVSa2t0tTtYUmot12fuO586yNOILYK3iE1O4Vi4Wm68NYJUaCVMXLej7SHt7dD6QvLDkr5TjIs0Hm3xn5LdchyphenhyphenAut_X5lViSDsrgZGMGeUK02Q1Vz1AqDZQRR_3QgMoAKdh0M8uxStXmY/s1600/spring+and+bike+tour+2011+193.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVSa2t0tTtYUmot12fuO586yNOILYK3iE1O4Vi4Wm68NYJUaCVMXLej7SHt7dD6QvLDkr5TjIs0Hm3xn5LdchyphenhyphenAut_X5lViSDsrgZGMGeUK02Q1Vz1AqDZQRR_3QgMoAKdh0M8uxStXmY/s200/spring+and+bike+tour+2011+193.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612798148662912242" border="0" /></a>My initial plan was to ride to Cowichan Lake to visit my friend Graham and his pals at their cabin. This idea was thrown out after I discovered that the Mill Bay/Brentwood Ferry was out of service for the month of June, and I couldn't muster the physical strength to tackle beastly Malahat Hwy. I calculated my route to be over a hundred kilometers after short-cutting via the ferry, but since this was a no go (thanks a lot BC Ferries!), I had no choice but to tack on an extra 30 km of mountainous highway riding. So I tossed that idea out, and just kicked it along the <a style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);" href="http://www.crd.bc.ca/parks/lochside/">Lockside Trail </a>towards Victoria. Once I reached the boardwalk at Elk Lake I took a breather from my travels. With my info-center map spread out on the grass I used my finger to trace out possible routes from the endless network of paths, highways and byways (For those of you who don't know, the island has GREAT network of cycling paths, some on back roads and others on converted railways tracks. It's pretty sweet: minimal traffic, low grade, lots of trees. Perfect for newbie cyclists and those who prefer scenery to SUVs) I decided to try for the <a href="http://www.pacificmarinecircleroute.com/"><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Pacific Marine</span> <span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);">Circle Route</span></a>, with some slight modifications to avoid the traffic and congestion of the Malahat.<br /><br />After I quick cruise through our splendid capital, I rode out on the <a style="color: rgb(51, 51, 255);" href="http://www.cyclevancouverisland.ca/pdfs/galloping_goose.pdf">Galloping Goose Trail</a>. The path <span class="main_body">is named after the awkward and noisy gas rail-car which carried passengers between Victoria and Sooke in the 1920's.</span> The train runs on converted rail bed from Victoria to Sooke Potholes through View Royal, Langford, Colwood and Metchosin. A world away from the noisy Island Highway, I let my thoughts tumble over like pebbles in the quiet surf as I made my way west. In Metchosin a patch of grass lured me upon it, and I collapsed, face first, for a much needed catnap.<br /><br />When I awoke it was nearly six pm. Time to hit the road again. My body ached and my mouth was scratchy and dry inside. I struggled to get my feet in my pedal cages, then commenced to ride down the path like a lopsided drunkard. I was exhausted, over-exerted and craving sugar. I rode the Goose until it came to Matheson Lake, where I parked my bike and ventured down to the shore. With no one else around, I eagerly pulled off my sneakers and waded around in the chilly water. I read a short story about female wrestlers in Bolivia, <a style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);" href="http://ngm.nationalgeographic.com/2008/09/wrestlers/guillermoprieto-text"><span style="font-style: italic;">cholitas</span></a>, then stared at the sun until my eyes hurt and I saw tiny dancing geometric shapes once I closed them. It was time to move on.<br /><br />I camped on the shores of Sooke Basin that night, in someone's backyard. Admittedly, it feels a little peculiar to wander up to a stranger's front door and ask permission to sleep on their property, but I've found that folks are generally welcoming and eager to help a lone cyclist or two. Sitting on a mossy log I chewed my granola bar (<span style="font-style: italic;">note</span>: I didn't bring a stove with me this trip so you'll find that I eat really lousy food) and waited for the sun to set. Before long I was inside my tiny Hubba tent, sleeping bag zipped to my chin, the lapping waves guiding me to sleep.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);font-size:130%;" >Day Two, Monday May 22nd </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxyq01a0ifnDszleRt5ahsMNUjRR21lUFM_2dOEFSwX96ccJzHj7pIwbKVzsNlYjyGn_cDA15SCEoXqmQI6m3xHudOdx8wg8VdhxVIdoM37G4kxhwlQA9cleFhId6h1wGc41U1VkulXq4/s1600/spring+and+bike+tour+2011+053EDIT.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxyq01a0ifnDszleRt5ahsMNUjRR21lUFM_2dOEFSwX96ccJzHj7pIwbKVzsNlYjyGn_cDA15SCEoXqmQI6m3xHudOdx8wg8VdhxVIdoM37G4kxhwlQA9cleFhId6h1wGc41U1VkulXq4/s200/spring+and+bike+tour+2011+053EDIT.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612758666736042802" border="0" /></a>I packed up camp before seven and headed up to Sooke Potholes. Leafy green ferns and yellow broom painted the landscape as the trail hiked up the canyon alongside the boisterous Sooke River. I crossed an enormous wooden trestle spanning the length of Charters Creek.<span style="font-style: italic;"> A feat in engineering if I've ever seen one</span>, I thought, the sound of thunderous water echoing up from far, far below. Once at the Potholes, I seized my second chance to marvel at the raging rapids as I mixed instant oats with mushy banana and trail mix for breakfast. This was so unsatisfying (and cold) that I opted to stop for a second breakfast at the Alternative Kitchen Cafe once I arrived in Sooke. This little place is, hands down, the highlight of Sooke. Home cooked food and self serve coffee in a teeny tiny restaurant with a friendly vibe. I bought a muffin for the road, then said good-bye to the Goose and took up the West Coast Road headed towards Port Renfrew.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_6-n0chY9YrHvImUaIA2OrW7eGvWE5ieK8SARWEyBFPO1drTEduIpQPFhEjXsh3dcH-W19EzC5DZPYlbxmoQK7cNcT93nsh4-uNV4rV6rkmIJ2UWUYad3Rgm_DIfbW9uaL9ggkJxNw-Q/s1600/face+beach+collage.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 119px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_6-n0chY9YrHvImUaIA2OrW7eGvWE5ieK8SARWEyBFPO1drTEduIpQPFhEjXsh3dcH-W19EzC5DZPYlbxmoQK7cNcT93nsh4-uNV4rV6rkmIJ2UWUYad3Rgm_DIfbW9uaL9ggkJxNw-Q/s200/face+beach+collage.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613142180413608722" border="0" /></a>I totally lucked out in the weather department. All day long the sun beat down on my sweaty face and thighs. I soaked up her heated love with delight, and prayed for more glorious sunshine in the days to come. RVs and pickup trucks trailing speed boats rolled by me as I cruised along the coast, taking in the magnificent beaches as they came. French Beach, Muir Creek, Jordan River, China Beach. The beaches along the southwest coast of Van Island are the epitome of rugged west coast beauty. The rain forest touches down to meet the sea, a band of driftwood, pebbles and sand making up the thin meridian between two ecosystems. I basked on sun bleached driftwood logs, letting the wind whip my bangs back and forth across my face like a set of windshield wipers in the pouring rain.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiobZTcOMr6HsfeV2G83t1Jd2s-gr0QsS5amDHCbJfcSkA2xbeQY8J8pRHndFBYP1tGsOcdmGsdVE4mZpod-GEuGwnosi-7LuXUWLV-RndHf3FMt5RxicggmkmjH7jYn8t5B3VedCxRrzI/s1600/spring+and+bike+tour+2011+126EDIT.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiobZTcOMr6HsfeV2G83t1Jd2s-gr0QsS5amDHCbJfcSkA2xbeQY8J8pRHndFBYP1tGsOcdmGsdVE4mZpod-GEuGwnosi-7LuXUWLV-RndHf3FMt5RxicggmkmjH7jYn8t5B3VedCxRrzI/s200/spring+and+bike+tour+2011+126EDIT.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612793844375749554" border="0" /></a>After Jordan River (the busiest spot on the coast between Sooke and Port Refrew-fish and chips stands appear on the land side while boogie boarders and surfers bob up and down in the sea) the roads curves up above the sea. Below, the Juan de Fuca Trail leads across pebbly beaches and through muddy paths to Port Renfrew, where the trail ends and the world famous West Coast Trail begins. The views are not so great from the road, but traffic is light and the topsy-turvy route keeps things interesting. There are no houses. Instead my eyes follow soaring eagles, wandering elk and curious black bears (<span style="font-style: italic;">eeeeek!</span>) as my feet stamp out a never-ending rhythm on my bike pedals.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEOnQisvcMjZWjMCuq3kqhzba1FrmNRxPJJuu-Oj5qoQkDhL4WUYQ3E6UmLojPI3FiMF6Bk7sIbSF-jMijUQzIyLvSHnW1bcKv60v0pKX_tM2UqCkxQMwduDiqAJEvQbNugbhuAlTIJMQ/s1600/fern+campsite+collage.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 119px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEOnQisvcMjZWjMCuq3kqhzba1FrmNRxPJJuu-Oj5qoQkDhL4WUYQ3E6UmLojPI3FiMF6Bk7sIbSF-jMijUQzIyLvSHnW1bcKv60v0pKX_tM2UqCkxQMwduDiqAJEvQbNugbhuAlTIJMQ/s200/fern+campsite+collage.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612788530782983522" border="0" /></a>When I noticed a dampness, a soft pillowy moisture suspended in the hair and sticking to the hairs of my forearm, I knew that I had to be close to Port Renfrew. The road etches its way through dense bush, with ancient spruce and hemlocks towering overhead while ferns, skunk cabbage and salmon berry bushes make up the lower tier of rain forest. I can only imagine the wildness lurking behind the curtain of trees lining the highway.<br /><br />Once in town, I rode past the fire hall and made a sharp turn down to Beach Camp, where I soaked up the last rays of the day before the sun sank behind the surrounding mountains. The day was nearly gone, but yet the the sky was still light. So I kicked it down the road to the BC Rec site at Fairy Lake. I made camp under a giant spruce, its branches weighed down by generations of moss.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);font-size:130%;" >Day Three, Tuesday May 24th</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja4MINho51V0LsmdJO2Z8YQZ5oKwummS7XrQDWpKuKJn-OTZJh5Ua1R01agye4smDdMNLorypzVL39UqpGG5Gj-eIyyqdCimfAcWB3EiEfdlAJANYw7P_bfdt2FwiuSQI7PMTh6BtWKeY/s1600/forest+collage.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 119px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja4MINho51V0LsmdJO2Z8YQZ5oKwummS7XrQDWpKuKJn-OTZJh5Ua1R01agye4smDdMNLorypzVL39UqpGG5Gj-eIyyqdCimfAcWB3EiEfdlAJANYw7P_bfdt2FwiuSQI7PMTh6BtWKeY/s200/forest+collage.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612800852368469842" border="0" /></a>My cell phone hasn't worked since I left Sooke, so I got up with the sun. She's not so brilliant today, but she does a satisfactory job at keeping the rainclouds away, which is good enough for me. Logging trucks, stacked to capacity, rumble past me as I pedal inland towards Cowichan Lake. Since I care deeply about my own life, I exercise my best manners and move right off the pavement to allow the hulking giants to pass on the narrow switchback road. Clear cuts, an ugly but seemingly necessary part of our economy, are a common sight. Streams and bridges mark my progress, and after a few hours my stomach is telling me that it's time for my second breakfast. Right on cue, the road flattens out and I see the sign for Cow Lake. I pull into an all day breakfast place and order a plate with basically every farm animal and vegetable product on it. Oooh, and a coffee. I love coffee :)<br /><br />From Cow Lake I took the <a style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);" href="http://www.cvrd.bc.ca/index.aspx?NID=121">Cowichan Valley Trail</a><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 255);"> </span>(another sweet multi-use, motorist free path) to Duncan. Part of the Trans Canada Trail, the path is rougher than the Galloping Goose, but still fine with my touring tires. Nothing but trees, trestles and gravel for the next few hours. I shot up and down the winding the back roads through Duncan, enamored by the grassy fields and colourful clapboard farmhouses. I whipped through downtown Duncan, then continue though Maple Bay towards the ferry terminal at Crofton. I figured that I could ride to Nanaimo and take the ferry home, or I could visit Salt Spring and take the ferry home. Salt Spring won out, mostly due to the fact that I knew of a bakery where I could find awesome cinnamon buns.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi27BMUaTNLtzx4uCnSKG9Dd5rjfXEKEApVU16XqcXIPgE3Wz5o-TVFfAfCq3MhJX2c4tSpVG1Cgcx_6DKAOwQPObTPGIhuM2pu3YGyKw4JgJT1lqnuOeWj4cImQg548TP7NowAHIDT7HA/s1600/ferry+and+sailboat+collage.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 119px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi27BMUaTNLtzx4uCnSKG9Dd5rjfXEKEApVU16XqcXIPgE3Wz5o-TVFfAfCq3MhJX2c4tSpVG1Cgcx_6DKAOwQPObTPGIhuM2pu3YGyKw4JgJT1lqnuOeWj4cImQg548TP7NowAHIDT7HA/s200/ferry+and+sailboat+collage.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612797182411334338" border="0" /></a>I arrived on Salt Spring Island a little past six in the evening. Funky sculptures and artist studios reminded me that I was no longer on the mainland. Or even mainland Vancouver Island. I crossed the island from Vesuvius Bay to Ganges Harbour and settled down on a boardwalk bench to eat my "dinner" of granola bars and bananas. I strolled around the harbour until sunset, my solitude intermittently broken up by random conversations with other travelers and island locals. I stealth camped for the night in a forest grove beside a little church, crashing hard after another long day on the road.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 204, 204);font-size:130%;" >Day Four, Wednesday May 25th </span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghldyttIljdJQFYkInEY2ROOa_zuP9bACdx3yX_XNozmliOn4XdoCoCfmkHxmhtdThm4-WgOWiJS9JSVbTZOgM4_mfWgxweGN3nhGL_b4D0-VX7jlFmVP18Z8y_ik5w-HPha_mKHip0mM/s1600/spring+and+bike+tour+2011+274EDIT.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghldyttIljdJQFYkInEY2ROOa_zuP9bACdx3yX_XNozmliOn4XdoCoCfmkHxmhtdThm4-WgOWiJS9JSVbTZOgM4_mfWgxweGN3nhGL_b4D0-VX7jlFmVP18Z8y_ik5w-HPha_mKHip0mM/s200/spring+and+bike+tour+2011+274EDIT.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612797187858274386" border="0" /></a>I departed camp before any worshipers arrived, kick-starting the day with a bit of an island tour. I ventured north to Fernwood, where I poked at sea creatures living under the remarkably red dock, then looped back down to Ganges for cinnamon buns and pastries at the aforementioned bakery (the Embe Bakery-highly recommend it). The buns did not disappoint, and after an hour or so of munching out and journaling I kicked it to Beddis Beach. In my mind, some more quality beach time seemed like an ideal way to end this blissful little adventure of mine, but unfortunately, the sky god thought it would be a good time to water the planet. So I got wet, but it was fun. Sometimes I actually enjoy riding in the rain. I trans-morph into a salamander-like creature and the water becomes my natural habitat. I feel slimy and slippery and strangely at ease in the slick wetness.<br /><br />Once I made it the beach, I <span style="font-style: italic;">did</span> seek out shelter under an ancient cedar. From my vantage point under the tree I remained dry while watching the rain plunk down into the sea. I thumbed through my Sherlock Holmes book, listening to the gentle tumble of beach pebbles under the quiet surf and the <span style="font-style: italic;">chirpity chirp</span> of flighty birds. I fell asleep, but was abruptly awakened by the wet nose of a curious labrador. It was time to head off to the ferry terminal anyways.<br /><br />By now it was all out pouring. I arrived in Long Harbour soaked, did a quick strip into my dry clothes, then boarded a ferry bound for the mainland. It was a scenic sailing, but throughout its entirety I was plagued with dreadful thoughts about my ride home in the torrential rain. Sigh. But nothing could be done. I disembarked the vessel fully clad in my rain gear, booties done up snug and rain jacket zipped to the chin. Of course, these precautions did nothing to prevent me from becoming absolutely drenched, but they did make me <span style="font-style: italic;">feel </span>as if I was well prepared for the inclement weather.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvgWkT2PScbwlD8n1zsMQDzmZFtgCLml7WfxGRj1cilDJjNY_Gqqm7IH_2VeLT6K_ReUc5x2FDjQLH512zn4zx-Aye_84t-N3keQSwqlH5geQDhk_ginwOELzJNNtBFiyYaUzXtR_jOsA/s1600/008.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvgWkT2PScbwlD8n1zsMQDzmZFtgCLml7WfxGRj1cilDJjNY_Gqqm7IH_2VeLT6K_ReUc5x2FDjQLH512zn4zx-Aye_84t-N3keQSwqlH5geQDhk_ginwOELzJNNtBFiyYaUzXtR_jOsA/s200/008.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5612796245396360610" border="0" /></a>I pedaled without pause until I hit my front door step. Twenty six kilometers. I didn't see a soul on the dyke, not even a bird of flight. When I finally I arrived home, I tossed my bike to the ground and charged the front door, demanding someone take my photo. Reluctantly, Luca (our German couch surfer) ventured outdoors to shoot my dripping visage. And this is what it looked like:<br /><br />All in all, the route from start to finish was a little over 350km.megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03687031759616638202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606751562252422498.post-62316571187750536622010-11-25T23:06:00.001-08:002010-11-27T08:15:36.491-08:00the end (for now)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWhL9kDTO70IAZJrJgwhTVmkLqlF1q4gR-2SxOEfj462KgAX26h421sBrsN5J1pb7MnOzqLfz2qPmxuJup8uXwUVAjuoVlWp99I9zaWG0EdVCWCCjgUeHdQXBW89kQkOlSslUmVwSgIOU/s1600/randoms+006.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 150px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543787706924620802" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWhL9kDTO70IAZJrJgwhTVmkLqlF1q4gR-2SxOEfj462KgAX26h421sBrsN5J1pb7MnOzqLfz2qPmxuJup8uXwUVAjuoVlWp99I9zaWG0EdVCWCCjgUeHdQXBW89kQkOlSslUmVwSgIOU/s200/randoms+006.jpg" /></a> Ok ok, so I realize that it's been a while since my last post. I dunno, I guess I just couldn't figure out an appropriate way to end the story of 'nomadic cyclist from the west coast pedals across her homeland, experiencing firsthand the wonders of Canada'. There's sooo much left unsaid! But just now I realized something critical: the story doesn't have to end here. Although the final moments of my XCanada bike tour (and subsequent journey back home) have already played out, this won't be the last time Meg rides here bike across incredible expanses of terrain and is greeted by the open arms of humanity. The world is simply <em>amazing</em>. If you don't believe me, just get on a bike :)<br /><br />So how did I make it home? Well, as I wrote last month, I hitched off Newfoundland, then took a couple of buses to Bathurst, NB. I hopped on a train to Quebec, then spent a most of my time riding greyhound buses, navigating my way westwards across Ontario and through the Prairies, visiting Austin in Montreal and landing at Toby's place in Edmonton just in time for the first snow of the season. I realized that summer was officially over, and that I would have to get on with my life now.<br /><br />This is kinda where I got stuck, and thus partially to blame for my lack of posting in recent times. What now? Perhaps I'll return to school, learn Spanish and take some creative writing courses. Or, I could embrace winter, work at a ski hill, and catch snowflakes on my tongue. Alternatively, I could use my degree to get a real job, start earning a salary, and join the ranks of society who don't vacation more than two weeks a year.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCFbYJv813VtIRu6G44KAfE8YlhtYUK3QCEVR63VREopBw3roes5PYqwigI4qWA-JhXCSwWjeSJlxyvunHVV5ce3COtqhabv9J98YZ2GQrN0YS4ngzZ50YwlWgLr0VHrzScGbNmctuLcM/s1600/randoms+007.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5543787716976130034" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCFbYJv813VtIRu6G44KAfE8YlhtYUK3QCEVR63VREopBw3roes5PYqwigI4qWA-JhXCSwWjeSJlxyvunHVV5ce3COtqhabv9J98YZ2GQrN0YS4ngzZ50YwlWgLr0VHrzScGbNmctuLcM/s200/randoms+007.jpg" /></a>But, I did non of the above. I wound up back at the roller rink, working late nights and drinking copious amounts of coffee. I've been taking my strange deer-like dog Rexy for daily adventure walks through the park and down to the ocean. Together we meander the familiar winding paths, admiring the giant golden maple leafs. I've been catching up with friends and relatives, and taking full advantage of having a fully stocked kitchen at my disposal (thank you Ma and Pa, for welcoming your vagabond daughter back home, time after time!). My current challenge is simply trying to take in all that I've learned this summer and use it to live out my own life in a way that satisfies my soul.<br /><div></div><br /><div>In December my brief stint at the rink ends, and I'm taking off for warmer climates. First I'm heading back to Edmonton-to get a taste of what the word 'cold' <em>really</em> means. Then I'm flying out to chill with some friends in sunny San Diego-can hardly wait to hit the surf with Sam, bake up some cookies with Karen in the kitchen, and down a few cheap American beers with Kevin. Then I'm blasting off to meet the family in Maui for Christmas. I know, you're probably thinking <em>"hard life, kiddo",</em> but hey, somebody's got to do it! I'll be ringing in the New Year, and the my 26th birthday, barefoot on a beach with a papaya in hand.<br /><br />As I've said before, for me, travel is a transformative and life-changing experience. Bike touring all the more so. Propelling yourself forward with the strength of your own muscles, striping down your belongings to the bare minimum, constant exposure to the elements, chance encounters with folks on the road, and getting to know the entity who lives <em>inside</em> the body (my mind? my soul?) are all reasons that I choose to bike. I think of it this way: as a driver in a car/passenger in a train/customer on a bus, you're like a person at a museum taking a look at a painting. Now, hop onto a bike (or tie up those hiking boots) and you become much more than a mere spectator-you become <em>part</em> of the painting. That's why I totally dig cycling-because you get to be <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">inside </span>the painting-and the 360 degree view is pretty sweet.<br /><br /></div>So I plan to re-ignite my blog when I take off again on two wheels. I don't know when I'll hit the open road, let alone have the slightest inkling as to where that paved (or unpaved) expanse unfolding ahead of me will lead. But, I can feel it will be good :)<br /><br />Check out www.hannamijakobson.com/english/home/ and www.cyclingwithsally.com/ if you're still craving awesome biking stories. I met these folks in Baja California about a year ago, and they're <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">still going</span>. Hanna's photography totally rocks my socks.<br /><br />peace,<br />megs<br /><div></div>megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03687031759616638202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606751562252422498.post-43077727423169763202010-10-27T12:05:00.000-07:002010-11-04T14:22:11.457-07:00Thanksgiving in Madran<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_ysr3zLUk1H44GdOK7ytAxgLDlln9b_PU8OS84Kz6IQ5a9IsB9N908HgneChyphenhyphenqUyb04TOywzoNjrIuECW2apP-M7gL9M9y-3bVkuCYSVb0Nw4v5jbqadi7zrpwN-KfXE7bI6p5ccXaWU/s1600/Meg's+trip+home+296.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_ysr3zLUk1H44GdOK7ytAxgLDlln9b_PU8OS84Kz6IQ5a9IsB9N908HgneChyphenhyphenqUyb04TOywzoNjrIuECW2apP-M7gL9M9y-3bVkuCYSVb0Nw4v5jbqadi7zrpwN-KfXE7bI6p5ccXaWU/s200/Meg's+trip+home+296.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535805728025380626" border="0" /></a><br />I took a bus to Bathurst, arriving at the terminal on the afternoon of Thanksgiving Sunday. With no baggage (remember it had failed to make it aboard ship) I really felt like I was embodying the spirit of a traveling nomad: free-spirited and in search of adventure. Auntie Rita picked me up from the terminal, and then we cruised back to her place in Madran. Madran is only a half hour from Bathurst but it's sort of, hmmm, out in the country. Imagine old wooden fences, houses set back behind tall maples, chip seal roads, horses and dogs-that's Madran. <div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfHSlgG2DxiYS-wOu2yfeiNd1yyad1GEB_hrcTGMhIvBZpRrf2JOV8xhmOqCPMampWge6xy_S_TDTwgKQRZP1FPVDBsiRA2AvXvUUf0VIMsMYdgWHCnw-c3-6gUXspmArNg-irdaoz8Jo/s1600/Meg's+photos+549.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfHSlgG2DxiYS-wOu2yfeiNd1yyad1GEB_hrcTGMhIvBZpRrf2JOV8xhmOqCPMampWge6xy_S_TDTwgKQRZP1FPVDBsiRA2AvXvUUf0VIMsMYdgWHCnw-c3-6gUXspmArNg-irdaoz8Jo/s200/Meg's+photos+549.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532817360906382786" border="0" /></a><div>The following Monday we celebrated Thanksgiving. Last autumn my sister and I were cycling the Pacific Coast; we spent Thanksgiving in a windstorm, camped in the backyard of a woman who ran a thriftstore in Ilwaco, WA. For dinner, we splurged on a brick of the finest chedder and cooked it over a pot of swirly pasta with fresh chopped veggies. Even without fine accouterments, I still found I had a lot to be thankful for: good health, good company, good food. This year, however, I felt I was blessed with much more on the holiday. </div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSC34BbcCmvboHpxrxKWvhndtFve3aBBwYArutnkyBvDaV855sE7AKw-x_rKH5DSwIRfWagn1dnMo3i7PArf2EsVf5M_qXOcK6u0YbXhNCBMSiRQXCZ2YsisZwcRMllGS7wduoqVJOii4/s1600/Meg's+photos+534.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSC34BbcCmvboHpxrxKWvhndtFve3aBBwYArutnkyBvDaV855sE7AKw-x_rKH5DSwIRfWagn1dnMo3i7PArf2EsVf5M_qXOcK6u0YbXhNCBMSiRQXCZ2YsisZwcRMllGS7wduoqVJOii4/s200/Meg's+photos+534.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532817342871791650" border="0" /></a>Rita's place served as the gathering place for the feast. Monday morning was spent in preparation; and I admit I wasn't that much help, instead opting to ride the horse out back with my cousins Ashley and Sabrina. That evening 16 or 17 of us served up our plates smorgasbord style off the kitchen table before spreading out around the house to eat. Every possible sitting surface was taken; from the corner of the counter to the deck chairs on the back porch. It was a merry occasion and a happy reunion. Before desert, I was presented with a card and a cake, congratulating me on the achievement of biking from coast to coast. <i>Thanks guys! </i></div><div><br />I spent one week in Madran. Cruising around town with my cousins Darcy and Wendy, making bracelets with Chloe and Sabrina, drinking coffee at Timmy's (<i>"one milk, one cream, one sugar pleeeeeeese!")</i> , and imagining up creative ways to eat leftover Thanksgiving turkey. Most days Rita and I would walk down to the little brook around sunset, just to enjoy the fall colours and the peaceful gurgling of the flowing waters.<div><br /></div><div>On Friday we headed north on a beer run. Wendy behind the steering wheel, Darcy navigating us towards Quebec, Stacy and I gazing out the back windows and singing along to the music. We took the old road driving along the coast, up through Cambellton, and over the bridge to Point-a-la-Croix. This little excursion reminded me of why I loved Quebec: old buildings and cheap booze. We each bought a case of beer before heading back to Bathurst to celebrate Kathy's birthday.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL6SnjYDHRyLsTDmXwrr8_LPbKJhJe2IKMDf6B2hvfrkPscUxHSVD3b00ICQiMNk8y_fj3GFL8OAGd5PcokazoTpZyUwjb85NSsIu8a29OEvPRplnSMn8jO9R6lhW3ML07uugoyYxX7XQ/s1600/Meg's+photos+130edit.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 146px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL6SnjYDHRyLsTDmXwrr8_LPbKJhJe2IKMDf6B2hvfrkPscUxHSVD3b00ICQiMNk8y_fj3GFL8OAGd5PcokazoTpZyUwjb85NSsIu8a29OEvPRplnSMn8jO9R6lhW3ML07uugoyYxX7XQ/s200/Meg's+photos+130edit.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532817368078039906" border="0" /></a></div> Ridiculous wigs, wild dancing, and exaggerated storytelling filled the night. A bowl of stew mysteriously appeared in front of me late in the evening, and I can recall through the murkiness of my alcohol infused memories how deliciously salty the hot hot veggies were. God bless women who know how to cook-Thank you Tracy!<br /></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioti5GmfoZH23PMyHT1KqsxHdDtQ4MmsMeEUvzz8Rwq4ssBlOaW7KNXF-RTMKnZemSOvrDqg1o8qS4QqRS8gJX9Uwsf1ZZXMGbUXkstVMaO0mXW7bqgXzjJmoxz3mCvAYYbH5ld-FV3oc/s1600/Meg's+photos+267.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioti5GmfoZH23PMyHT1KqsxHdDtQ4MmsMeEUvzz8Rwq4ssBlOaW7KNXF-RTMKnZemSOvrDqg1o8qS4QqRS8gJX9Uwsf1ZZXMGbUXkstVMaO0mXW7bqgXzjJmoxz3mCvAYYbH5ld-FV3oc/s200/Meg's+photos+267.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5533512569669873154" border="0" /></a></div><div>I woke the next morning wearing Wendy's silk leopard print PJ's, crashed on the sofa with Chopper the dog pawing at my forearms. Simply said, I was not at my best. My mood improved slightly when Sabrina cooked me up a cheesy omlette for breakfast. We worked on various arts and crafts projects throughout the morning, then headed over to my cousin Mike's place for a Saturday night shindig. Folks in the Maritimes definitely seem to enjoy their weekends. Guitars were pulled out and songs were sung. Somewhere abouts midnight Mike decided it was time to get to work making donairs for everybody-the kitchen morphing into a high efficiency restaurant assembly line and before 1:00am we had all been served up hot pitas filled with spicy donair meat and sweet, creamy sauce. </div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5px5tiWOPOC9HbFZ9luCEzYZGL5vYnd0b-GBzs1WByLnaIwER62pkCC_h1YBjivNzpoeldNvukNIuDLvNO9mk30kz_sGEordRvefRn_tTxVIS38sP6NgEZtsq0a2aaaU3v39_CzT9Jyk/s1600/Meg's+trip+home+322.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5px5tiWOPOC9HbFZ9luCEzYZGL5vYnd0b-GBzs1WByLnaIwER62pkCC_h1YBjivNzpoeldNvukNIuDLvNO9mk30kz_sGEordRvefRn_tTxVIS38sP6NgEZtsq0a2aaaU3v39_CzT9Jyk/s200/Meg's+trip+home+322.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5535805729493621090" border="0" /></a> Throughout the course of the week, I began to realize more and more how much I was going to miss these dear folks on the east coast when I headed back west. This thought really hit home when I departed from the train station for Montreal. To my delight and surprise, thirteen, <span style="font-style: italic;">yes thirteen, </span>people had gathered there to see me off. I've never had a sendoff of more than two people back home, so this all felt pretty special to me. I liked being part of a merry crowd. I guess I felt accepted and loved, and I think that's all one can really ask for in life. After we said our farewells and shared our hugs, I passed my ticket to the attendant and climbed up the stairs of the train. As the train pulled out of the station and chugged off toward Montreal, I looked back to see a crowd of relatives and friends under the dim streetlight; a mass of smiling faces all waving and snapping pictures from the platform. <span style="font-style: italic;">Good bye Bathurst! I'll be back, someday.</span><br /></div></div>megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03687031759616638202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606751562252422498.post-46423095426861832102010-10-20T08:44:00.000-07:002010-10-26T12:46:07.238-07:00Back on the Mainland<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd5Lp7b724PBgjG7oyk6mj5oBjsp8PnG1U5_VPw0IqGm9qeILpFJW3VrB1Z1rtMHeDrAkMLAIAx66orYtXsu1Szm8LLKSJQJcH0XrvXpjh0_pV5KvjuKROGrAKMC3tbU_hn3-uMb77HbU/s1600/Meg's+photos+025.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjd5Lp7b724PBgjG7oyk6mj5oBjsp8PnG1U5_VPw0IqGm9qeILpFJW3VrB1Z1rtMHeDrAkMLAIAx66orYtXsu1Szm8LLKSJQJcH0XrvXpjh0_pV5KvjuKROGrAKMC3tbU_hn3-uMb77HbU/s200/Meg's+photos+025.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532429643383403122" /></a><i>October 9th</i>: When the ferry finally hit the port of North Sydney on Saturday morning, I was exhausted. The crossing was rough, the North Atlantic waves rocking the vessel starboard to port side throughout the blackness of night. Too cheap to spring for a cabin or dorm bed, I spent much of the night trying to arrange my body in a comfortable position within the restriction of the lounge seat. Marine Atlantic has this ridiculous rule about passengers not being permitted to sleep on the floor; they say it's not safe and hygienic or something. Of course, I'm sure it's just a ploy to get passengers to throw down the extra cash for the sleeper cabin upgrade. The ferry does, however, provide free shower facilities, which I took advantage of.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfiYUjIQSkQDSnx0t0GV9ae8_-ant9UEzvHQSYqzN0R3Ja1TpEQ09FN7oYibEMOgibZu_dDJ2I1q1RBdhqLyWp1d8yayUzQO9stS3zxq1Nux-_SkUwRBNPbgQPkmc4uvb9oLMeo24vohA/s1600/Meg's+photos+060.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfiYUjIQSkQDSnx0t0GV9ae8_-ant9UEzvHQSYqzN0R3Ja1TpEQ09FN7oYibEMOgibZu_dDJ2I1q1RBdhqLyWp1d8yayUzQO9stS3zxq1Nux-_SkUwRBNPbgQPkmc4uvb9oLMeo24vohA/s200/Meg's+photos+060.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532428246059936322" /></a>When we unloaded the vessel, the foot passengers were transfered off the boat via a shuttle bus. We were a tired and grumpy lot, probably because we'd waited an extra 5 hours for the ferry to depart and then the sailing was an hour or two longer than usual due to rough seas. Just before we made it to the terminal, a customer service representitive boarded the shuttle, apologising profusely for the delays, then announcing that the checked baggage had, unfortunately, failed to make it on the sailing. <span style="font-style: italic;">C'mon Marine Atlantic! </span>The shuttle, full of already disgruntled passengers, was in an uproar. Me? I was to tired to do anything but sigh and wish that I hadn't abandoned my bike in St. John's, because if I still had my bike I wouldn't have checked my baggage, therefor I would still have all my belongings with me.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDOuXEvcMgPxKMwbl8E9yPAXCNsIu1Mz-TIutLWGF0uubJ85v_vvve66aoL_d9hpxQOGzt2fQokficG1FYXZcdkuaxpYUeHlIajjKZryhRyjNeYfIbKuGbtsIUpdbF3JaIMkrea9KVe0I/s1600/Meg's+photos+210.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDOuXEvcMgPxKMwbl8E9yPAXCNsIu1Mz-TIutLWGF0uubJ85v_vvve66aoL_d9hpxQOGzt2fQokficG1FYXZcdkuaxpYUeHlIajjKZryhRyjNeYfIbKuGbtsIUpdbF3JaIMkrea9KVe0I/s200/Meg's+photos+210.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532428242544420258" /></a>So I filled out a form, marking down <i>Antigonish</i> for baggage destination. Marine Atlantic promised to send my luggage along on the evening bus, but I wasn't overly hopeful that I would be seeing my belongings anytime soon. As it turns out, I didn't regain possession of my bags for another four days, meaning that I had to borrow clothes and rely on kindness of donors (thanks Rachel and Wendy!) for the time being.<div><br /></div><div>If you check out my entry <span style="font-style: italic;">Rainy Days in Antigonish (September)</span>, you'll see why I was keen to visit this north coast Nova Scotian university town again. Rachel, a free-spirited girl from the organic bakery and her family had taken me in last month when the weather turned foul. I spent a couple of days hanging around the house, getting to know her mother Dolna, father David, and brother Julian. There's few things I love more in this world than reunions with old friends, or people that I hardly know but wish I could know better, so I planned to drop by and see the Garbarys one last time on my way to New Brunswick for Thanksgiving.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLiR96N0I1HZiDXEK-KvikDRdo8uFoHqfRPI4jfrzO2sCI6HWQqc9EZhpEK5cq-vP0fFDoGjzzJNLPCnk-9xOEmvvTNIAPob8lGXk1HdFvNfBoGx-JwgnT_byukiMR8yhyphenhyphenJ2aXN87PUrA/s1600/Meg's+photos+075.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLiR96N0I1HZiDXEK-KvikDRdo8uFoHqfRPI4jfrzO2sCI6HWQqc9EZhpEK5cq-vP0fFDoGjzzJNLPCnk-9xOEmvvTNIAPob8lGXk1HdFvNfBoGx-JwgnT_byukiMR8yhyphenhyphenJ2aXN87PUrA/s200/Meg's+photos+075.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532429652742787122" /></a></div><div>With my handlebar bag slung over my shoulder and my sleeping bag tucked under my arm, I headed out toward the highway to hitch a ride. On route, I was accosted by a shuttle bus driver who promised to get me to Antigonish before three, and it <span style="font-style: italic;">"wouldn't cost too much"</span>. Now, if there is one thing that I've learned from backpacking southeast asia, it's that you should never, <i>EVER</i> board a vehicle prior to negotiating the fare. But at this point, my mind was impaired by exhaustion in such a way that I was incapable of making thought out decisions, so I merely shrugged my shoulders in agreement and let him hustle me into the crammed minivan with all the other human sardines. Bad decision.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdQMxUwa4EVbmt12ogsyWKQXMbLXdDobiLepLo1FWj4mxCGg5mxI78lcOoUNjHUtZpVlh-cdWX71pPfN7WEiQKHflv68XB55vy5dkR8lpxBVHxEVFKkpZvjiXDf3cY0bjyCvvu_JuTfKA/s1600/Meg's+photos+207.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdQMxUwa4EVbmt12ogsyWKQXMbLXdDobiLepLo1FWj4mxCGg5mxI78lcOoUNjHUtZpVlh-cdWX71pPfN7WEiQKHflv68XB55vy5dkR8lpxBVHxEVFKkpZvjiXDf3cY0bjyCvvu_JuTfKA/s200/Meg's+photos+207.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532428231050744706" /></a>I hate shuttle buses. The air-conditioning never works, the music usually blows, and I always seem to get stuck with a middle seat. It was a scenic, but altogether unpleasant ride through Nova Scotia, with eight of us in a seven passenger van. When it came time for me to exit in Antigonish, the driver dropped me off at Tim Hortons because he didn't know the location of the address I gave him, then declared that I owed him $60 for the ride. The conversation which followed went something like this:<br /><br />me: <span style="font-style: italic;">"sixty bucks? That's a lot of money! That's, like, my food budget for the week! I don't even have that much cash!"</span><br />driver: <span style="font-style: italic;">"hmmm, well how much do you have?" </span><br />me, pulling out my wallet, and counting my bills, the driver leaning over to make sure I wasn't missing anything: <span style="font-style: italic;">"$55, I only have 55 dollars"</span><br />driver: <span style="font-style: italic;">"Well, $50 is fine. It's a good deal; that's what you'd pay on the bus"</span> (and I googled this later; because I'm a student, or have a student ID, it would only cost me $37)<br />me: "<span style="font-style: italic;">hmmm, well if I hitchhiked I wouldn't have paid a cent...so it's not that good of a deal for me, is it?"</span><br />driver (with his palm extended): <span style="font-style: italic;">"$50 dollars"</span><br />me: <span style="font-style: italic;">"I'm not giving you all my money. How about $40? That's fair."</span><br />driver: <span style="font-style: italic;">"How about $50, Miss"</span> (said as a statement, not a question. I think he was getting tired of my incessant bartering)<br />me, and by this point, I'm not too impressed with this shady little shuttle bus driver who doesn't inform passengers of the fare before boarding: <span style="font-style: italic;">"Listen sir, you had seven passengers in a six passenger van; I could report you. How about $40."</span> (also a statement)<br />driver: <i>"fine."</i><br /><br />So we both stormed off, me feeling slightly victorious but still wishing I hitchhiked and saved myself the forty bucks. I can almost guarantee the ride would have been more comfortable than inside that crammed, stuffy shuttle.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCgPyHc0EngJyfFy0Voke4DD9AbRXhWfNCMcods2xbfo1ohOnF0GylEsT8sMwLZcfVKTLB3DGPZ2s7ZxVlG7cu04XgzLFXNdhz4VxcZ0qk8UYJE5utlovA5_bLJd8lH7p8HSU0rfGv9lY/s1600/Meg's+photos+021.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCgPyHc0EngJyfFy0Voke4DD9AbRXhWfNCMcods2xbfo1ohOnF0GylEsT8sMwLZcfVKTLB3DGPZ2s7ZxVlG7cu04XgzLFXNdhz4VxcZ0qk8UYJE5utlovA5_bLJd8lH7p8HSU0rfGv9lY/s200/Meg's+photos+021.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5532429638583587218" /></a>I walked up to the Garbary place around 3:15 in the afternoon, admiring the magnificence and splendor of the fall maples as I went. Inside, their kitchen was alive with the bustling of bodies and the scents of Thanksiving dinner preparation-Dolna with half a dozen tasks on the go and Julian baking up pecan pies. The stress from the past 24 hours faded away, and I was happy to be at a home, even if it was someone elses. David served me up some of their fresh veggie stew, and I ate for what I realized was the first time since I woke up that morning.</div><div><br /></div><div>We spent the rest of the evening in the kitchen prepping squash and pies for the following day, cooking up a harvest feast for dinner, and chatting about all the little things that make up life. Late at night, Dolna tried to teach me the ways of the Cryptic Crossword, but I was too tired to follow. I crashed on the sofa bed, comfortable in Rachel's baggy purple tie-dye pants.<br /></div>megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03687031759616638202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606751562252422498.post-70176956215843539822010-10-19T08:15:00.001-07:002010-10-20T07:53:56.968-07:00Hitchhiking off the Rock (Part 2)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTPXX3oTtUBJnxQn-g-j8qsuKY61KKvZUYH_LFe_-L3xymoGS3GhEDWUt4dA2w3GoXpvQcvllhoBBIr-dV4k53t753VvPdDRAdkBvA82uHdDMdLRwgS3IvCCT-iuip7lEBwB9vA1fhv7E/s1600/IMG_5620%5B1%5D"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTPXX3oTtUBJnxQn-g-j8qsuKY61KKvZUYH_LFe_-L3xymoGS3GhEDWUt4dA2w3GoXpvQcvllhoBBIr-dV4k53t753VvPdDRAdkBvA82uHdDMdLRwgS3IvCCT-iuip7lEBwB9vA1fhv7E/s200/IMG_5620%5B1%5D" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529804034573301330" border="0" /></a>I forgot to mention that the my journey off Newfoundland was bound by a certain time constraint: I desperately wanted to make it to Bathurst, New Brunswick, for Thanksgiving. After spending time on the road, I was beginning to feel a longing for familiar places and faces, and so I knew if I could make it to my Auntie Rita's place in New Brunswick I would be all good.<br /><br />So the truck driver Larry gave me a lift all the way to Deer Lake; a town which lies only a few hours from the ferry terminal in Port aux Basques. By the time we got to our destination, the world was dark and it was raining pretty hard. Larry kindly dropped me off at the Irving Bigstop, an sizable gas station/truck stop/diner complex on the side of the highway. Parked in the vacant gravel lot behind the garage were a couple dozen big rigs. Larry figured I could sleep in the back lounge (a spacious room outfitted with sofas, payphones, and a tv) until morning then find a driver going to Port aux Basques. I figured I could do better than that: I hauled my bags into the lounge, pulled out the rabbit-eared phone book, and looked up my old friend Edna's number. After all, she said to give her a visit if I was ever in town again...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdmq9dK0T02oUrm8jqbJxfPq4hdVyF18L9EDXHqDJfJe-8NgvIMsa4D2-Orat4mS6LfXiLkGejTaKGGVogO6zHHW-VKjDGcR6mYjv6PcanBWiaVJkqbZaiA-jEtyFJWfaB45I4nuFkiYU/s1600/IMG_5629%5B1%5D"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdmq9dK0T02oUrm8jqbJxfPq4hdVyF18L9EDXHqDJfJe-8NgvIMsa4D2-Orat4mS6LfXiLkGejTaKGGVogO6zHHW-VKjDGcR6mYjv6PcanBWiaVJkqbZaiA-jEtyFJWfaB45I4nuFkiYU/s200/IMG_5629%5B1%5D" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529802856600548754" border="0" /></a>I first met Edna when I appeared on her 'bridge' on my second day on the rock, querying if I could spend the night in her yard. Conversation flowed as easily as the tea we poured, and I ended up back at her place around sunset a couple nights later when I was returning from my adventure through the mountains of Gros Morne national park. A little surprised to hear from me at 9:15 on stormy Thursday night, Edna came in her husband's big blue pickup truck to pick me up. By 9:30 I was drinking tea and watching the hockey game with Edna, her husband, and their friend Eddy. During the commercial breaks I shared with them my wild escapades over Newfoundland landscape, stopping abruptly when the puck hit the ice and then taking off again with a gusto once the ads resumed. I slept soundly, tucked under a hand stitched quilt in the basement, the dull roar of the furnace in the next room lulling me to sleep. Waaaaaaay better than a night at an Irving Bigstop.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5xcUdKYT6rRLWUDuwfI-QTpyp0jqgc7bw8HIbrZVPOaUaseZpqBVo3J5YCVQw6KncTG28xaRDpXqGRgVoE6axCX1FprkXnK1bFYRSQoRrHjxcy0-C6t6Ik1WwJyUz5UE0bJ0ecKXlCSA/s1600/IMG_4403%5B1%5D"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5xcUdKYT6rRLWUDuwfI-QTpyp0jqgc7bw8HIbrZVPOaUaseZpqBVo3J5YCVQw6KncTG28xaRDpXqGRgVoE6axCX1FprkXnK1bFYRSQoRrHjxcy0-C6t6Ik1WwJyUz5UE0bJ0ecKXlCSA/s200/IMG_4403%5B1%5D" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529802851724178834" border="0" /></a>The next morning Edna and I drank three cups of tea before she dropped me back off at the gas station on her way into town. My plan was to find another lift with a trucker, putting me in Port aux Basques with time to kill before the evening ferry. I began to ask around (btw: it does feel weird to wander up to burly men in lumberjack shirts and boots, strike up conversation, then ask for a lift. But, like all things in life, after a few runs it becomes normalized), and quickly learned that the trucks were parked behind the station first, because of high winds in the Wreckhouse, and secondly because the ferry schedule was out of wack. Rough seas and two out of four boats in the service yard totally threw off the scheduled sailing, and most of these trucks were going to be parked at the Irving for quite some time.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilGVG2DIiCO46AWcXNGHv50dx6pWhWQv5II4Z9d5USAyr_v7WGzHJqaSRiXIRi9EBRzetw0MnGHRA0bLMkymb7x9EBw6vlnIFMdTqIltbdKqaN6LqyE2a5aXAd05m_cWg7NbpSMlDtIC4/s1600/IMG_5623%5B1%5D"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilGVG2DIiCO46AWcXNGHv50dx6pWhWQv5II4Z9d5USAyr_v7WGzHJqaSRiXIRi9EBRzetw0MnGHRA0bLMkymb7x9EBw6vlnIFMdTqIltbdKqaN6LqyE2a5aXAd05m_cWg7NbpSMlDtIC4/s200/IMG_5623%5B1%5D" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529804039736058178" border="0" /></a>Realizing that none of these guys were going anywhere today, I bought a $1.24 coffee and strode across the road to thumb a ride. A couple of young fellas in over sized hoodies wandered past me, half halfheartedly leaning their thumbs out toward the passing highway traffic. I was picked up in 10-15 minutes by a fellow named Jerry driving a Honda with black leather interior. It turns out he was mayor of a small town not too far from Deer Lake, and although he was only going to Cornerbrook, I welcomed the ride. The scenery on this section of the journey was spectacular; gigantic rock cuts, smooth blue lake water, and the fiery colours of fall maples. We listened to Newfoundland music and talked all the way to Cornerbrook, where we stopped at Timmy's for more coffee, and Jerry hooked me up with a bus ticket to Port aux Basques. It seemed like my lucky day :)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEYq7CBHbF0M_WmV-Xuo7J5u4XuIqwr-aqKrD4NQ_A5HEi8Lrh9shy3nyx4TdFhyphenhyphensDVGMDrPhHdsHMWDbg-ulS9dSS1FHl9-zjf-KHrPkTriD9IRVfwy2vyJqDAFyD9OuODjhayvLsE-Q/s1600/IMG_5489%5B1%5D"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEYq7CBHbF0M_WmV-Xuo7J5u4XuIqwr-aqKrD4NQ_A5HEi8Lrh9shy3nyx4TdFhyphenhyphensDVGMDrPhHdsHMWDbg-ulS9dSS1FHl9-zjf-KHrPkTriD9IRVfwy2vyJqDAFyD9OuODjhayvLsE-Q/s200/IMG_5489%5B1%5D" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5529802839874778002" border="0" /></a>The hitch was that the bus didn't leave until five pm, and it was hardly noon. Jerry dropped me off at the Plaza (a shopping mall way up on the hill), not far from the bus terminal. I abhor shopping malls. And after spending so much time surrounded by the fantastic wonders of nature, I find my repugnance towards such an artificial setting has grown. But, I figured that spending an afternoon in this deplorable place was a sufficient trade off for a free bus ticket. So I took up residence on a wooden bench not far from the entrance and commenced to make bracelets, read Farley Mowat, and write in my journal for the duration of the afternoon. I felt like a hobo; my bags strewn out on the floor beside me and my lunch spread across the bench. I had a few random conversations with the elderly, and was rescued by Jerry who stopped by after his meeting to take me sightseeing around the bay before dropping me off at the bus depot. The bus was filled with college kids traveling back to the mainland for the long weekend, and it was an hour late.<br /><br />A few hours later we exited the bus at the terminal. When I bought my ticket for the ferry, I was informed that the boat was going to be a couple hours late as well: instead of the 10:30pm scheduled departure time, it was to leave at 1:00am. Unfortunately, the boat failed to depart berth before 3:30am, giving me plenty of time to descend into madness as I waited in the florescent lit terminal.megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03687031759616638202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606751562252422498.post-56771508686383229962010-10-13T17:48:00.000-07:002011-03-03T21:53:11.838-08:00Hitchhiking off the Rock (Part One)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR6FgMLZcY0CVMhnpVDJfcIRmXDVgpiW-Xsphye5C0o3v4ndsorbDPaVaaD-CRJC0BzyEL6z2lqywGKy189quVat53-ieBOa11Yt7z8i_DOYtOYrPWF1EBOw6pRXwHVe9gvwuw1ExxCoU/s1600/965.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527737549236615682" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR6FgMLZcY0CVMhnpVDJfcIRmXDVgpiW-Xsphye5C0o3v4ndsorbDPaVaaD-CRJC0BzyEL6z2lqywGKy189quVat53-ieBOa11Yt7z8i_DOYtOYrPWF1EBOw6pRXwHVe9gvwuw1ExxCoU/s200/965.JPG" /></a> <div>When I arrived in Cape Spear, I intended only to stay for an hour or so and then ride into St. John's to celebrate my achievement. I was thinking maybe a couple of shots at the bar, some ridiculousness out in the street, and perhaps kissing a codfish or two. Apparently that's something that they do around here. But once at the cape, I just didn't want to leave, and so I loafed around the lighthouse and the barracks and gun emplacements until sunset, then retreated to the community of Blackhead, only a stone's throw from the cape. It was a clear night and my fingers were numb by the time I reached the village. I knocked upon a kind woman's door, and began spouting off my story and queried if I could pass the night in her garden (that seems to be what folks call their yards round these parts). Of course, being a Newfoundlander and possessing the natural curiosity and generosity common to their kind, she invited me in for the night.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXdg-HT8oayXXwEDkY1_mb5G3Wn8omjsGNp4FScSU0vCgLr-sxgbkJ0OamhaE9GBAOxSRUjAaB-FnhKJXlGLKmrn1ldleYmEJyDRJc1ni0tarOPconsDm9HDBiQiE7_hFu_xDpntVyBxA/s1600/926.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 150px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527737551627445586" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXdg-HT8oayXXwEDkY1_mb5G3Wn8omjsGNp4FScSU0vCgLr-sxgbkJ0OamhaE9GBAOxSRUjAaB-FnhKJXlGLKmrn1ldleYmEJyDRJc1ni0tarOPconsDm9HDBiQiE7_hFu_xDpntVyBxA/s200/926.JPG" /></a>Her name was Margaret. Wearing glasses and a friendly smile, she told me that she was a widow, lived on her own, and had a lifelong love of the outdoors and a penchant for last minute travel. So instead of partying it up wildly on George Street or sleeping alone in my tent, I celebrated my arrival by sharing a cup of tea and some chocolate coated biscuits with Margaret and her friend Jerry. Life is so perfectly unpredictable.</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" a="" go="" in="" wrote="" as="" by="" world="" watch="" could="" where="" table="" outside="" from="" cinnamon="" mug="" rewarded="" and="" shop="" coffee="" at="" down="" myself="" plunked="" city="" understanding="" satisfactory="" had="" until="" harbourfront="" around="" looped="" then="" on="" street="" water="" up="" hit="" into="" cruised="" my="" straight="" air="" of="" crispness="" delivered="" that="" breeze="" with="" fall="" perfect="" was="" it="" towards="" route="" hilly="" along="" out="" rode="" i="" before="" breakfast="" to="" me="" treated="" margaret="" morning="" next="" the=""></a><div><a a="" go="" in="" wrote="" as="" by="" world="" watch="" could="" where="" table="" outside="" from="" cinnamon="" mug="" rewarded="" and="" shop="" coffee="" at="" down="" myself="" plunked="" city="" understanding="" satisfactory="" had="" until="" harbourfront="" around="" looped="" then="" street="" water="" up="" hit="" into="" cruised="" my="" straight="" air="" of="" crispness="" delivered="" that="" breeze="" with="" fall="" perfect="" was="" it="" towards="" route="" hilly="" along="" out="" rode="" i="" before="" breakfast="" to="" me="" treated="" margaret="" morning="" next="" the=""></a><div><a a="" go="" in="" wrote="" as="" by="" world="" watch="" could="" where="" table="" outside="" from="" cinnamon="" mug="" rewarded="" and="" shop="" coffee="" at="" down="" myself="" plunked="" city="" understanding="" satisfactory="" had="" until="" harbourfront="" around="" looped="" then="" street="" water="" up="" hit="" into="" cruised="" my="" straight="" air="" of="" crispness="" delivered="" that="" breeze="" with="" fall="" perfect="" was="" it="" towards="" route="" hilly="" along="" out="" rode="" i="" before="" breakfast="" to="" me="" treated="" margaret="" morning="" next="" the="">I spent the day wandering around Signal Hill (birthplace of the first transatlantic wire</a><a a="" go="" in="" wrote="" as="" by="" world="" watch="" could="" where="" table="" outside="" from="" cinnamon="" mug="" rewarded="" and="" shop="" coffee="" at="" down="" myself="" plunked="" city="" understanding="" satisfactory="" had="" until="" harbourfront="" around="" looped="" then="" street="" water="" up="" hit="" into="" cruised="" my="" straight="" air="" of="" crispness="" delivered="" that="" breeze="" with="" fall="" perfect="" was="" it="" towards="" route="" hilly="" along="" out="" rode="" i="" before="" breakfast="" to="" me="" treated="" margaret="" morning="" next="" the=""> <div style="DISPLAY: inline !important">less signal), admiring the brightly painted clapboard houses of the city, and just taking in the fact that this is it: I am here. For someone who's never ventured further east than the Rocky Mountains, that's quite an achievement. </div></a></div></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" a="" go="" in="" wrote="" as="" by="" world="" watch="" could="" where="" table="" outside="" from="" cinnamon="" mug="" rewarded="" and="" shop="" coffee="" at="" down="" myself="" plunked="" city="" understanding="" satisfactory="" had="" until="" harbourfront="" around="" looped="" then="" on="" street="" water="" up="" hit="" into="" cruised="" my="" straight="" air="" of="" crispness="" delivered="" that="" breeze="" with="" fall="" perfect="" was="" it="" towards="" route="" hilly="" along="" out="" rode="" i="" before="" breakfast="" to="" me="" treated="" margaret="" morning="" next="" the=""><br /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ45IfmTl-Si3R_20dtk-GxWtAkJBtDQDkgDZcQkYdX_r2kAcQ1lTzPX9iHqbLqhAAqOPg3N_L86yGvHYuBB1YzacbS92DAquQC4A-CQGo03BEFul0iVk2qfha1dozZ-zaiZjvCBv_5pk/s1600/1008.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527738733930970962" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZ45IfmTl-Si3R_20dtk-GxWtAkJBtDQDkgDZcQkYdX_r2kAcQ1lTzPX9iHqbLqhAAqOPg3N_L86yGvHYuBB1YzacbS92DAquQC4A-CQGo03BEFul0iVk2qfha1dozZ-zaiZjvCBv_5pk/s200/1008.JPG" /></a> I passed that night, and the one which followed, in the home of couchsurfing host Jenn and her fellow room mates: Nicki, Chris and Matthew. Aside from four artsy, zany, totally awesome individuals living together in a funky old house, there was also five cats and a couple of bunnies. I slept in the living room with the floppy eared rabbits; Peter and Big Mama. The sight of these cute carrot crunching creatures took me back to my childhood, and the fond recollections of long afternoons spent on our back lawn with bunnies hopping about, munching on dandelions and leaves of lettuce.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiugDlhL9PB6knc1WxM6wZkbcuKBjRweWvImCONaJ4loSgCYNjG1J1m5bjLQeTzJJMvWggdSqoOlEZRq0YiQjQOVzlREBCW4Tii41832xx0G8AEuO1IcpM3-Cpylpmnt2dTI-8_jqL3nHI/s1600/1011.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527738738675831010" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiugDlhL9PB6knc1WxM6wZkbcuKBjRweWvImCONaJ4loSgCYNjG1J1m5bjLQeTzJJMvWggdSqoOlEZRq0YiQjQOVzlREBCW4Tii41832xx0G8AEuO1IcpM3-Cpylpmnt2dTI-8_jqL3nHI/s200/1011.JPG" /></a> After I arrived in St. John's, I realized that I had to somehow make my way off this enormous mound of rock that has treated me so well for these past couple weeks. I hadn't really given this too much thought, since I was more concerned with making it to my destination than the aftermath involved in departing from it, but quickly decided the best way to make my getaway was to post my bike home and hitchhike off the island. </div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6vKLgegQRLMkoYZ7zcD_AjvzONo_TIurdyTLaBqBf4K1M6p6Eb1hzHjDpmGXFg4HuKal7M1iACqYL2a9QalslXidLwi5nucdsNbfpL6ARYpS7u0sp7MYppm5ySz9xJqktbhEw_hlwoPE/s1600/006.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 150px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5528002855280304434" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6vKLgegQRLMkoYZ7zcD_AjvzONo_TIurdyTLaBqBf4K1M6p6Eb1hzHjDpmGXFg4HuKal7M1iACqYL2a9QalslXidLwi5nucdsNbfpL6ARYpS7u0sp7MYppm5ySz9xJqktbhEw_hlwoPE/s200/006.JPG" /></a> So I traded my panniers in for a brown vintage bag (I don't know how to describe it: it's neither a suitcase nor a duffel bag, and I bought it at the Sally Anne for $3.99) and bought some mittens in case my hands got cold from sticking my thumb out on the side of the highway. Oooooh, and since the thrift store was having a half price sale, I doubled my wardrobe by buying a few kids t-shirts and a retro ski jacket with a pink pop-top collar. And I invested in jeans! Ahh, sweet denim how I've missed you :)</div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" a="" go="" in="" wrote="" as="" by="" world="" watch="" could="" where="" table="" outside="" from="" cinnamon="" mug="" rewarded="" and="" shop="" coffee="" at="" down="" myself="" plunked="" city="" understanding="" satisfactory="" had="" until="" harbourfront="" around="" looped="" then="" on="" street="" water="" up="" hit="" into="" cruised="" my="" straight="" air="" of="" crispness="" delivered="" that="" breeze="" with="" fall="" perfect="" was="" it="" towards="" route="" hilly="" along="" out="" rode="" i="" before="" breakfast="" to="" me="" treated="" margaret="" morning="" next="" the=""><br /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbdKwQsq4h4gWNxn6YAeL5jXxUuiRh5vGj7LBPoWe2eoXeQzfOK5LN4bJqkUZ6yrspjz28UrdOMkaD6gwPdXdt6iFc_eGgTTSjXFskJtBStPKW0HqFYiduinZE8rMM5_MnKuab5mZS00c/s1600/994.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527738728190600274" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbdKwQsq4h4gWNxn6YAeL5jXxUuiRh5vGj7LBPoWe2eoXeQzfOK5LN4bJqkUZ6yrspjz28UrdOMkaD6gwPdXdt6iFc_eGgTTSjXFskJtBStPKW0HqFYiduinZE8rMM5_MnKuab5mZS00c/s200/994.JPG" /></a>While in St. John's I hung out with Jenn and her room mates, drinking espresso and being entertained by the silly peculiarities of our animal friends. Jenn and I went for cheap beers downtown at trivia night in a local pub, and then stayed up late, snacking and chatting in the dim light. The night prior to my departure, the four of us ran wild in the kitchen, preparing what is called a<i> 'cooked meal</i>'. This delightful feast consisted of a plethora of root vegetables (turnip, parsnip, carrots, potato and sweet potato), seasoned and cooked up in a big ol' pot with a delightful amount of garlic and onion. Since the house was composed of vegetarians/vegans, we cooked up a tofurky (my first!) and stirred up some veggie gravy. A variety of puddings, pickles, and pickled beets accompanied the meal. I was in heaven, once again surrounded by awesome folks and delicious food. Desert was apple crumble paired with vanilla ice cream. Then we strode off to The Rooms; St. John's art gallery/museum/archives, which happened to be free that evening.</div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhINvoUXo9aNM_rogFky11NXlOsT4Rqog5ubS4SbykskmQR37dKHhGrtlqr4wwjlnhrrxzeXYCjIzxhKi7oWDOh807VInpwqTEU5DrXjLAD26JznajIjMJIsR5PTcva_s-ddpJ4Ja1XhH0/s1600/984.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 150px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527738724536379362" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhINvoUXo9aNM_rogFky11NXlOsT4Rqog5ubS4SbykskmQR37dKHhGrtlqr4wwjlnhrrxzeXYCjIzxhKi7oWDOh807VInpwqTEU5DrXjLAD26JznajIjMJIsR5PTcva_s-ddpJ4Ja1XhH0/s200/984.JPG" /></a><br />So with the artistic expertise of Jenn and her room mates, I made a sign with green and black sharpie marker on cardboard advertising my destination, "PORT AUX BASQUES!". Decked out in my stylin'<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" a="" go="" in="" wrote="" as="" by="" world="" watch="" could="" where="" table="" outside="" from="" cinnamon="" mug="" rewarded="" and="" shop="" coffee="" at="" down="" myself="" plunked="" city="" understanding="" satisfactory="" had="" until="" harbourfront="" around="" looped="" then="" on="" street="" water="" up="" hit="" into="" cruised="" my="" straight="" air="" of="" crispness="" delivered="" that="" breeze="" with="" fall="" perfect="" was="" it="" towards="" route="" hilly="" along="" out="" rode="" i="" before="" breakfast="" to="" me="" treated="" margaret="" morning="" next="" the=""> <div style="DISPLAY: inline !important">ski jacket and new jeans I took this said sign, as well as my brown bag of belongings, and headed out towards the highway. My first ride was from a taxi driver, who took me to the outskirts of town. I gave him a hug and an apple for his unpaid efforts, and I'm pretty sure he thought I was nuts.</div></a></div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbJ2A9o2Ph1CF8XkMqb9r3Wyne-LMzyS_3GGtVYQ-yZsyFHNt65wN5IEJo3lySCb296Ya_RIBunxJc7wkfnJdsWRGKohJg-WuNNHaHI3w8krbEwzadt3RmZDUUFejme2Cf39dH-5uEvmk/s1600/004.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5528002845572846146" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbJ2A9o2Ph1CF8XkMqb9r3Wyne-LMzyS_3GGtVYQ-yZsyFHNt65wN5IEJo3lySCb296Ya_RIBunxJc7wkfnJdsWRGKohJg-WuNNHaHI3w8krbEwzadt3RmZDUUFejme2Cf39dH-5uEvmk/s200/004.JPG" /></a> My next ride was from a young guy with a pickup truck. He took me a little farther out of town, to Conception Bay South, and then tried to unload his bag of groceries on me. Sigh, I'm definitely going to miss this Newfie hospitality. So after I convinced him that I didn't have room for his cereal and spaghetti-os, I strolled into the Irving truck stop to buy myself a coffee. Only once I had my coffee in hand did I realize I had forgoteen my awesome handcrafted sign in the back of his truck. Bummer, man. I asked around the gas station for a ride going west, but with no luck. So I took up my post on the side of the highway, brown bag by my side, hands tucked inside my teal and white thrift store mittens, right thumb extended towards oncoming traffic.</div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" a="" go="" in="" wrote="" as="" by="" world="" watch="" could="" where="" table="" outside="" from="" cinnamon="" mug="" rewarded="" and="" shop="" coffee="" at="" down="" myself="" plunked="" city="" understanding="" satisfactory="" had="" until="" harbourfront="" around="" looped="" then="" on="" street="" water="" up="" hit="" into="" cruised="" my="" straight="" air="" of="" crispness="" delivered="" that="" breeze="" with="" fall="" perfect="" was="" it="" towards="" route="" hilly="" along="" out="" rode="" i="" before="" breakfast="" to="" me="" treated="" margaret="" morning="" next="" the=""><br /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho0PI3xRLITPp_XThxPsSZffBfNcXwbv_uxSwgw3U8vHHtdDegYbKIxVupw4zPsHejsBtL4oUq-hJpCnuw-hpwFtu7Q6c_4KKgyQjekunLdfh1Gq1QfHx4HL29JccgZ_KQhRwuJGOwI_E/s1600/1016.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527738747241922370" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho0PI3xRLITPp_XThxPsSZffBfNcXwbv_uxSwgw3U8vHHtdDegYbKIxVupw4zPsHejsBtL4oUq-hJpCnuw-hpwFtu7Q6c_4KKgyQjekunLdfh1Gq1QfHx4HL29JccgZ_KQhRwuJGOwI_E/s200/1016.JPG" /></a>The day was deteriorating fast, and what looked like a promising morning was quickly becoming a dark and gloomy afternoon. Luckily, I waited for no more than fifteen minutes before I was picked up by a big rig headed west, going all the way to Deer Lake. I thanked my lucky stars and jumped up into the cab, where I spent the next seven hours with my feet on the dashboard, singing along to old country songs and chatting away with Larry like he was a long lost uncle. Life was good. Every so often I would say, <i>"and that's the spot where I camped on such-and-such date"</i> or<i> "I spent a night with some folks in that there town on the right"</i>. I quickly decided that although I still prefer bikes to motor vehicles, means of transportation with engines do have some noteworthy advantages over self-propelled locomotion. First of all, they get you there fast; what took me a week to cover on bike took less than a day in truck. Secondly, they provide protection against the elements. As the rain pelted down on the windshield, I sipped my coffee and smiled to myself.<br />I was going home :)</div>megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03687031759616638202noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606751562252422498.post-6136958036299952332010-10-11T14:53:00.001-07:002010-10-13T21:21:31.595-07:00Satisfaction<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></i></div>"I think that every Canadian should cross the country at least once; first of all, to appreciate it's vastness. Secondly, to comprehend it's diversity" </span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /><br />-Bob Gardiner, Fox Valley (Saskatchewan)</span><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVwEYokjSyS_HA8e8unx-QpffRXtarq6NEAXwT2oLZKE_YJ46jFqTOH3qYt1xRmccU3zLQ344aJ0l3cxcPe0CJNZIIXhweIx0FxMDN_SabIeoWiQZGucrnMF2iQ6kfLbOYCTYUiXoLRjQ/s1600/843.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVwEYokjSyS_HA8e8unx-QpffRXtarq6NEAXwT2oLZKE_YJ46jFqTOH3qYt1xRmccU3zLQ344aJ0l3cxcPe0CJNZIIXhweIx0FxMDN_SabIeoWiQZGucrnMF2iQ6kfLbOYCTYUiXoLRjQ/s200/843.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527212184571317794" /></a>I made it! October 4th marked the day I reached Cape Spear and ended my bicycle journey through Canada. I've been on the road for a total of 130 days; a time span which exceeds the period of employment for my last <i>six</i> jobs, and all previous relationships with gentlemen. Ha! So, with a commitment to my journey that doesn't necessarily reflect all other arenas of my life, I rode my steel stallion through the gorgeous autumn afternoon, halting only when I reached the limits of the continent.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1XbJzTr_5-SJnWgL8BOAdJnxLNUiwahz7QEpYrXEb6SDfjvfociuPXdNyShRreArH-jQ8P1450LPwjd9f2yUOvtNN40tQdbcjrIK3W5HkBBiOxWplSWDIs7_KrofAZvUAj2gUt1DDroc/s1600/853.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1XbJzTr_5-SJnWgL8BOAdJnxLNUiwahz7QEpYrXEb6SDfjvfociuPXdNyShRreArH-jQ8P1450LPwjd9f2yUOvtNN40tQdbcjrIK3W5HkBBiOxWplSWDIs7_KrofAZvUAj2gUt1DDroc/s200/853.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527212197572747730" /></a><div><div><div><div><div><div>Cape Spear, about 15 km from Newfoundland's capital city of St John's, is the most eastern point in North America, geographically closer to Ireland than the province of Saskatchewan. My journey has taken me though thunderstorms and hurricanes, floods and excruciating heatwaves. I've been tried and tested, and both my bicycle and my soul have proved their worth, holding steadfast to the spirit of adventure. When I rounded the final corner in the road, my ultimate destination appearing before me like the sudden end of a giant roll of carpet, I burst into tears. Even thinking about it now, I still can't find the words to convey the welling and exploding of emotion inside my heart, and I find my eyes become watery. The cape, illuminated splendidly by the late afternoon sun, was more beautiful than I could have fathomed. I rode down the final kilometer of windy road, absorbing the sound of the wild Atlantic waves crashing up against the high rocky shores, my target set on the sight of a lighthouse perched proudly upon a tip of rock jutting out into the sea.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4xlKf_1Z81AQU9n2ggdMkDmzkYXVS1hlg4X_E0_TJdrLi9P6_lfu_JmRfvPZfC6fk9Aei5NH76UR83UPPeeJmguOKwvCBpVjuntmuow1uP6aY_jgmL-vsBfkLp3leu6No0UuApNwHQfg/s1600/862.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4xlKf_1Z81AQU9n2ggdMkDmzkYXVS1hlg4X_E0_TJdrLi9P6_lfu_JmRfvPZfC6fk9Aei5NH76UR83UPPeeJmguOKwvCBpVjuntmuow1uP6aY_jgmL-vsBfkLp3leu6No0UuApNwHQfg/s200/862.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527213887804934834" /></a>It was strange to be alone in such a monumental part of my journey. I sat down at a wooden bench with a view, made up a peanut butter and jam sandwich with the last of my thick sliced bread, and drank my thermos of coffee that I had picked up at Tim Hortons over an hour ago. Of course, I'm never alone very long, and I found myself chatting away excitedly with some gentlemen who were in town for a week long course. </div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn0Yb_5j1uP_GNzuUJALjiOQMMvieWtmNnJoLy-ITedxKCMFn6E1X5KEHsO0bVVgAnjDFYXfdEZBYpMOR5YsILjWDUKr0CKyeJSUiDfnnxzim_bpSqFEGwwytm_bDH66I1JvyTAoMiwaw/s1600/978.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn0Yb_5j1uP_GNzuUJALjiOQMMvieWtmNnJoLy-ITedxKCMFn6E1X5KEHsO0bVVgAnjDFYXfdEZBYpMOR5YsILjWDUKr0CKyeJSUiDfnnxzim_bpSqFEGwwytm_bDH66I1JvyTAoMiwaw/s200/978.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527222078898695746" /></a> Looking at my bike, I couldn't help but be proud of my two wheeled friend; over 10,000 km on this journey and only five flats! Oh the places we've been, the people we've seen, the friends we've made, and the days that will fade into foggy memory. When I look back and think about how I rolled out my front door with my father on that sunny Monday in the end of May, on route to Port Renfrew to dip my foot into the Pacific, it all seems so far away. When people asked where we were going, I would turn my head and jubilantly holler, <i>"Newfoundlaaaaaaaand!"</i> and they would shake their heads, muttering, "<i>you're going the wrong way...". </i>The following day, when I dropped my friend (and by friend I mean bicycle) off at a bike shop on Water Street, to be shipped back to Vancity, I certainly felt uneasy about being without my wheels. Separation anxiety, maybe?</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVqdfkDDPVgvUAd2BpNyL5gouYI81Y9tlaqd-jUogtSN-s0fLsJ26tID0D2-YSX-VM5hHi_ZSfeAAL87JEwl7ImRm36LiWWoPA_OvBAIwXYVcFwxEoDQXywcsb6VFX0dP0jMPxfkf4hDE/s1600/913.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVqdfkDDPVgvUAd2BpNyL5gouYI81Y9tlaqd-jUogtSN-s0fLsJ26tID0D2-YSX-VM5hHi_ZSfeAAL87JEwl7ImRm36LiWWoPA_OvBAIwXYVcFwxEoDQXywcsb6VFX0dP0jMPxfkf4hDE/s200/913.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527213876522577282" /></a>For me, traveling is always a transformative experience. I thrive when I'm on the road; hours of the day slipping away as I pedal forward on the smooth pavement, surrounded by an ever changing landscape of incomprehensible beauty and my only concerns revolving around immediate survival. Food, water, shelter, swimming (which doubles as showering), and companionship are my only real needs. I think when I'm focused solely on living and the pursuit of pleasure, without the overwhelming burden of society's technical mumbo jumbo to weigh me down, I'm more <i>me</i>. I feel that each day I go without watching TV, using the internet, setting my alarm clock or using a microwave, I become a bit more real and a little more human. I've found I've been able to gain a better understanding of who I am and what I truly desire in life. I suppose the new challenge that I'll face is to bring the self-awareness and enthusiasm that I've found and nurtured on the open road into my everyday life, wherever I am at.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0EwCJMhcdlP99mDviDOt68GcD9uokYBEvaOP0qj3RP_s941tSSSCIHs0VABQNxvtNxCn4FnlZ87yACIlM1Tx9cmo7U8JY-2o-zRIKq8DwzLnYx8k9qegBYs5gR-RCmV5vAiCXB9w_Z7g/s1600/868.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0EwCJMhcdlP99mDviDOt68GcD9uokYBEvaOP0qj3RP_s941tSSSCIHs0VABQNxvtNxCn4FnlZ87yACIlM1Tx9cmo7U8JY-2o-zRIKq8DwzLnYx8k9qegBYs5gR-RCmV5vAiCXB9w_Z7g/s200/868.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527213861810677138" /></a>I'm not going to say that I despise the conveniences of our modern world entirely, but I know that I'm happier and healthier without them at my fingertips. I'm going to miss pulling over on the side of the road to pee in the bushes, stopping in roadside diners with greasy breakfasts and coffee refills as far as the eye can see. I'm going to miss the nightly entertainment of the sun set, and the waking glow of the early morning light on my tent. Most of all, I'm going to miss rising each morning with a giddy feeling bubbling up in my stomach and the knowledge that I have<i> no idea</i> what it going to happen throughout the course of the day. </div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3YmTTGCWGrXBC8Sss8z4G-1juYqZRp2FNdswyFLgTNVd4SQLoSg4nr_BJyg5IxE7rD7tJYHvXmz2awwEjNVyRWOGI_UlCa6u65eKDf6_Kr3jYa4D_B1E-IqH0fyWIbNOdrnV0QyCt2xs/s1600/431.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3YmTTGCWGrXBC8Sss8z4G-1juYqZRp2FNdswyFLgTNVd4SQLoSg4nr_BJyg5IxE7rD7tJYHvXmz2awwEjNVyRWOGI_UlCa6u65eKDf6_Kr3jYa4D_B1E-IqH0fyWIbNOdrnV0QyCt2xs/s200/431.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527198232505379666" /></a></div><div>So what have I learned over the past few months? That hopes and dreams can be achieved through daily perseverance. That each day brings new surprises. That the unknown possibilities of the world will simultaneously amaze and terrify me for as long as I continue to roam. I've learned that Canada is an awesome country; a place of outstanding natural beauty, overwhelming geographic diversity, pulsating urban communities, and open-hearted people. I realize that family, friends, and food are more valuable than gold. I've come to see my body as my most prized possession, and vow never again to take for granted such a beautiful and fantastic thing. Without it, this adventure wouldn't be possible.</div></div></div></div></div></div></div>megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03687031759616638202noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606751562252422498.post-71696166725991984462010-10-06T19:46:00.000-07:002010-10-13T18:21:09.295-07:00Brooks and ponds and canned milk, oh my!I love the language of Newfoundland;<img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TK1TbwGT69I/AAAAAAAAEUA/tm4I12Gf3XU/s200/carnation-milk.jpg" style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525164054086413266" border="0" /><div>a brook is a stream<br />a pond is a lake<br />a bridge is a deck<br />and canned milk is the norm for tea and coffee (I was told this was because fresh milk used to be impossible to ship to the island since it went sour so quickly. Thus, evaporated canned milk became the norm.)<br />People also tend speak a bit faster than I'm used to, and drop the <span style="font-style: italic;">'g'</span>. So you could be fishin', swimmin', playin', eatin', drinkin', or cookin'.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDycNjd06UGAE9OeB3Rq77V2ZLg_CbpKQLzts_pDpgIBwlzLNmreDXa2WLmh7gsWuYlzRgWuJ3BrccAxMblGYOzD1ZJnCrf-_0q_X0tinYPCHxbGevcCwbXk0tHnziwtu7UDkyUBprBA0/s1600/770.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDycNjd06UGAE9OeB3Rq77V2ZLg_CbpKQLzts_pDpgIBwlzLNmreDXa2WLmh7gsWuYlzRgWuJ3BrccAxMblGYOzD1ZJnCrf-_0q_X0tinYPCHxbGevcCwbXk0tHnziwtu7UDkyUBprBA0/s200/770.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527215760364850786" /></a><br />I also dig the whimsical and lyrical nature</div><div> of the place names: Heart's Delight, Come by Chance, Good Adventure, Tickle Harbour, Little Bay, Chapel's Cove, Harbour Grace, the list goes on! There are places that sound a little </div><div>more ominous, like <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Deadman's</span> Cove, or a perhaps even slightly risque, like Dildo. If one were to ask me what a dildo was, my answer certainly wouldn't be <span style="font-style: italic;">"a place on Trinity Bay in Newfoundland", </span>but it's right there on the map. The name was <span style="font-style: italic;">so good</span> that they even christened a town South Dildo. Who would have thunk it?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNBSQODNNpPjkiiTBrMdvlOJpQDky4YPXKOQ7ChEnCs3GDMIAP7YuU7KTqYD_PJ29HHCZ3Iq15O1FvxUlwKnbdc1vXqqb6zZK0flDTqEE8IiAk3dRHLHDSyBpWs7a4tgdFxrINBT_vw7c/s1600/792.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNBSQODNNpPjkiiTBrMdvlOJpQDky4YPXKOQ7ChEnCs3GDMIAP7YuU7KTqYD_PJ29HHCZ3Iq15O1FvxUlwKnbdc1vXqqb6zZK0flDTqEE8IiAk3dRHLHDSyBpWs7a4tgdFxrINBT_vw7c/s200/792.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527217404142177474" /></a><br />The nature of bike touring enables one to meet various people that one might not bump into otherwise. Take, for instance, Edna: a retired woman in her sixties from Deer Lake. I me</div><div>t Edna on her bridge one night, when I startled her while she was having a smoke with the dog around sunset. I was on my nightly quest to find a place to rest, and she (being the friendly sort) invited me in for a cuppa tea, served with canned milk or course. Edna has short grayish hair and a set of prosthetic hips.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKa43SFCJK-33bq92GI4zoTKWJBcp0Ouqy-rWtkyVYujsgnXmn8d0T-eol8sBkFYTKIoi9wC45XNVYAldqpCbF50tbebM1IEic_d7ZY4gkvFPXD4xPL_T5Wfr2KMFzYcO_cE3GRlqphBA/s1600/646.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKa43SFCJK-33bq92GI4zoTKWJBcp0Ouqy-rWtkyVYujsgnXmn8d0T-eol8sBkFYTKIoi9wC45XNVYAldqpCbF50tbebM1IEic_d7ZY4gkvFPXD4xPL_T5Wfr2KMFzYcO_cE3GRlqphBA/s200/646.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527217395668574482" /></a><br /></div><div>And, she was bad ass. I mean, she didn't take no crap from nobody. If the youngsters were being lippy, or people were taking her hospitality for granted, she laid it down for them in simple terms, then <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">gave'em</span> the boot. She enjoyed her tea and her <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">cigarettes</span>, quilting and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">hand stitching</span>, and talking to her grand daughter on the phone (studying at St. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">FX</span> in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Antigonish</span>) before bed. She liked to use the words "livid" and "savage", like, "Oh, and let me tell you, I was livid! I says to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">meself</span>, 'Edna, you can't let them get away with that! It's savage!'"</div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_ruTeNtT_ZvWHibcmywvbOc2L6y0C4lX5_m3WIbJF2rE18FdD5o3Buqx7qkd7UD5n0ak1OJ7Fo986ua9OexvSXAlX31cuv02mPcG51mS8Y3cn2CgysLo9xH_sRv712nQnz5SdVFwUo5o/s1600/753.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_ruTeNtT_ZvWHibcmywvbOc2L6y0C4lX5_m3WIbJF2rE18FdD5o3Buqx7qkd7UD5n0ak1OJ7Fo986ua9OexvSXAlX31cuv02mPcG51mS8Y3cn2CgysLo9xH_sRv712nQnz5SdVFwUo5o/s200/753.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527217385020685106" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"> Edna cooked me up a trio of fried eggs, made up the basement room, told me to get in the tub and have a nice long soak, then put the kettle on for another cuppa tea. We chatted about this and that, but eventually the conversation took on a somber quality as she described to me her family history of Huntington's disease. It's weird; here's this woman who I hardly know, sharing some really painful, heavy stuff with me at midnight in some town in Newfoundland. I could never have imagined myself being here, at this moment, but yet already I look back on it and realize the richness my experience. Sometimes life isn't all fun and games, and one thing I've heard countless times since I've arrived is, "Well, at least you're above ground" or variations of that theme. I get the impression that people here can put things in perspective a bit better than some of us </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">mainlanders</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">, and realize that however bad things may seem, as long as you aren't buried six feet under things could be a whole lot worse.</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw9RutzLWKmQyF35KIpHVdmjMi20_XinEIa_OakdSYJQPtDM8_ljjSjKwu0Z3FRuuCS8vuYdNEGnyjgTli-1GM-Ep2UvYFFZFsngla183CV4OQCL8b6VbjzdnkGU6Nl-43gDUst5Bg0OE/s1600/711.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw9RutzLWKmQyF35KIpHVdmjMi20_XinEIa_OakdSYJQPtDM8_ljjSjKwu0Z3FRuuCS8vuYdNEGnyjgTli-1GM-Ep2UvYFFZFsngla183CV4OQCL8b6VbjzdnkGU6Nl-43gDUst5Bg0OE/s200/711.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527215754610410098" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">Hmmm, what else have I been up to...pedaling along the </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">TransCanada</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"> for the most part. Enjoying the fall colours, crisp air, and warm cups of coffee at roadside diners. I've met dozens of awesome people, thus contributing to my higher than normal levels of </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">personal </span><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">hygiene</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"> (I remember weeks in Ontario and Quebec when I didn't get a shower, now I shower every other day!) and quality of eating. I've heard the phrase <i>"damn girl, you've got a lot of nerve!"</i> more times than I can count. I don't know if I have nerve, or just some bizarre faith in humanity. I just trust that things will work out alright for me. Why shouldn't they? </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><i><div style="display: inline !important; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">I don't watch the news, so I don't really know what's going on in the world. Stories of murders and drug busts and foreign wars escape my ears when I'm on the road. But what I do know is this: I know I can survive in my tent if temperatures dip below freezing, I know that even in the middle of nowhere I'll still find a stream to fill my water bottles in, and I know that the world is full of interesting characters and beautiful people, and hope that luck and chance will bring me in contact with them.</span></div></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGCUvP86I3_WUTpKbDUR0YdAqqQ1y4J6xssjejbLGxGQrBpDr3RceX9eCjTLuL8TSraJBrRhdKLh71Kg_AeugoGNTat4oxP46F7QQdHOGsuXxPpy4soG8L_MIL0n0GArNaCdr8f3mp21A/s1600/704.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGCUvP86I3_WUTpKbDUR0YdAqqQ1y4J6xssjejbLGxGQrBpDr3RceX9eCjTLuL8TSraJBrRhdKLh71Kg_AeugoGNTat4oxP46F7QQdHOGsuXxPpy4soG8L_MIL0n0GArNaCdr8f3mp21A/s200/704.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527215748231684882" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">So my friend Megan's father John worked with a fellow Don who owns a B&B in </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">Glovertown</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">, just off the </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">TCH</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"> near Terra Nova National Park. I came in </span><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">possession</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"> of this man's address and thus made my way into his home</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"> and his family's life for five days. Ha! They had no idea what they got themselves into (nor did I). Big meals with tasty deserts, boating on the bay, whiskey and sprite, hours of colouring books and crayons, and a more than a few good conversations. Don and his wife Laurie enlightened me to the delights of partridge berry jam, 'fresh fish', and '</span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">couldn's</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">' (food that you couldn't finish last night, so you eat it tonight). Their carrot topped four year old son Steven showed me how to use the washer and dryer, ride an ATV, and operate the toaster. He also made me laugh; spinning around the floor in circles and throwing the words <i>"big </i></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">ol</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i>'"</i> into every other sentence, for example, <i>"and then the quad got stuck in a big' </i></span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">ol</span>' mud puddle!"<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"> or</span> "yeah, they used a big <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">ol</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><i>' tractor to get it out"</i>. It cracked me up.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAc6it-TqLhooOc0zAbrm5dGe1LG99hEzqQB-w2R_TvfpamHCVwq9p5gcTCDytiFjntueqeBZWMMnkVBi8cnf5D1wpTga7qQn4eXID57cVNqbW6T9K0JlCSyNmM1Miu_E-IhR038veQco/s1600/694.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAc6it-TqLhooOc0zAbrm5dGe1LG99hEzqQB-w2R_TvfpamHCVwq9p5gcTCDytiFjntueqeBZWMMnkVBi8cnf5D1wpTga7qQn4eXID57cVNqbW6T9K0JlCSyNmM1Miu_E-IhR038veQco/s200/694.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527215742273247746" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">Since I left Glovertown I've been making my way east, day by day pedaling closer to my ultimate destination of Cape Spear. I spent a night in Deep Bight then a night in Chapel Arm, enjoying fantastic seaside scenery and </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">Newfie</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"> hospitality along the way. I love the </span><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">Atlantic</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">, the wooden lobster traps piled high on wharfs and the feeling of flying down the windy roads reaching into the coves that dot the coastline. I wish I had more time, that autumn wasn't upon us, so I could explore the peninsulas and bays that make up the backbone of Newfoundland culture and livelihood. Life doesn't unfold on the highway; it unfolds in the communities where people live, work, and play. But alas, it's the highway I must follow if I want to arrive in St. John's before the winter sets in.<br /><br />Godspeed!</span></div></i></div><i></i>megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03687031759616638202noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606751562252422498.post-16874419272129475732010-10-04T18:12:00.000-07:002010-10-13T21:24:57.066-07:00National parks and natural beauty<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKsqoJsG_MI/AAAAAAAAES4/A1wONAcj7Vk/s1600/IMG_4847%5B1%5D"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px; float: left; height: 150px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524556237184105666" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKsqoJsG_MI/AAAAAAAAES4/A1wONAcj7Vk/s200/IMG_4847%5B1%5D" border="0" /></a>Newfoundland and Labrador have three national parks, and I cycled through two of them; <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gros</span></span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Morne</span></span> and Terra Nova. The third national park, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Torngat</span></span> Mountains, is rather <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">inaccessible</span>, being located <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">waaaaaaay</span></span> up at the northern tip of Labrador.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKsqnseTZqI/AAAAAAAAESw/LveeEnR5ljg/s1600/IMG_4816%5B1%5D"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px; float: left; height: 150px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524556229341570722" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKsqnseTZqI/AAAAAAAAESw/LveeEnR5ljg/s200/IMG_4816%5B1%5D" border="0" /></a>To get to <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gros</span></span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">Morne</span></span> I had to journey off of the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">TransCanada</span></span> Highway (<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">TCH</span></span>). I pedaled north 70km through <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">mountainous</span> terrain and alongside a fjord to Rocky Harbour, pronounced "<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">RAAcky</span></span> Harbour" by the locals. The ride was <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">spectacular</span> but challenging; I faced off against a ripping headwind the entire way. It was so forceful that I had to pedal not only up, but down the slopes as well. The air was cool and crisp, the clouds peeling away to reveal the blue sky as I reached the harbour.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKsuXAIB4-I/AAAAAAAAETo/_P4lhg1pEMg/s1600/IMG_4851.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px; float: left; height: 150px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524560340605592546" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKsuXAIB4-I/AAAAAAAAETo/_P4lhg1pEMg/s200/IMG_4851.JPG" border="0" /></a>Ask anybody, and they'll tell you: Rocky Harbour is beautiful. I arrived during the Golden Hour, so it was especially brilliant. A large curved bay cut into the mountains, dotted with colourful homes and B&<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">Bs</span></span>. I cruised down to the beach to eat a sandwich and soak up the last of the sun, then I went about finding a home for the evening. I first three doors I tried were unresponsive; I guess no one was home. I continued up the hill scoping out lawns for possible tent pitching spots, and caught the attention of a couple of roofers. We got to talking, and one invited me to pitch my tent on his lawn down by Bakers Brook. The brook was a few kilometers from Rocky Harbour, so I was given directions, ("<em>don't go over the bridge, turn left before it and continue down the path until the water meets the sea. My cabin is the green one, not lime green mind you. Light green.")</em> and set out to find this place. Cyril, the gentleman who called out the directions to me, would meet me at his place after they were done shingling.<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKsr7iqMmqI/AAAAAAAAETU/TKmEJXaKnA4/s1600/IMG_4877.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 150px; float: left; height: 200px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524557669816113826" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKsr7iqMmqI/AAAAAAAAETU/TKmEJXaKnA4/s200/IMG_4877.JPG" border="0" /></a>I arrived at the brook, which was actually in the national park, just as the sun was setting. There was a little wooden sign with the words BAKERS BROOK carved in it, pointing down the path towards a dozen little cabins in various colours. A boat or two leaned up against an old shed, lobster traps stacked outside. It was a windy day and the waves crashed up against the smooth rocks and boulders protruding out of the sand. <em>"where the water meets the sea"</em> was a beautiful place, and I was feeling pretty good about discovering yet another awesome place to camp, for the price of free.<br /><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKsqobWq_zI/AAAAAAAAETA/KPrUIkOBpcI/s1600/IMG_4897%5B1%5D"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px; float: left; height: 150px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524556241926029106" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKsqobWq_zI/AAAAAAAAETA/KPrUIkOBpcI/s200/IMG_4897%5B1%5D" border="0" /></a>I took in the sunset, set up my tent, and ate a tuna <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">sandwich</span>. Cyril (a 50-something fisherman/carpenter/handyman) arrived home from work, started up the wood stove, and invited me in for beer. We spent the night drinking and laughing and telling stories, since it was Friday and Cyril had the following day off. After spending the entire day in the sun and the wind, my face quickly turned an embarrassing tomato shade of red once I warmed up by the fire and had a couple beers. I was happy to be so far from home and find myself sitting at a little wooden table in the company of this friendly fellow with a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">sleaveload</span> of old stories to share and a cooler full of beer.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKsr7ZzE29I/AAAAAAAAETM/aEw83jDxMVE/s1600/IMG_4869.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px; float: left; height: 150px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524557667437435858" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKsr7ZzE29I/AAAAAAAAETM/aEw83jDxMVE/s200/IMG_4869.JPG" border="0" /></a>I came in for toast (with home made jam) and coffee, a couple of fellows dropped in to say good morning, then I took off on my bike for the lighthouse at Lobster Cove. Before long I was pedaling back through <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error">Gros</span></span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-error">Morne</span></span> (this time with a tailwind), reveling at the magnificent mountain scenery once more. I loved gazing up at the mountains and seeing where the tree line <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">vanished</span> and only gray rock remained at the peak. </div><br /><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKsr71XtRqI/AAAAAAAAETc/TGN5ZYunhPo/s1600/IMG_4928.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 150px; float: left; height: 200px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524557674838836898" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKsr71XtRqI/AAAAAAAAETc/TGN5ZYunhPo/s200/IMG_4928.JPG" border="0" /></a>The other national park that I visited, Terra Nova, was right on the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_18" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-error">TCH</span></span>. I was staying with some friends of friends in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_19" class="blsp-spelling-error"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-error">Glovertown</span></span>, just outside of the park, and rode right through Terra Nova on my way to St. John's. Much of the park was closed in the wake of Hurricane Igor; toppled trees and washouts wrecked havoc on the park. By the time I arrived, the washout on the highway were all fixed up, but I was shocked to see all the uprooted trees.<br /><br /></div><div><div>The beauty in Newfoundland isn't limited to the national parks. I've been loving the entire journey a<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKsvax_RjaI/AAAAAAAAETw/DFqI6vAti74/s1600/IMG_4960.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px; float: left; height: 150px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524561505041878434" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKsvax_RjaI/AAAAAAAAETw/DFqI6vAti74/s200/IMG_4960.JPG" border="0" /></a>cross '<i>the rock</i>'. The brooks and ponds, the fiery colours of the fall leaves, and the quaint fishing communities built atop solid rock. It makes for splendid cycling, great lunch spots, and fantastic pictures.</div></div>megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03687031759616638202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606751562252422498.post-85565139998140810922010-09-30T18:08:00.001-07:002011-02-10T21:45:18.184-08:00The Moose Incident<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKkpvlspL9I/AAAAAAAAERY/PFZ3YlynNrk/s1600/IMG_5182%5B1%5D.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523992315496574930" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKkpvlspL9I/AAAAAAAAERY/PFZ3YlynNrk/s200/IMG_5182%5B1%5D.JPG" /></a> I really did want to see a moose. The same way a kid goes to a circus and says, <em>"Daddy, I want to see the elephants!", </em>I wanted to see a moose. All in all, I've been slightly disappointed with Canada's big game on this trip. No mountain goats in the Rockies, no bears in Northern Ontario, and no moose in Newfoundland. Well, I shouldn't say that. My time here hasn't been entirely devoid of moose:<br /><br /><em>Day One:</em> Ate fresh moose steak, fried up with onions. This was at Limbert 's (the hunting guide) place, and it was delicious.<br /><br /><em>Day Two:</em> Saw a couple of fellows riding on an ATV track. They honked and waved cheerfully at me, pointing to the sideways carcass of a freshly shot moose strapped on the back.<br /><br /><em><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKkpvJ_DMiI/AAAAAAAAERQ/ZXQo-3RrsGM/s1600/IMG_4825%5B1%5D.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523992308057584162" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKkpvJ_DMiI/AAAAAAAAERQ/ZXQo-3RrsGM/s200/IMG_4825%5B1%5D.JPG" /></a>Day Three:</em> Cycling towards Gros Morne National Park, I looked upon a cow (female moose) lying in the ditch beside the highway. Since there was no movement, I was able to deduce three things: first of all she was dead, secondly she was killed by a motor vehicle, and lastly she met her demise recently (likely within the last 24 hours) since there was no foul aroma. Morbid as it was, I hopped off my bike and wandered round the poor ol' girl a few times, marveling at her enormous beauty.<br /><br /><em>Day Four: </em>Quartered moose in back of pickup truck spotted at Irving Gas Station.<br /><br />Day<em> Five, AKA, The Moose Incident!</em> <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKkrGl4vTPI/AAAAAAAAER0/qnFWsg29ZUY/s1600/IMG_5002.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 150px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523993810195926258" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKkrGl4vTPI/AAAAAAAAER0/qnFWsg29ZUY/s200/IMG_5002.JPG" /></a><br />Ok, so I was cycling out of Deer Lake on the TCH towards St. John's. Now, for those of you who are not residents of Newfoundland or Labrador, I recommend you take a look on google maps just to see how little settlement there is near the highway. Fact: there are only three cities in Newfoundland. Lots of small towns in between, but most of them are not on the highway<em>, </em>they're on the coastline. So evening was coming and I was still a few km from the next junction, which was still 10 km from the next town. I could have pushed on, except that highway had begun to run alongside a little brook and it was tempting me to come and dip my feet in. So I threw my bike to the side, scrambling down the slope and pushing flimsy birch out of my way until I came out at the bubbling water of Indian Brook.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKkscHGSKuI/AAAAAAAAESQ/_wqh7uxSro8/s1600/IMG_5013.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 150px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523995279399987938" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKkscHGSKuI/AAAAAAAAESQ/_wqh7uxSro8/s200/IMG_5013.JPG" /></a>I took off my shoes and tippie toed into the water (which was freezing), and found a nice flat rock to stand on and watch the twigs float by. Peace and serenity. Once my feet began to loose feeling, I clumsily wobbled out of the water and sat on a fallen truck, my legs dangling. I noted that the tree had been cut down by beavers: the gnaw marks on both the stump and the dettached trunk were pretty obvious. Gazing up through the yellow leaves over my head, I could see the sun was getting pretty low in the sky. By this point, I had wasted enough time to know that if I continued on I'd be racing again time to make it civilization before sunset. But who needs civilization anyways? I love people, but the brook was just calling to me, <em>"meeeeaaaaaggghhhhaannnnnnnn...yoooouuu ccccaaaannn jjjjuuuuuusssst sssslllleeeeeeeepppp oooonnnn mmmyyy ssshhhhooooooooorreee"</em><br /><br />And that's what I did. I wandered back up to my bike and dragged it down the slope<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKkrGEZqQnI/AAAAAAAAERs/ulP--daN884/s1600/IMG_5000.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 150px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523993801207202418" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKkrGEZqQnI/AAAAAAAAERs/ulP--daN884/s200/IMG_5000.JPG" /></a>, finding a nice thick tree to lean it up against. I looked around for a flat spot for my tent, threw it up and unrolled my sleeping map. Then I returned to my fallen birch tree and sat down to read until it the light from the sun faded entirely.<br /><br />That night an icy frost covered the ground, but that's a side note. I noticed that when I set up my tent, the flat spot that I had chosen seemed to be part of a path winding alongside the brook. There was no human refuse, except for an old paddle boat with peeling blue paint and shrubs growing over it. I didn't really think much of this pseudo path with trampled branches, figuring maybe folks used to come down here to fish or something like that. I didn't even consider that maybe, perhaps, the path was created and used by animals, not humans.<br /><br />Tucked into my sleeping bag like a caterpillar, my nose freezing, I fell asleep aroun<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKksb3kx0tI/AAAAAAAAESI/ypaXAm_DhTA/s1600/IMG_5021.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 150px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523995275232924370" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKksb3kx0tI/AAAAAAAAESI/ypaXAm_DhTA/s200/IMG_5021.JPG" /></a>d 8:30pm. I awoke less than an hour later to a loud crashing in the bushes, accompanied by vocal grunting. My senses came back to me one by one, and I soon realized I wasn't dreaming. There was something headed straight for me, and making a whole lot of noise in the process. <em>ggrrrunstn snort snoorrrg huuurng!!</em> Suddenly, I connected the dots and realized that I was probably camped on the creature's path, blocking it's way! Stupid girl. Frozen in place, ears perked up, I listening in horror as the moose (I don't know what else would make this much noise, so I deduced that it was indeed a moose) approached. And, it was rutting season. From what I gather, that means the bulls are roaming around looking for female to ride and other bulls to fight. So here I was alone in the woods with a moose.<br /><br />I sleep with a cannister of bearspray. It's come to replace my stuffed bunny Snowball and my dog <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKkscUSTFFI/AAAAAAAAESY/FoBLNrDJK4Y/s1600/IMG_5005%5B1%5D.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523995282940040274" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKkscUSTFFI/AAAAAAAAESY/FoBLNrDJK4Y/s200/IMG_5005%5B1%5D.JPG" /></a>Rexy. But bearspray doesn't stop a mammal the size of an Volkswagen from stumbling into your tent at night Luckily, I didn't have to worry. The moose stopped short and detoured through the brook around me. I let out a sigh of relieve. Then I made a mistake: I responded to a text from my Mom, asking where I was camped for the night. I tried to think of how I could word my response so that she wouldn't worry, but couldn't come up with much that didn't involve a flat out lie. So I told here the truth, <em>"Hi Mom! I'm camped by this nice little brook...except I think there's a moose out here with me...I hear him crashing around my tent and making a lot of noise. Love you, Meg".</em> Then I went back to sleep.<br /><br />I woke up intermittently to hear grunting and crashing. Needless to say, I didn't sleep as well as I usually do. But no moose antlers came crashing through my tent, so I counted myself lucky. Sometime in the early hours of the morning I woke up to the <em>thwack thwack splash</em> of beaver tails in the brook. I though this was pretty cool. I pulled out my cellphone to see what time it was, and saw a few missed called from my Mom, as well as a series of increasingly concerned text messages. Oh boy... <a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKksbXcfxpI/AAAAAAAAESA/yfv9Q0h0r9s/s1600/IMG_5181.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 150px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523995266608252562" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKksbXcfxpI/AAAAAAAAESA/yfv9Q0h0r9s/s200/IMG_5181.JPG" /></a><br /><br />So I've retracted my wish to see a moose. I don't want to see one anymore. I have any desire to see one dead in a pickup truck or crashing around outside of my tent at night. I'm content to take photos of the moose statues which stand nobly in front of the visitor information centers on the side of the highway.megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03687031759616638202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606751562252422498.post-102617091893108182010-09-30T16:23:00.001-07:002010-10-03T16:39:16.933-07:00Ridin' the Rock<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKUfczaFheI/AAAAAAAAEQQ/f9jBGfG5hQ0/s1600/IMG_4745.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522855097736201698" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKUfczaFheI/AAAAAAAAEQQ/f9jBGfG5hQ0/s200/IMG_4745.JPG" /></a>I rode off the Caribou at 7:30 in the morning on<br />September 22<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">nd</span>, the first day of autumn and the day after Hurricane Igor struck. I had no idea what sort of disaster I was riding into, no map of the island, and no fellow cyclists on the ferry to team up with. I did, however, have an visual image of Newfoundland that I'd been creating in my head for the past year.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKUeyBXD-OI/AAAAAAAAEPo/e_vAYQsZ_Jc/s1600/IMG_4925.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 150px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522854362747238626" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKUeyBXD-OI/AAAAAAAAEPo/e_vAYQsZ_Jc/s200/IMG_4925.JPG" /></a>My sources have mostly been postcards and calender shots, as well as a few pages from this book about Canada that my friends Jackie so thoughtfully presented to me for my 25<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">th</span> birthday. And you know what? The 'rock' was exactly as I imagined it. It's strange to arrive someplace and feel like the landscape is already <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">familiar</span>; like the sneak preview for a movie that was spot on. The only place that I felt a similar <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">dejavu</span> was in Saskatchewan, every other place that I've pedaled through hit me as an unknown territory full of surprises. I mean, there's still plenty of surprises to be found in Newfoundland, but when I pedaled off the ferry and began my way down the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">Transcanada</span> I was comforted by the enourmous mounds of rock, the strange <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">misty</span> bogs, and the brightly coloured houses built on the edge of the sea. I felt as if I was riding into a painting that I'd already seen and fallen in love with long ago.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKUeyia1IRI/AAAAAAAAEPw/wgtdtzeQu0A/s1600/IMG_4952.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 150px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522854371621413138" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKUeyia1IRI/AAAAAAAAEPw/wgtdtzeQu0A/s200/IMG_4952.JPG" /></a>The ferry landed in Port aux Basques, 906km from the capital in St. John's. I turned left and headed through town to see the community wake up before I started my trek eastward. Fathers walking their children out to the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">bus stop</span>, taxis curving round the smouldering corners as they drove people to work, cats wandering in through windows after a night on the prowl. Weather worn faces of fishermen were illuminated in the windows of diners, the line up of vehicles for Timmy's extending well down the main drag. I passed all this and smiled to myself, realizing that I was not going to drown in the washout of Hurricane Igor; life in this part of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">the island</span> continued as per usual. When I picked up my road map at the Visitor's Center I learned that the bulk of the damage was east of Gander: the Avalon Peninsula and throughout the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">Bonavista</span> area were hit pretty hard. But the western half of the province, as well as Labrador, sustained nothing worse than <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">high winds</span> and a few toppled deck chairs.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKUeDXoeLgI/AAAAAAAAEPY/1gUIJNnnsxY/s1600/IMG_5034.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522853561271987714" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKUeDXoeLgI/AAAAAAAAEPY/1gUIJNnnsxY/s200/IMG_5034.JPG" /></a>But it was cold. A biting, sharp coolness attacked my face and knuckles. I <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">shouldn't</span> have been surprised, since practically everyone on the mainland had warned me that Newfoundland was a few degrees cooler than the rest of the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">Maritimes</span>. So I tucked my fingers into my gloves (first time I've worn them for a while) and wrapped my <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">bandanna</span> around my ears to lesson the blows from the gusting <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-error">wind before</span> I set out amongst this strange rocky landscape. Leaving the Port, I found myself surrounded by rock and ponds, low <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-error">thickity</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">shrubs</span> and stunted trees. Before long I cruised through Table Mountains (self <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">explanatory</span>) and the exceptionally windy <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" class="blsp-spelling-error">Wreckhouse</span> region. At an Irving gas station in the middle of nowhere, a construction worker gave me some worthwhile advice: <em>"you've got to keep yours eyes open, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_18" class="blsp-spelling-error">cus</span> the landscape here changes every fifteen minutes!".</em><br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKUz47irA2I/AAAAAAAAEQw/QW8EwUNaSOE/s1600/IMG_4809.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522877571188589410" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKUz47irA2I/AAAAAAAAEQw/QW8EwUNaSOE/s200/IMG_4809.JPG" /></a>On a bike, that translates to every hour or so, give or take...but I have found it to be true; nothing stays the same for long. The scenery moves from the sea to the shore, through wetlands and up rocky mountains. Away from the picturesque fishing villages which dot the coast, the inland of the province is made up of dense woods broken up by bodies of water (brooks, ponds, bogs, rivers). It's a pretty wild place here, and I love it :) I can cycle for hours without seeing a house, power station, or town. Side roads wind away from the highway to tiny coastal communities where boat was once the dominant form of transportation. During my first few days, I was leapfrogging these Navy fellas who were running across the province to raise money for the Children's Make a Wish Foundation. It was reassuring to see that I wasn't the only one crazy enough to be crossing the rock by human powered locomotion in early fall. It was also nice to have some familiar faces pop up now and again.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKUgf56oreI/AAAAAAAAEQk/r9vZyzbKiZ4/s1600/IMG_4817.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522856250534571490" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKUgf56oreI/AAAAAAAAEQk/r9vZyzbKiZ4/s200/IMG_4817.JPG" /></a>Another thing that I anticipated (and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_19" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">received</span>) was a warm welcome by the friendly folks of Newfoundland. Prior to my arrival, everyone had been telling me that the final stretch of my journey would be a treat: <em>"<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_20" class="blsp-spelling-error">Newfies</span> are the kindest folk you'll ever meet-if you can understand their accents"</em>. Now that I'm here, I can positively confirm both parts of this statement. Invitations for dinner, cups of tea, warm smiles, handfuls of plums, the list goes on. People here are curious and outgoing, always offering to lend a helping hand. I basically feel as if I could put my trust in any individual that I meet on the street; which is something I would <em>never</em> say about Surrey.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKUeD5IXixI/AAAAAAAAEPg/Z99-NpUODXg/s1600/IMG_5025.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522853570264140562" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKUeD5IXixI/AAAAAAAAEPg/Z99-NpUODXg/s200/IMG_5025.JPG" /></a>So each region, sometimes an individual village, will have it's own specific dialect. I can understand most folks, but the old timer fishermen or hunters? Forget about it! I need a translator. My first night I camped in someones backyard in St. George's. I covered about 14<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_21" class="blsp-spelling-error">okm</span> that day, and didn't sleep much on the rough ferry ride the night before, so I was pretty tired. I was grateful when <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_22" class="blsp-spelling-error">Limbert</span>, the man who gave me permission to camp on his lawn <em>("yes <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_23" class="blsp-spelling-error">m'darlin</span>', I don't see why not</em>!") also invited me in for dinner. He was a stout built hunting guide with a few old scars on his face and thick, gnarled hands. And I couldn't understand a single word that escaped his lips. Well, maybe that's an exaggeration: I understood about 30% of what he said, I got the gist of things. So I was still doing better than in Quebec, and his teenage son Logan translated for me, which really helped. We talked about the moose hunt, their cabin up in the woods, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_24" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">snowmobiling</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_25" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">ice fishing</span> and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_26" class="blsp-spelling-error">ATVing</span>. They have this 8 wheeled thing that can go on land, water, or snow. I quickly realized that Newfoundland was an outdoors person's paradise, and slithered into my sleepingbag eagerly awaiting the rest of my adventure through the rugged province dangling on the edge of the North American continent.megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03687031759616638202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606751562252422498.post-63819801739975690252010-09-28T05:05:00.000-07:002010-11-26T01:45:52.548-08:00Cape Breton Island and the Cabot Trail<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKUZW37ycCI/AAAAAAAAEOg/FxjcCpEV4LA/s1600/IMG_4697.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px; float: right; height: 150px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522848398802317346" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKUZW37ycCI/AAAAAAAAEOg/FxjcCpEV4LA/s200/IMG_4697.JPG" border="0" /></a>If I could wrap up my experience in Cape Breton for you in a couple of phrases, they would be <em>'friendly people'</em> and <em></em><div><div><em>'significant hills'</em>. Luckily, I'm from BC, so the hills were nothing new to me. The people, however, never ceased to amaze me with their warmth and generosity. Throughout my entire journey, I've never met anyone who has been anything but kind and helpful...except for a waitress or two who has refused to refill my mug with coffee after my bill has been issued. But the folks here in the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">Maritimes</span>, well lets just say that they've taken hospitality to a whole new level.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKHsgPzWxMI/AAAAAAAAEN4/BU0m1EBTOY0/s1600/megpic1.bmp"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px; float: right; height: 150px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5521954656874841282" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKHsgPzWxMI/AAAAAAAAEN4/BU0m1EBTOY0/s200/megpic1.bmp" border="0" /></a>I rolled out of the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Garbary's</span> place in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Antigonish</span> in the early afternoon after spending the morning with <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">Dolna</span> and Julian at the Farmer's Market. I ate a slice of blueberry cheesecake that was <em>to die for</em>, bought some chocolate fudge, and chatted with a few of the vendors and friends of <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">Dolna</span>. Sunshine and tailwinds led me across the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">Canso</span> Causeway, which connects the Nova <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">Scotia</span> peninsula to Cape Breton. I <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">cruised</span> up along the western coast, admiring the steep red banks dropping off into the sea.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKUbQXVGtiI/AAAAAAAAEPI/Evs6rI6iH0s/s1600/IMG_4526.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 150px; float: right; height: 200px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522850485994173986" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKUbQXVGtiI/AAAAAAAAEPI/Evs6rI6iH0s/s200/IMG_4526.JPG" border="0" /></a>My first night on Cape Breton was spent in the home of a woman named Sandra near the town of Port Hood. Her husband and son (both tuna fishermen) were out tagging the giants when I arrived abruptly at her doorstep sometime around sunset. I asked to pitch my tent in her yard, but instead was invited in for pork chops, a shower, and a good nights sleep in a real bed. Something I learned from my last bike trip was that the simple pleasure of stretching out on a bed is not one that should be taken for granted-I hope all you folks reading this know how good you have it!<br /><br />S<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKUazFtKMFI/AAAAAAAAEPA/WvIycuoir2s/s1600/IMG_4618.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px; float: right; height: 150px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522849983047020626" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKUazFtKMFI/AAAAAAAAEPA/WvIycuoir2s/s200/IMG_4618.JPG" border="0" /></a>andra's family members wandered in and out during the course of the evening, no one seeming to think that having a random <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">Vancouverite</span> on a bike journey over for the night to be anything out of the ordinary. I learned about tuna fishing and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">ATVing</span>, and left the next morning with my belly full of food. I'm telling this story because the rest of my nights on the island were spent in a similar manner, except for one night in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ingonish</span> where I slept in some old <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">fella's</span> workshop, and was left to my own devices for the course of the evening. More often than not, I left people's homes with fruit or veggies, sandwiches or baked goods, a few stories to retell, and farewell hugs. I feel that at this point in my life, I have at least three 'mothers' looking out for me, plus my real mom back home in Surrey.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKUZ_BWjm6I/AAAAAAAAEO4/jaX70JL9aVw/s1600/IMG_4647.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px; float: right; height: 150px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522849088525278114" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKUZ_BWjm6I/AAAAAAAAEO4/jaX70JL9aVw/s200/IMG_4647.JPG" border="0" /></a>So my goal was to cycle the Cabot Trail. Named after the Italian explorer John Cabot (who reached our shores in 1497), the route has been listed as one of the Best Drives in the world by Lonely Planet. The trail winds up and down the northern tip of Cape Breton, passing through the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">spectacular</span> Cape Breton Highlands National Park. I was undecided over whether or not to cycle this hilly detour, but after encouragement from my fellow cycling friends (Toby and Kevin), I decided to give it a go. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">After all</span>, when was I going to be back in this part of the world? It was now or never.<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKUZxn1WXwI/AAAAAAAAEOw/MVqor52ox-4/s1600/IMG_4635.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 150px; float: right; height: 200px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522848858336812802" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKUZxn1WXwI/AAAAAAAAEOw/MVqor52ox-4/s200/IMG_4635.JPG" border="0" /></a>Definitely worth it; for the views, the people, and the challenge of climbing all those steep grades. The hill I'll remember most vividly was 3 km at 13%. I was standing up and pedaling for most of it, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">receiving</span> honks of encouragement and thumbs up from drivers who were descending the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">switch backed</span> road. I've been told that the park is <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" class="blsp-spelling-error">stu</span><em><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" class="blsp-spelling-error">pendous</span></em> in early October, when the leaves are all gold and red and the autumn sun hits the trees at that certain angle, making everything seem otherworldly. Even as I was making my way around the leaves were beginning to turn; the odd maple a brilliant rouge while most remained green with hints of yellow.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKN5RAzY7qI/AAAAAAAAEOM/_e5XOt1dGbs/s1600/IMG_4641%5B1%5D"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px; float: right; height: 150px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522390901266640546" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKN5RAzY7qI/AAAAAAAAEOM/_e5XOt1dGbs/s200/IMG_4641%5B1%5D" border="0" /></a>At the park entrance I talked my way out of paying the visitors fee. The parts of the highlands that were up a ways above <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_18" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">sea level</span> were enshrouded in a deep mist, giving the place an aura of unexplored mystery. I had my peepers open wide in hopes of spotting a moose, but alas, none were to be seen. The <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_19" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">descents</span> were fast and breathtaking, and I wished more than once that I was equipped with a helmet camera to document the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_20" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">brilliance</span> which unfolded before me.<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKUZGss3wzI/AAAAAAAAEOY/GAO7gqT8oLQ/s1600/hand.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 150px; float: right; height: 200px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522848120909054770" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKUZGss3wzI/AAAAAAAAEOY/GAO7gqT8oLQ/s200/hand.jpg" border="0" /></a>My journey from the Highlands into North Sydney was quicker than expected, with a crazy wind forcing me down the eastern coast from <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_21" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ingonish</span>. Brilliant red apples dangled from their branches like the shingy orbs of glass Christmas tree <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_22" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">ornaments</span>. I crossed the wildest bridge, way way way up over an arm of the Bras d'Ore Lake, all the while pedaling as fast as I could and praying that no big rigs would race up behind me and blow me over the side rail. My heart beat faster, and (for some unknown reason) the image of my sister and I outrunning (outpedaling?) the Mexican toll road gaurds outside of Tijuana floated to the surface of my memory. I smiled, wheezed a bit, and hoofed it over the bridge pronto.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKN5Q_8OZYI/AAAAAAAAEOE/1cOn9CsKSOA/s1600/IMG_4802%5B1%5D"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px; float: right; height: 150px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522390901035263362" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKN5Q_8OZYI/AAAAAAAAEOE/1cOn9CsKSOA/s200/IMG_4802%5B1%5D" border="0" /></a>I wound up taking the eight hour night ferry to Newfoundland a day or so earlier than I expected to. Little did I know that earlier that day, while I was experiencing blue skies and heavy winds, the island of Newfoundland was being <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_23" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">devastated</span> by Hurricane Igor. It wasn't until about 4:00 am, when I wandered into the lounge because I couldn't sleep with all the side-to-side rocking, I saw the news reports. Cellphone video clips of the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_24" class="blsp-spelling-error">untamable</span> waters, wicked winds toppling trees, flooding basements, overturning RVs. I suddenly came to realize the gravity of the situation. I was riding into the wake of a hurricane...</div></div>megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03687031759616638202noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606751562252422498.post-28797365303803508392010-09-21T15:55:00.000-07:002010-09-29T11:12:36.536-07:00countin' my pennies<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJlDbTRotiI/AAAAAAAAENU/zH5DnChcBt4/s1600/IMG_4490%5B1%5D"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519516954629027362" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJlDbTRotiI/AAAAAAAAENU/zH5DnChcBt4/s200/IMG_4490%5B1%5D" border="0" /></a> My hit counter thing-a-majig is showing that people actually read this thing, unless my mom just logs in a dozen times a day and that's what is bringing the count up. But assuming she's not, I'm pretty stoked that people care about where I am and what I'm doing :)<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJlDb3GDP_I/AAAAAAAAENc/HQI3xlG48eM/s1600/IMG_4518%5B1%5D"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519516964244111346" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJlDb3GDP_I/AAAAAAAAENc/HQI3xlG48eM/s200/IMG_4518%5B1%5D" border="0" /></a>At the moment, I'm in North Sydney waiting for the ferry to take me to Port aux Basques, Newfoundland. I bought instant noodles from the dollar store (4 for a buck!), filled my thermos with hot water from the coffee machine at the gas station, then headed down to the docks. I dumped the noodles into the hot water, tossed in chopped carrot and green onion, and sat cross-legged on a picnic table, loitering at the wharf while the moon came up with <em>Atlantic Vision</em> (one of the ferries) in the foreground. Currently I'm chilling out in the public library, charging my ipod and until a few moments ago was reading a <em>Calvin and Hobbes</em> anthology.<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJlDczU-8-I/AAAAAAAAENk/5NEG0HXeaqg/s1600/IMG_4567%5B1%5D"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519516980412871650" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJlDczU-8-I/AAAAAAAAENk/5NEG0HXeaqg/s200/IMG_4567%5B1%5D" border="0" /></a>Crossing the country has made for an unbelievable summer. It's not over yet, but I've gained quite a bit from the experiences I've had. I'm going to open up the vault (ha, what vault? Everyone knows I'm an easy cookie to crack) and share a couple things that might make other vagabonds, cycling nomads, or just shoe-string travellers lives a bit easier...and by easier what I really mean is: <em>"these are things I've learned that have enabled me to travel far and spend little"</em><br /><br /><strong>1. Libraries:</strong> They're truly amazing resources. It wasn't until I moved to Terrace for the summer that I actually appreciated all greatness they have to offer. Free internet, movie rentals, CD loans, washroom facilities and water fountains? Amazing. Outlets to charge your electronics, stacks of magazines and newspapers. Oh, I forgot to mention they're full of books that you can just pick up and read. On a cold, wet day on the road, there is no finer place for me than inside a library.<br /><br /><strong>2. Subway:</strong> All Subways have cold water on tap. Once I discovered that they don't really mind if you just wander in, ask to fill up your bottles, and leave, I was able to stop using restroom tap water for my bottles. And, you know it's not stinky well water that's going to give you diarrhea. Bonus: they also have ice. Plus, with an accidental slip of the finger, you might get fruitopia instead of water-not that I'm advocating this or anything.<br /><br /><strong>3. <em>"Oh, refills are free, right?"</em></strong> I tend to use this line anytime I have doubts of whether or not the refill is going to be free. Specifically at coffee shops. Give'm a little smile (perhaps a flirtatious wink?) and the barista will usually go along with it, and voila! Two drinks for the price of one :)<br /><br /><strong>4. <em>"Do you know anywhere I can pitch a tent around here?"</em></strong> This just opens up a whole world of possibles. People might suggest a nearby beach, picnic area, the soccer pitch, their backyard, their neighbors orchard, behind the firehall, ect. ect. It's a great way to avoid campgrounds, and not that I'm against campgrounds, but straight up: this trip would not be possible if I was paying $10, 20, or 32 (Ontario provincial parks are expensive places) a night just to lay my head to rest.<br /><br /><strong>5. Visitors Centers:</strong> Great place for regional info (obviously), as well as water, washrooms, sometimes showers, internet access, and maps, usually free of charge. Whenever I enter a new province or city, the first thing I do is follow the boxy question mark signs to the visitors center. Staff are always <em>really </em>friendly, helpful, and full of awesome advice.<br /><br /><strong>6. Peanut butter:</strong> It goes on anything, it's full of calories, and it's delicious (assuming you're not one of those unfortunate few with a nut alergy.)megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03687031759616638202noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606751562252422498.post-75579637867974624692010-09-17T12:10:00.001-07:002010-09-30T19:07:58.993-07:00Rainy days in Antigonish<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJda5pepfXI/AAAAAAAAEM4/YqfW8jSS8U4/s1600/IMG_4478%5B1%5D"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518979814799277426" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJda5pepfXI/AAAAAAAAEM4/YqfW8jSS8U4/s200/IMG_4478%5B1%5D" /></a>Antigonish, Nova Scotia. <div><div> </div><div>Sitting in the Garbary's cozy kitchen with a mug of orange pekoe by my side, I'm thankful to take this day to rest. Surrounded by ripening tomatoes and pumpkins, fresh garlic and dulse (dried red seaweed), rose hip jam and bowls of basal waiting to be turning into pesto, I feel right at home. I was going to ride, but Dolna (Mother of the household) insisted that I could stay put if I wasn't feeling up to venturing out into the sheet of rain currently blanketing the sideways, roadways, and lawns.</div><br /><div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKVCFDcciWI/AAAAAAAAEQ8/U2NZNp4WU5Y/s1600/meg+dolna.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5522893172631177570" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TKVCFDcciWI/AAAAAAAAEQ8/U2NZNp4WU5Y/s200/meg+dolna.jpg" /></a>Oooooh, it's raining harder now; the wind blowing the falling droplets so they pelt against the house at a 30 degree angle. And I'm warm and dry in the home of a friendly Maritime family. From what I've experienced these past few days, I think that the rest of my journey is going be influenced more and more by the weather. I'll have to accept taking a day or two off when it's wretched out, and riding hard when it's sunny and the wind is at my back. My pace might be slower, but I also foresee the exchange of many stories and thoughtful conversations in my future. Poor weather, after all, is what brought me into Isabelle's home the other day.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJda4tieGtI/AAAAAAAAEMo/XxXbk2pARWI/s1600/IMG_4473%5B1%5D"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 150px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518979798709181138" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJda4tieGtI/AAAAAAAAEMo/XxXbk2pARWI/s200/IMG_4473%5B1%5D" /></a>So I met Rachel while she was working at the bakery on Mainstreet, Antigonish. I had just arrived in town after fighting the winds round Cape George, and parked my bike as soon as the scent of fresh cinnamon buns hit me. Rachel, a girl of 20 with and a passion for living and beautiful blond dreads, was working behind the counter. We got to talking and after a few minutes, I was invited back to her place for the evening. So I roamed around town on my bike, checked out the university (green ivy working its way over the red brick walls) and met up with her again at 5:30.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJda5BpxK_I/AAAAAAAAEMw/poXqvnbzDhQ/s1600/IMG_4480%5B1%5D"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518979804108499954" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJda5BpxK_I/AAAAAAAAEMw/poXqvnbzDhQ/s200/IMG_4480%5B1%5D" /></a>I parked my bike in the living room, amongst the piles of records and shelves of books.<br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">"Mom, I'm home! And I've brought a friend!"</span><br />This was when I learned that I wasn't the first traveler who has been invited back to the Garbary house; apparently Rachel has a habit of 'picking up' folks at Tim Hortons (where she works in the mornings) and bringing them back home if they need a place to stay for the night. Awesome.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJdbYHRorkI/AAAAAAAAENI/rcE9ZP_B4N8/s1600/IMG_4521%5B1%5D"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518980338193837634" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJdbYHRorkI/AAAAAAAAENI/rcE9ZP_B4N8/s200/IMG_4521%5B1%5D" /></a>We ate a glorious meal of squash and veggies, talking excitedly about Rachel's future travels to New Zealand and Thailand and reflecting on my past travels there. I slept inside and stayed dry, cuddled between a fluffy duvet and soft sheets. The next the rain started coming down <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">hard</span>. In the morning while Rachel was serving donuts and bagels at Timmy's, Dolna invited me to stay for another day so that I wouldn't have to cycle in the storm. So that's what I did. I feel especially blessed to get to spend this time in a family home, because after nearly four months on the road, I'm starting to miss my home just a little bit. But to know that on the other coast, far from Pacific that I know and love, I've found folks that treat me (and worry about me!) like one of their own, well I can't adequately put into words how special it is. I can just stay that everyday I wake up grateful to be able to continue this great journey of life.<br /><br />On to Cape Breton! </div></div>megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03687031759616638202noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606751562252422498.post-72486964084709717062010-09-17T10:19:00.000-07:002010-09-18T09:13:41.693-07:00Mademoiselle Isabelle<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJQamaO656I/AAAAAAAAELk/bAybLxR4yUs/s200/IMG_4458.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518064690614953890" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px; " /></span><div>I was cycling from New Glasgow to Antigonish via route 245, the scenic but much longer alternative to the Trans-Canada. I rode with the Northumberland straight to my left, fields of swaying corn to my right, passing through the tiny towns of Merigomish, Brownsville, Doctors Brook and Malignant Cove, hardly visible as dots on the map. No gas station, library, or town halls. Just a cluster of houses along the road, a church, cemetery, and maybe a general store/cafe. I breezed along with ease, the fierce wind pushing me forward as the patches of blue sky overhead brightened up the crops. As the day wore on, a contagious cloud cover blocked out nearly all the sun's rays and the wind began to whip and tear in this direction and that, so instead of assisting me on my quest to Cape George it was grabbing, pulling, and swerving me all over the road.</div><div><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJQamyln8kI/AAAAAAAAELs/_sZqioeLvek/s200/IMG_4463.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518064697152631362" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px; " /></span><div>I also realized that I didn't actually have much to cook up for dinner. I didn't have a place to sleep yet either, but that was of little concern to me. Not long after I had these thoughts, I glimpsed a painted sign for fresh veggies. Seeing my chance to find something for dinner, I veered down the gravel driveway, curving away from the road and into view of row upon row of flourishing veggies beside an old house overlooking the sea. Orange flowers, their pedals spread out wide and heads pointing up to the sky, dotted the orderly rows of beets, chard, carrots, peppers, herbs and greens. A little face appeared in one of the windows, and waved me in excitedly. I twisted open the old-fashioned door knob and walked into a world of delight. </div><div><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJQaoJqKTNI/AAAAAAAAEL8/9e2nVDXdFfg/s200/IMG_4465.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518064720525544658" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px; " /></span><div>Bag upon bag of freshly picked vegetables lined the side table, garlic hung from the rafters, and the smell of fresh rosemary hung in the air. Isabelle, I learned, was packing up her clients' bags of vegetables for Friday afternoon delivery. I stood in awe for a moment, my senses taking in all that was going on in this dimly lit room. I bought some carrots and tomatoes, the rain began to fall, Isabelle invited me to wait it out over a cup of tea in the kitchen, and I ended up spending the night on her futon. We cooked and ate and shared the stories of our hearts. The next morning when I was 15km down the road at the lighthouse, I realized that I had forgotten to pay for the veggies. So this is the story of Mademoiselle Isabelle, a lively woman from France who has found what she was searching for in life. Isabelle has the tanned skin of someone who's spent a lot of time outdoors, and the wild, choppy hair of someone who's free from the restraints imposed by societal norms. I've relied heavily on quotations here, and I realize that there's no way I've got all of what she said down word-for-word, but it seemed to be a more authentic way to tell her story than to paraphrase all of it in my words.</div><div><br /></div><div>Isabelle immigrated to Montreal from France after finishing her college education,</div><div><i>"I wasn't meant to live in Europe, you know? I had always known it. There's just too many people, not enough freedom or space. Canada, woooooh! Well the wide open spaces, that's what attracted me to Canada."</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>But Montreal, it seemed, was too similar to France, and Isabella was still not wholly satisfied,</div><div><i>"I was working at a desk job, you know, in an office, blah blah blah. And I got to thinking, 'if you are going to immigrate somewhere, you've got to make a BIG change, not a slight one', so I jumped on an opportunity to relocate to Saskatoon, Saskatchewan for the summer. That's where I really got to experience Canadian culture, appreciate the HUGENESS of the country. And I loved it! I loved the skies, oh the skies! The way the colours change at sunset, the stars that come out at night."</i></div><div><br /></div><div>After her stint on the Prairies, she was back in Montreal, but left for Latin America, being unsatisfied with the way things were going. She shared with me how the strongest memories are those of people, and not landscape: <i>"The landscape is important; it may be beautiful and amazing and surely it will always be part of your travel experience. But, I find what really sticks, the memories that last, are the ones with people. When I was learning Spanish in Venezuala, I don't remember the place so much as the people. I stayed with a homestay family there, and the little girl took me to the market. And there we walked around together, and she pointed out the names of the vegetables and this and that. Those are the kinds of things I remember more strongly, not the landscape."</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>This hit a note with me, for during this journey I have enjoyed the landscape immensely, but always find that my happiest and most memorable experiences are more focused on the folks I've met along the way or the people I have traveled with. For instance, the first day cycling with Toby <i>and</i> Dave, we found a meadow to camp in and sat on a cliff overlooking Lake Ontario, our legs dangling freely over the edge. We cooked up dinner and chatted, all the while watching in awe as a red moon came up over a nuclear power plant across the little bay. The moon rose higher, and hung suspending in the night sky casting a shadow over the water that Toby described as <i>"incredible, might I even say, sexy?</i>". </div><div><br /></div><div>This experience was awesome because it is something that the three of us shared, and will always remember. If I was alone, watching the moon come up and had no one to talk to, no one to lean on and whisper in a hushed voice, <i>"wow, can you believe we're watching this?"</i>, I don't think the experience would be as powerful as it was for me. </div><div><br /></div><div>Isabelle traveled for years, wandering around Central and South America, experiencing different ways of life and learning more about herself as she learned the language. But after five years, she felt lost. <i>"I didn't have a home!"</i> she exclaimed, <i>"France wasn't my home anymore, and I hadn't been back to Canada for so long I didn't feel like that was my home any more. I really felt that I wanted to be grounded, to put down roots somewhere. But I didn't know where to go."</i></div><div><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJQal_sC5nI/AAAAAAAAELc/mI41YUwNNFU/s200/IMG_4460.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518064683489355378" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px; " /></span><div>So she hopped on bike and pedaled out of Montreal. Stopping here and there, exploring rural Quebec villages and helping out with peoples gardens and in cafes and wherever she was needed, she made her way around the tip of Gaspe and into the Maritimes.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><i>"I really thought I was meant for the West Coast, but somehow, I found my home here on the East. You see, what happened was this: I arrived on my bike one day, and cycled right through this area. I pedaled up to Cape George, saw the lighthouse, but suddenly realized that I could not go on! It was getting late in the day, and if I kept riding I would round the corner and miss the sunset. So, I pedaled back down the hill and camped, not too far from where we are right now. I've never done that before; turned around. But I did, I watched the sunset, and the next day while I was in town I spoke to someone and they said that there's a really good place to camp by Doctors Brook. So, I went down there. It was a beautiful place! It's where the flowing water meets the sea, there's little beach and it's just lovely. So I camped there for a night. Then the next morning, I packed up my things and got on to my bike to leave, but found I couldn't. I just couldn't leave this spot."</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>"So I just stayed there. Each day I would pack my things on my bike, ride off, then wind up back at the Brook by sunset. I couldn't leave. This went on for a few weeks, and I became a bit of a novelty around town! Everyone knew me, because of course they were curious about some girl on a bicycle camping down by the water every night. So one day, someone said to me, 'can you house sit for me?' and I was like 'sure, I can do that', and I knew, I just knew that this is where I had to be."</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>"I started looking around for a place, and what do you know, this house (the one we're in right now) was just put on the market. I went to look at it, and I bought it. It wasn't easy, finding work and making this place my home. It's a small community, not like the city where there's jobs everywhere. But I did it. First I taught French, because it turns out that the language is really in demand around here. I did others things as well, but I was like, 'this is not for me'. I need to be active, doing things, not sitting all day."</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; "><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJQanQ8qAmI/AAAAAAAAEL0/kjszffdWY8M/s200/IMG_4464.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518064705302299234" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px; " /></span><div><i>"So one year, I planted this garden. And I had too many vegetables! Waaaaay too much stuff for one person, so I gave the extras away. And I thought, 'hmmmmm, maybe I could grow vegetables,'. So the year after that I tried it out; I only had a few clients. Now I have over thirty. So that's what I do: I grow vegetables, and I love it."</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>And I realized that Isabelle, sitting across the table from me and telling me this story as she poked her fork into the roasted beets and shallots and potatoes, is <i>alive</i>. She is just totally alive with energy and life, and I feel like there's something passing between us, something unseen but nonetheless it's there and we're both experiencing the connection.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>"You know, everyone wants something different in life. For some it's a respectable job, others it's love, marriage, or a big family. Me? I just want to make my heart happy. And this, using my hands and growing plants and feeding people? This is what makes my heart happy. If you told me 10 years ago that this is where I would end up, that this place, this tiny dot on the map in Nova Scotia is where I will set down my roots, I would not believe it. But, I am here. And I love it."</i></div><div><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(0, 0, 238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline; font-size:16.2037px;"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJTkg0IGe6I/AAAAAAAAEMc/rSCXD61SK9w/s200/58221_10150250170350372_704910371_14882216_1674012_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518286695835270050" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px; " /></span><div>I don't know what I'm going to do in my life. I have no idea actually. But in looking at Isabelle, I saw a possible trajectory of myself. I thought, <i>"this could be you Meaghan. Someday, you might wind up growing veggies and living in a cool old house painted a dozen different colours with fresh food everywhere and the artwork of your friends hanging on the walls."</i> </div><div><br /></div><div>There are a million different things that I could do in life, and this is but one of them. The infinite possibilities of my existence. Exciting, although the uncertainty of it all is also kind of overwhelming at times. But in talking with Isabelle, I realized that what I need to do is let my heart be my guide, and eventually everything will settle into place.</div><div><br /></div>megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03687031759616638202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606751562252422498.post-28564334121234562382010-09-16T12:00:00.000-07:002010-09-17T17:13:33.694-07:00Zigzagging Nova Scotia<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJQC24gtn2I/AAAAAAAAEK0/ZahIBQKV8lQ/s1600/58511_651581105285_120407267_37885501_2259479_n-1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJQC24gtn2I/AAAAAAAAEK0/ZahIBQKV8lQ/s200/58511_651581105285_120407267_37885501_2259479_n-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518038585341484898" border="0" /></a><br />Last week I took the ferry from Prince Edward Island to Caribou, Nova Scotia.<br />This ferry ride was the 7th of my trip, and the voyage itself was by no means incredible. The weather was kind of drizzly and cold, the scenery of the Northumberland Straight pleasant but not knock-your-socks-off (crossing the Saguanay, man that was outstanding!), and the ship pretty much average in every way. Except that I met a couple of lively retired ladies, Mary and Elizabeth, who made the journey both fun and entertaining. They were returning to Mary's home in New Glasgow after spending the weekend on the island visiting friends on the east coast, not far from where I stayed in Georgina's back yard in Murray Harbour. scubameaghan@gmail.com<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"We had a wild time!" </span>Elizabeth exclaimed<span style="font-style: italic;">, "Stayed up until one in the morning drinking wine in the kitchen!"</span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><br />"Oh we laughed and we laughed!"</span> Mary added,<span style="font-style: italic;"> "Telling stories about how things were back in the day. I laughed until my stomach hurt!"</span><br /><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><img src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJK1Z5i3K5I/AAAAAAAAEKI/hccMj8CZxOQ/s200/IMG_4305.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5517671950030678930" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" border="0" /></span>And all the while I'm smiling to myself, because their idea of a good time is exactly the same as my idea of a good time. Suddenly, I felt a bit more at ease with the idea of growing older (because there are times when the thought of being out of my 20's terrifies me), and knowing that some things in life don't have to change. Perhaps this also has something to do with what Elizabeth said to me, <span style="font-style: italic;">"I'm not old. Each year I get older, but I'm not old, not yet!"</span>. Later I found out that she is 76, and I <span style="font-style: italic;">never</span> would have guessed it. Her bright eyes, cheery smile, expressive storytelling, and stylish short gray hair denied any sign of being 'old'.<br /></div><div><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJK1a4fYKZI/AAAAAAAAEKY/ZNOJjhAabTw/s200/IMG_4365.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5517671966927497618" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" border="0" /></span><div>So perhaps I too will refuse to grow old, and continue to ride my bike into the setting sun even after my legs have become veiny and wrinkled and mottled with age spots. And then I'll arrive at an old friend's doorstep, change out of my tired worn spandex into something more comfortable and we'll share a bottle of wine as the moon rises over the sea, and laugh about the way things used to be.<br /><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJKz7bp4GSI/AAAAAAAAEJw/UVgdn9vhKdg/s200/IMG_4347.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5517670327099332898" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" border="0" /></span>Once the ferry docked in Caribou I said my farewell to Mary and Elizabeth and took the backroads through Pictou and on to Truro, stopping for the night at Nicole and Darrin's place. Their friendly welcome, high energy dog Shadow, maritime-y bathroom (with lighthouses and ships and blue walls galore!), and their stories of Terra Cinque, Italy will be what I remember them most for. I continued along the old highway to Halifax, where I experienced a momentary breakdown upon my arrival in this bike-unfriendly city. After I gained my bearings and figured out what side of the water I was on, I reattached my head to my shoulders and found my way to Katrina and Steve's place (friends of a friend in Montreal) in the North End of town.<br /><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJK0euhChLI/AAAAAAAAEKA/l39thI-o7ZI/s200/IMG_4360.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5517670933457962162" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" border="0" /></span><div>For four days I hung out, wandering through the harbourfront and the windswept parks and the steep sloped streets of downtown Halifax. For four days, I spoke with Haligonians and Capers and played crib and learned about the good, bad, beautiful and ugly of the city. Katrina told me about the open mic night a few blocks from her apartment, held in the living room of some folks whose neighbors happen to be the liquor store and thus don't mind the racket. I wandered into houses, coffee shops, apartments and flats and heard stories of buskers and exes and crazy people with samurai swords on buses. It was actually kind of hard to get up and go after spending so much time in Halifax, and I finally understood what Katrina meant when she said to me on my first night, <span style="font-style: italic;">"Halifax is home to travelers; the kind of people who say they'll never settle down in one place? They wind up in Halifax."</span>.<br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><br /></span></div><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJK0eAXXrbI/AAAAAAAAEJ4/Y-TFlR3oouk/s200/IMG_4423.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5517670921069374898" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" border="0" /><div>So rather reluctantly I stitched up my torn panniers, bought a pair of pants from MEC, and pedaled out of the city through Sidney Crosby's hometown of Coal Harbour. As I faced off against angry headwinds along the south coast while pedaling east toward Cape Breton Island, I wondered (just for a moment) why I hadn't just ended my journey in Halifax, found a job in some coffee shop or bistro, and planted myself there for a while. But by nightfall, I was back in the groove, and remembered that my mission was incomplete and the roads ahead of me were vast and rich with beauty and unknown possibility. The tiny coastal fishing villages, the inlets which reached deep into the land like craggily old witches fingers, the smell of the salty air. I was in love again with the open road.<br /></div><div><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJKz62G9faI/AAAAAAAAEJo/L9WV2cDApW4/s200/IMG_4427.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5517670317020773794" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" border="0" /></span><div>I slept that night in a mock fishing village, which was actually a museum. I munched down a nutella-banana sandwich, sat on a picnic table contemplating the day's ride, tossed my food pannier up on the roof of an outhouse, and crawled into bed before nine. My tent was still damp from when I packed it up in the rain on PEI, so crawling into it was no treat. During the night, I awoke to the <span style="font-style: italic;">"crunch crunch crackle crunch" </span>of branches braking under the feet of small mammals, and didn't fall back asleep until the ruckus in the bushes died down. Skunks? Raccoons? Who knows.<br /><br /></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(0, 0, 238);"><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJK1aZf2W0I/AAAAAAAAEKQ/q9hihwJSz4A/s200/IMG_4389.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5517671958607977282" style="float: left; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" border="0" /></span><div>The next morning, I continued east until Sheet Harbour, ate a most delightful club sandwich (buried under a mountain of crispy fries), and shot off through the interior of the province towards the north coast. There was nothing in the way of civilization along route 374, which kind of suited me well. I enjoyed the low grade slopes, the dense woods lining the road, and the little lakes and streams which I spied occasionally off on either side. A few cars passed through each hour; once in a while I heard the low rumble of a logging truck coming my way. The remoteness reminded me of Northern Ontario.<br /><br />I came out of the 374 in New Glasgow, where I was fortunate enough to stay with Mary from the ferry and her husband Allen. I had the pleasure of their company, a delightful meal of pork chops, and a comfy bed to snooze in for the night.</div></div>megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03687031759616638202noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606751562252422498.post-19133753094912283212010-09-12T08:23:00.000-07:002010-09-17T17:20:47.865-07:00Backyard Camping<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJQFaYZ91mI/AAAAAAAAELQ/DsDlslXBCk8/s1600/60184_10150254739255372_704910371_14982379_2323398_n-1.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 241px; height: 181px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJQFaYZ91mI/AAAAAAAAELQ/DsDlslXBCk8/s400/60184_10150254739255372_704910371_14982379_2323398_n-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518041394221799010" border="0" /></a>About a week ago Toby flew out of Charlottetown, leaving me once again as the solo female cyclist that I started this journey as. I'm definitely going to miss his daily science lessons and quirky eating habits (does anyone else you know buy a litre of chocolate soy milk, then drink it straight from the carton before leaving the grocery store parking lot?). Alone on the road, I quickly realized that I had a bit more to time to think, read, and write in my journal. I've also had the opportunity of meet a few interesting individuals, since strangers are a bit more willing to approach a single traveller, and I as a single traveller am more likely to ask for the help of strangers. For instance, now that I'm on my own I don't feel quite as comfortable camping out in the bush, so I've taken to asking folk permission to pitch my tent on their lawn. Funnily enough, this strategy hasn't quite worked out as planned, and instead of setting my tent up on the back acres of stranger's properties, I find myself being invited into their homes and given a bed to sleep on and breakfast in the morning. On only one occasion did I actually set my tent up in <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">some one's</span> lawn, of which the following is sort of an account of.<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TI5Zd1Lt6XI/AAAAAAAAEI4/9Lw-uPcRoOg/s1600/IMG_4231.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TI5Zd1Lt6XI/AAAAAAAAEI4/9Lw-uPcRoOg/s200/IMG_4231.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516444962602740082" border="0" /></a><br /><br />One of the most memorable characters I met on Prince Edward Island was kind and gentle elderly woman named Georgina. Born and raised on the east coast of the island, not far from Murray Harbour, she's now in her 80s. What struck me most about her when we first met was how soft her wrinkled hands were, and how much shorter than myself she was.<br /><br />Myself, as well as her 60-something year old nephew, were staying in her <a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TI5bwAvk43I/AAAAAAAAEJE/h6SReCNEAqs/s1600/IMG_4187.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TI5bwAvk43I/AAAAAAAAEJE/h6SReCNEAqs/s200/IMG_4187.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516447473966834546" border="0" /></a>backyard, although Gary (the nephew) and his wife Gloria were residing in a spacious RV and I was stuffed into my single person tent. Anyways, I was lucky enough to arouse the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">curiosity</span> of these three individuals (all whose names happened to start with the letter 'G'), and found myself invited in for a cup of tea. We sat in the cozy living room, with pictures of young grandchildren looking down on us from the fireplace mantle. I shared some of the details of my trip, and they told me a bit about country life. It seems like life on PEI has changed over the past 50 years, just like everywhere else I guess. Farming has become increasingly mechanized, people have left the small towns to move to the big cities, and kids are a bit reluctant to follow in the footsteps of their parents. But in talking to Georgina, I felt like I was stepping back in time, or that the past was walking forth to greet me. Glancing around the room, I couldn't help but notice an intricate quilt resting on the corner of a chair. When I asked complimented her on her <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">quilt work</span> she responded with a twinkling eye and a subtle smile,<span style="font-style: italic;"> "Oh yes, I've won a few ribbons"</span> and then told me about the old country fairs and the pieces she entered in the contests.<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TI5WmP246tI/AAAAAAAAEIY/fFMMDrG9qwU/s1600/IMG_4274.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TI5WmP246tI/AAAAAAAAEIY/fFMMDrG9qwU/s200/IMG_4274.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516441808667208402" border="0" /></a>Although a little hard of hearing, Georgina was still sharp as a knife, with the memory of a fox. Gary and Gloria spent hours with her, listening to stories about the days of old and trying to piece together what life was like on the island before they were born.<br /><br />Being one used to real food, and not the overly processed prepackaged stuff that makes up most of the stock in the grocery isles, Gloria had come prepared to help Georgina through the winter. Boxes of canned peaches and plums lay on the floor in the living room, waiting for someone to pack them down to the pantry for storage. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Round this part of the world, folks don't go for store bought bread,"</span> Gary informed me, <span style="font-style: italic;">"they still bake it themselves, although Aunt Georgina is getting a little too old for all that, so her friends and neighbors come by with their homemade loafs". </span><br /><br />The next morning we are toasted raisin bread for breakfast, and I savoured every bite of the bread just as I savoured every moment of our conversation. Good food, I think, is one of the <a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TI5Wm0UuJxI/AAAAAAAAEIg/w3IgO8ZlmzI/s1600/IMG_4183.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TI5Wm0UuJxI/AAAAAAAAEIg/w3IgO8ZlmzI/s200/IMG_4183.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516441818456008466" border="0" /></a>simplest ways to happy living. The meal I shared with the "three G's" reminded me of all the other excellent home cooked meals I've eaten on this trip, and I was thankful that I can find such supreme pleasure in the process of cooking, eating, and sharing stories. My mind jumped through time and space and I had a flashback of Toby, Ian, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Ayla</span> and I, all perched on her sloped roof at midnight eating home baked pizza and listening to the sounds of the Blues Fest in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Thunderbay</span>. Nothing spectacular happened that night, although it was beyond a doubt a magical and fantastic evening. The process of nourishing ourselves provided entertainment enough, and my memory of the four of us dining above the city and under the stars, with plates on our laps and wine glasses balanced precariously on the windowsill will never fade.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TI5YkON2ofI/AAAAAAAAEIs/vFv1i8Qq7Gc/s1600/IMG_4209.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TI5YkON2ofI/AAAAAAAAEIs/vFv1i8Qq7Gc/s200/IMG_4209.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516443972890173938" border="0" /></a>On a completely unrelated note, I had the pleasure of strolling down a carpeted path through the woods! I was sleeping in the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">camper van</span> of Gene and Bob, a couple of awesome folks from the tiny town of Rock <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Barra</span> on the North Shore of the island. In the morning before I left they took me out for a pleasant stroll through the path that Bob had cut through the bush out to the beach. Their energetic son William, as well as their stick-obsessed dog Rover joined us and we went forth as a merry troupe into the morning sun. Our route took us through the forest, across bridges, alongside the pond, over sand dunes, and back through a carpeted path to their property. It was something straight from the pages of Alice in Wonderland, and I loved every moment of the excursion with these friendly Islanders whom I hardly knew :)megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03687031759616638202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606751562252422498.post-22087891455728653032010-09-06T10:08:00.001-07:002010-09-11T09:59:48.701-07:00Hurricane Earl hits PEI<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TIkIhOC17rI/AAAAAAAAEH8/bE0icecGmH0/s1600/megpic+010.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TIkIhOC17rI/AAAAAAAAEH8/bE0icecGmH0/s200/megpic+010.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514948585490607794" border="0" /></a><br />Ha, and to think that I thought I was through with extreme weather conditions. Seemingly endless thunderstorms in BC, flooding in Alberta and Saskatchewan, narrowly escaping typhoons in Manitoba, record breaking heat in New Brunswick, and now hurricane Earl. Of course, being cycling nomads we don't really have time to pay attention to the weather or news, and so the fact that there was hurricane brewing off the coast of the Atlantic escaped our knowledge until the day before it hit the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Maritimes</span>. Luckily, after we visited lovely Cavendish Beach and Green Gables we found a cozy little cottage in North <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Rustico</span> to hole up in while the winds gained strength and rain pelted down. But as usual, I'm getting ahead of myself...<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TIkFpiDCkZI/AAAAAAAAEG8/4kDjxPSOMYU/s1600/megpic+015.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TIkFpiDCkZI/AAAAAAAAEG8/4kDjxPSOMYU/s200/megpic+015.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514945429764215186" border="0" /></a><br />We arrived at the base of Confederation Bridge on Thursday afternoon, heading to the info center on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Journiman</span> Island to dial the pedestrian/cyclist shuttle <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">hotline</span>. Within a half hour, a van appeared to take us across Canada's longest bridge. The woman running the van told us that they were expexting high winds and lots of rain, <span style="font-style: italic;">"We're preparing for a full shut down of the bridge, ferry, and airport for all of Saturday</span>". Since Toby had a flight to catch from Charlottetown on Sunday morning, this caused a little concern, but the van driver assured us that these things usually pass over quickly, so he should be alright.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TIkGpICBsHI/AAAAAAAAEHI/nsRCZ4nn7sw/s1600/megpic+002.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TIkGpICBsHI/AAAAAAAAEHI/nsRCZ4nn7sw/s200/megpic+002.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514946522292269170" border="0" /></a><br />Once across the bridge we grabbed a map of PEI and a few groceries and went out in search of a home for the night. Our game plan was to head northwest to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Sunnyside</span>, then north to the beaches and the home of dear Anne before arriving in the capital city of Charlottetown on Saturday night. We wanted to stay off the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">main roads</span>, take it easy, and eat some potatoes. My cousins had warned me that PEI was nothing but potatoes fields and red earth, and groaned over my heartfelt desire to explore the island. I'll have to say, they were partly right, but nonetheless I loved every moment of my time there :) The "gentle island" is just as friendly, just as photogenic, and just as charming as it appears in postcards and descriptions. We savoured the scent of potatoes growing in the fields, the sight of corn stalks waving in the breeze, and the views of charming old farm houses.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TIkH5sK7dAI/AAAAAAAAEHk/U8p_X_f90Bo/s1600/megpic+001.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TIkH5sK7dAI/AAAAAAAAEHk/U8p_X_f90Bo/s200/megpic+001.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514947906382820354" border="0" /></a><br />That night we didn't make it too far before darkness set in. We spotted a home with a nice big lawn and few trees in a corner, and rolled up the driveway to ask permission to set up camp for the night. We bumped in to the shirtless homeowner in the garage, who was shaking a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">spray bottle</span>,<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Hey there folks. Need some <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">bugspray</span>? <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Hah</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">hah</span>, just joking! It's a can of paint! But seriously, if you want some <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">bug spray</span>, we've got plenty."</span><br />Not only did he allow us to set up in his yard, but he also invited us to take a dip in the pool. It was a hot, humid evening and even though we'd already been swimming a few times that day, we were eager to cool off once more. Having a blast practicing our underwater handstands and swimming round and round in circles holding our breath, I again wondered if I was a grown up or a child.<br /><br />The next morning we cruised into <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Sunnyside</span>, bumping into the friendly homeo<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TIkGpvQDmrI/AAAAAAAAEHQ/M5Harv6ofOY/s1600/megpic+007.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TIkGpvQDmrI/AAAAAAAAEHQ/M5Harv6ofOY/s200/megpic+007.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514946532820097714" border="0" /></a>wner on the road. It turns out he was a potato farmer! Then we made our way north, tackling a few hills and stopping for <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">gelato</span> before arriving at the red sands of Cavendish Beach. This part of the island has a resort/touristy feel, with <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">water slides</span>, an amusement part, and lots of mini golf. I was glad that there were no big eye-sore monstrosity hotels or shopping malls though. Lots of cabins, cottages, and low profile motels, but nothing gigantic and overbearing.<br /><br />We stocked up on food, splurging on <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Havarti</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">cheese</span> and chocolate covered <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">craisins</span>, then headed east along the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">north shore</span>, stopping to visit Green Gables, the home that inspired the setting for L.M. Montgomery to create her beloved tale of a red-haired orphan, <i>Anne of Green Ga</i><i>bles</i>.<br /><br />The storm was <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">forcasted</span> to hit sometime in the late night/early morning/ We debated<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TIkGpzel3AI/AAAAAAAAEHY/wnF8zNlq7a4/s1600/megpic+006.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TIkGpzel3AI/AAAAAAAAEHY/wnF8zNlq7a4/s200/megpic+006.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514946533954804738" border="0" /></a> whether to take a chance and camp, or just get a room for the night. Even though it was a long weekend, since there was a tropical storm advancing on the island there were <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">plenty</span> of vacancies. While making our way towards North <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Rustico</span> we saw a sign advertising cheap cottages for rent, and that sealed the deal. We were in luck: not only did we get a room with a kitchenette, but also a pool to swim in, free laundry service, and a visit from a friendly fox.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Unfortunately</span>, when we went to leave the next morning the storm was in full swing. Dar<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TIkH57YOAMI/AAAAAAAAEHs/BXrgcdG1hZA/s1600/megpic+014.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TIkH57YOAMI/AAAAAAAAEHs/BXrgcdG1hZA/s200/megpic+014.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514947910465093826" border="0" /></a>k, ominous clouds flying around in the sky, rain blasting against the windows, and wind breaking the filmsy screen doors. Luckily, we were on PEI, home to more friendly people per <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">caipita</span> than anywhere else I've traveled. Richard, the husband of the receptionist at the cottages came by in his little white pickup truck and we tossed our bikes in the back, squeezed ourselves into the front, and sped off towards Charlottetown. He dropped us off at the Sherwood Motel by the airport so that Toby could easily make his 7:00am flight out of town the next morning. The wind got worse and so did the rain, and we were just thankful that we weren't camping or biking in this wretched weather.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TIkH6QkzTFI/AAAAAAAAEH0/nZfwMwYs9NQ/s1600/megpic+012.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TIkH6QkzTFI/AAAAAAAAEH0/nZfwMwYs9NQ/s200/megpic+012.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5514947916155014226" border="0" /></a><br />By the evening, things had calmed down and we found a ride into town with one of the hotel owners. He gave us the grand tour, then dropped us of in the city center with a warning that we <span style="font-style: italic;">"might not be able to find much open to eat at, since most places lost power"</span>. The rain had ceased and the air was warm; it was hard to believe the anger that brewed in the skies just a few hours ago, except for the big puddles and downed branches on the road. We smiled as a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">water grate</span> spurted three shoots of water up in the air like a fountain while tourists and locals passed by.megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03687031759616638202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606751562252422498.post-86892810109693101482010-09-03T14:13:00.000-07:002010-09-06T14:33:30.559-07:00Hot hot heat and baseball diamonds<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TIVXWm6sOkI/AAAAAAAAEFg/8lfXpez7y5g/s1600/IMG_3937%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513909364700494402" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TIVXWm6sOkI/AAAAAAAAEFg/8lfXpez7y5g/s200/IMG_3937%5B1%5D.jpg" /></a>Following the Acadian Coastal Route, Toby and I left Madran and headed southeast toward Confederation Bridge and Prince Edward Island. Auntie Rita stuffed our panniers full of homegrown tomatoes and cucumbers, Hector snapping pictures as we cruised out their driveway and into the great wide open. As we arrived in Bathurst, we were startled by someone's fanatic honking; it turned out to be my cousin Darcy and a car full of relatives who'd come out to send us off. We met up at the grocery store parking lot for final farewells, hugs, and a few photos before leaving town. Toby and I impressed everyone with our public changing skills (I don't know if people should be impressed or embarrassed to see us strip in and out of our pants in public), then followed the starfish signs indicating our route out of town. Not surprisingly, we bumped into my cousin Mike (Bathurst isn't a big place) who'd just started his shift at Greeko's Pizza delivery. More hugs and photos, but this time we actually left town after saying our third farewell for the day.<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TIVXXVCIguI/AAAAAAAAEFo/KqeSADCQkEg/s1600/IMG_3958%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513909377079739106" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TIVXXVCIguI/AAAAAAAAEFo/KqeSADCQkEg/s200/IMG_3958%5B1%5D.jpg" /></a>The next few days we made our way through small coastal communities and maritime scenery. White capped waves, slowly rolling towards the shore as low flying seagulls searching for underwater prey sweep over above the crests. Weather beaten wood frame houses of yellow, blue and red stand out brilliantly amongst the rippling grass and fields of golden hay. Toby and I both notice the abundance of false window shutters, the funky painted mailboxes, the tiny churches in the heart of each community (very different from the enormous, decadant churches of Quebec) and the prevalence of the Acadian flag.<br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TIVXXpMiaoI/AAAAAAAAEFw/T_i36rSlnX0/s1600/IMG_3960%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513909382492088962" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TIVXXpMiaoI/AAAAAAAAEFw/T_i36rSlnX0/s200/IMG_3960%5B1%5D.jpg" /></a>We made our way down through Grande Anse (the huge church dominating the skyline), Caraquet (where we camped on our first baseball diamond, cooking up our dinner of side kicks and veggies in the dug out), Tracedie-Sheila, Neguac, and Miramichi (where we camped at our second baseball diamond, cooking dinner on a picnic table and sleeping just off the field amongt poplar trees).<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TIVd_oxrehI/AAAAAAAAEGc/XLqO90_jt2w/s1600/IMG_3981%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513916666643970578" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TIVd_oxrehI/AAAAAAAAEGc/XLqO90_jt2w/s200/IMG_3981%5B1%5D.jpg" /></a>From there the heat picked up, with temperatures soaring into the thirties and the humidity going through the roof. Our days were characterized by the quest to find ice cream and water to cool down our core temperatures (ok ok, I doubt ice cream really cooled us down, but it sure tasted good :). We took a short cut, following hwy 11 and hopping back on the Acadian Coastal route around Kouchibouguac National Park. We leapt in the river at Richibucto, then lackadaisically cooked noodles and munched on bagles smothered in nutella in our swimsuits before heading down the road towards beautiful Bouctouche, where we found ourselves swimming in another river.<br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TIVZXvEvb6I/AAAAAAAAEF8/ORCQ8aExfu0/s1600/IMG_3998%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513911583093256098" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TIVZXvEvb6I/AAAAAAAAEF8/ORCQ8aExfu0/s200/IMG_3998%5B1%5D.jpg" /></a>Somewhere along the way, we ran out of water and went to fill up at the town market while buying a fresh loaf of bread, only to learn that the local water was not drinkable. The cashier sketched us a map to a bubbling spring, and we gallivanted down back roads and along unmarked footpaths until we found this mythical wonder. Stunned by the simple beauty of the gurgling water coming out of the ground and forming a tiny pool in the woods, we sat in silence after we filled our bottles and thought about what life might have been like for the people of the past who relied on this freshwater source for their livelihood. We ended our day in the tiny town of Cocagne, where we camped at our third baseball diamond, cooking dinner on the bleachers this time. French toast for breakfast at the local diner, then we were off towards Shediac (lobster crazy! more swimming here) and Cap Pele in the scorching heat.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TIVZYQzRI3I/AAAAAAAAEGM/66-9k9EKV18/s1600/IMG_4009%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513911592146772850" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TIVZYQzRI3I/AAAAAAAAEGM/66-9k9EKV18/s200/IMG_4009%5B1%5D.jpg" /></a>Around Mates Corner, we encountered a detour sign and opted against following it since it would take us on the busy highway and add an extra 15-20 km to our route. Before long, we found ourselves at a washed out bridge, and had to follow a tiny path with precarious stairs (pointed out to us by the construction workers, hiding from the sun in the shade of giant diggers and smoking cigarrettes) in order to make it through. We cruised down empty country roads, singing and pointing out collapsed houses along the way, stopping in a Murray Beach for a dip before heading to Jourimain Island to wait for the transport vehicle to take us across Canada's longest bridge into Prince Edward Island.<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TIVZYM_uFkI/AAAAAAAAEGE/mGQKay9UVH8/s1600/IMG_3991%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 150px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513911591125259842" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TIVZYM_uFkI/AAAAAAAAEGE/mGQKay9UVH8/s200/IMG_3991%5B1%5D.jpg" /></a>A few more notes about New Brunswick: nobody has fences here. The only fences I've seen are the tall chain link ones used to keep moose off the highway. Also, drivers don't seem to differentiate between lawn and road. Driving right through a backyard (remember, there's no fences to separate the back and front yards), or across a soccer field are perfectly normal things to do here. A lot of people smoke, and drink coffee, and eat lobster. People were really curious and outgoing around us; every time we found ourselves at a Timmy's or a grocery store or a diner we were approached by people who wanted to know more about our journey, and wishing us good luck in our travels. On the road, we receive lots of cheery honks from friendly drivers, to which we automatically respond with a beaming smile and a raised arm giving the peace sign. Everyone seems to have an accent, and each is totally different from the next. French signage is everywhere, and people often approached us speaking in french, then switching over to english after we gave them confused looks as we tried to decode this unfamiliar language. I can really see the merits of being bilingual in this part of the world.megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03687031759616638202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606751562252422498.post-44492054130477260292010-08-30T06:04:00.000-07:002010-09-17T17:17:33.138-07:00Welcome to the family, welcome to the Maritimes<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/THu5SA3r6EI/AAAAAAAAEE0/eEOmXstgppU/s1600/385.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px; float: left; height: 150px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511202288140281922" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/THu5SA3r6EI/AAAAAAAAEE0/eEOmXstgppU/s200/385.JPG" border="0" /></a>Tell me, does this sound kind of crazy: on the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">other side</span> of the country, I arrived in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">Madran</span> (New Brunswick) on the front porch of an Aunt that I've never met before with a guy that I picked up along the side of the highway. From there, we spent the next few day driving around town, drinking Tim <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">Hortons</span> (<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">cus</span> that's what you do here: you drink coffee at Timmy's), and getting to know the family that I never really knew existed. Well, I always knew they were out there, I just didn't know their names or how many of them there were or how awesome and fun they could be :) I believe meeting my Auntie Rita and all my wacky cousins (and second cousins and their friends and pets and animals) was the perfect introduction of Maritime living. We're finally out of Quebec after nearly three weeks of travel, and Dave has departed from the triad to hop on a train to get back to Edmonton for work.<br /><div><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJQEolPJSAI/AAAAAAAAELA/oZVz-yFgT4o/s1600/58985_651578201105_120407267_37885343_528287_n-1.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TJQEolPJSAI/AAAAAAAAELA/oZVz-yFgT4o/s200/58985_651578201105_120407267_37885343_528287_n-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518040538672613378" border="0" /></a><em>"We do things differently over here"</em> says my Auntie Rita to me on the morning of our second day.<em> "Rules? Ha! They're made to be broken!"</em> And it's true; the folks here seem to have a general, oh how do you say, lack of concern for the law. They just do their own thing, and if it happens to be against a law or two, well so be it. Another thing I noticed right away was that they put family first, always. So after a lifetime of separation and three months on the road, you can bet that it felt pretty good to be at long last welcomed in to the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">east coast</span> side of the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">Wray</span> family.<br /><br /><div><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/THu5UD6TyMI/AAAAAAAAEFM/gELYcXon8j0/s1600/322.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px; float: left; height: 150px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511202323316328642" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/THu5UD6TyMI/AAAAAAAAEFM/gELYcXon8j0/s200/322.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>On Saturday night my cousin Mike and his wife Sylvie threw a shindig and we all wound up over there til two or three in the morning. The kids (hopped up on <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">sugar</span>) ran around the yard and played washers (a unique Maritime game, something like horseshoes). Toby and I told stories of our adventures through the country while we roasted hot dogs and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">marsh mellows</span> round the fire in the backyard. Later the guitars were pulled out, songs were sung, and a few beers consumed. I pulled out the phone round midnight (only 8:00pm Pacific) and dialed up a couple of family members from the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">West coast</span> and passed the receiver <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">round</span> the fire. This was the first time some of them talked, person to person, ever. It's a long way from one coast to the other, and not too many people in my family have made the journey. I feel a certain sense of fullness now though, a feeling like I'm somehow more aware of who I am now that I'm here.</div><br /><div><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/THu5TszAbkI/AAAAAAAAEFE/vMbKnDTfIdk/s1600/398.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 150px; float: left; height: 200px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511202317111684674" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/THu5TszAbkI/AAAAAAAAEFE/vMbKnDTfIdk/s200/398.JPG" border="0" /></a> Staying with Rita, I took my first shower in over a week. I slept in a bed for the first time in over two weeks. I drove in a car for the first time in over a month. Auntie Rita drove us around (Tim Horton's cups in hand) sightseeing around <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error">Bathurst</span>. We checked out the lovely <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-error">Papineau</span> falls, downtown <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-error">Bathurst</span>, and stopped in at the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-error">Poissonnarie</span> to buy some fresh lobster. I can't really say that I actually enjoyed the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" class="blsp-spelling-error">crustacean</span>, but it was <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">definitely</span> an experience. There's a strong Acadian heritage around here-Rita's husband Hector is Acadian. The power line posts are painted with the blue, red and white of the Acadian flag and folks converse in French as fluently as the chat in English. There's so much signage written in French, there's moments that I forget that we're not in Quebec anymore.</div><div><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TIVfMT-tXFI/AAAAAAAAEGo/kXkRKs5lXn4/s1600/IMG_3943%5B1%5D.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px; float: left; height: 150px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513917983911402578" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TIVfMT-tXFI/AAAAAAAAEGo/kXkRKs5lXn4/s200/IMG_3943%5B1%5D.jpg" border="0" /></a>Yesterday we hopped in an old school bus, rode up the <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_18" class="blsp-spelling-error">Nipisiguit</span> river, and spent the afternoon tubing down. Eleven of us in total, we cruised down <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_19" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">lackadaisically</span>, holding hands and laughing as our big black tubes bumped up against <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_20" class="blsp-spelling-error">each</span> other and flew through the rapids. Toby and Mike, being the daredevils that they are, decided to climb the bridge and leap off of it. We cheered and jeered them on, applauding as they came up gasping and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_21" class="blsp-spelling-corrected">exhilarated</span>.<br /></div><div><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/THu5S2z91vI/AAAAAAAAEE8/oWxkKyuPPsU/s1600/363.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px; float: left; height: 150px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511202302620194546" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/THu5S2z91vI/AAAAAAAAEE8/oWxkKyuPPsU/s200/363.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />We had planned on having a big family supper at Rita's place that night, but didn't find ourselves back in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_22" class="blsp-spelling-error">Madran</span> until nearly 10:00pm. So we made grilled cheese and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_23" class="blsp-spelling-error">fried</span> up leftover pasta, and spend a while enjoying the warm evening on the porch with my cousin Darcy, his wife Wendy, and their awesome kids Brandon and Sabrina. Tired from all the sun but happy to have our bellies full, we chatted about our day on the water, summer camp and clamming until it was time for bed.<br /><br />So now we're off! Down the coast, and onward to PEI. </div></div></div>megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03687031759616638202noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606751562252422498.post-13285437279682774602010-08-27T07:24:00.001-07:002011-03-24T00:17:48.072-07:00Montreal and Quebec City (mid August)<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/THtCRihc-nI/AAAAAAAAEDw/BOuTDMyQZdA/s1600/316.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 150px; float: left; height: 200px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511071438110259826" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/THtCRihc-nI/AAAAAAAAEDw/BOuTDMyQZdA/s200/316.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />Well, this is posted a bit later than I would have like, but whatever. Finding time to write, ride and eat has been a bit of a challenge these past few weeks. We've established a strong (but rather unorthodox) tradition of doing handstands to warm up in the morning, getting better and better each day :)<br /><br />Biking in Quebec was a treat! Besides running into an angry Québécois who shouted profanities and hit Toby upside the head as he passed by on his bike, everyone we've met here has been friendly and kind...even though I don't know what they're saying most of the time. Sigh, Mrs Doubie (my high school french teacher) would not be impressed with me right now. Out of the three of us, Toby speaks the best francais. Dave was basically useless, and I wasn't much better. I could order a coffee just the way I liked it, and ask for poutine. But that was about it.<br /><br />La Route Verte, an interconnecting web of bike paths criss crossing the country, was the primary avenue for our exploration. We saw a lot of countryside, small towns, and views of the Saint Lawrence. Sometimes the bike path would cut away from the highway, following smaller roads and often leading us down gravel trails that soared up and down hillsides or along marshy inlets. Besides rural Quebec in general and Gaspasie in particular (where we found ourselves camped under a lighthouse and watching an unbelievable sunset with wondrous eyes) the two most brilliant and amazing places we visited were Montreal and Quebec City.<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/THtBNz1ynfI/AAAAAAAAEDM/5JhQySf_7HY/s1600/321.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 150px; float: left; height: 200px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511070274527862258" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/THtBNz1ynfI/AAAAAAAAEDM/5JhQySf_7HY/s200/321.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />In Montreal we stayed at the place of a friend (Jessica) of a guy (JP) that Toby cycled with on the Pacific Coast two summers ago. The three of us reveled in the delights of having an indoor space to chill out in. We spent a formidable portion of our time in the city listening to records, drinking Maudite (beer), and lounging around on the sofas with the cats. Jessica had decorated her place with a mish mash of stuff she'd found in thrift stores and picked up on the side of the road for free. I totally dug it :)<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/THtCRJNaWtI/AAAAAAAAEDo/DMi4dkz5Vow/s1600/657.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px; float: left; height: 150px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511071431315315410" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/THtCRJNaWtI/AAAAAAAAEDo/DMi4dkz5Vow/s200/657.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />Grilling up cheesy sandwiches and toasting each other with wine glasses of chocolate soy milk, I thought that life couldn't get any better. But then, we left the apartment and discovered how awesome the city was. Bang, pow! Amazing place! We watched fireworks from a bridge top, rode around like maniacs on our bikes (because that's the way city folk ride-like crazy people), and ate smoked meat. We listened to an outstanding organ performance in the Basilica, devoured overflowing bowls of pho in Chinatown, and explored paths and city parks on our bikes. I really liked the mix of new and old buildings, the number of bike paths and bikers (go Bixi go!), as well as the the wicked graffiti and stylishly painted apartments.<br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/THtCQqEVX_I/AAAAAAAAEDg/ssmVNZBKyTs/s1600/371.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 150px; float: left; height: 200px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511071422955741170" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/THtCQqEVX_I/AAAAAAAAEDg/ssmVNZBKyTs/s200/371.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />One night we met up with my high school friend Austin, who'd been living in Montreal since he moved out east to go to uni. It was a rainy Sunday, and we showed up at the Mad Hatter soaking wet with rain and smelling kind of funky. Austin (who was sensibly dressed, arriving via public transit waiting out from of the pub with an umbrella in hand) recognized us immediately and we spent the night drinking pitchers of beer, playing pool and Foosball, and re-telling stories from our youth. Dave ordered a pizza delivered to the bar, Austin ordered a couple of neon coloured test tube shooters, and at one point Toby decided it would be a good idea to do a handstand on the pool table. We left on our bikes, braving the rain and the dark and cruised around the city in search of poutine, eventually winding back up at Jessica's apartment where we polished off a bottle of wine and a bag of grapes (tossing them into each others mouths, leaping and diving to catch the plump green fruits) before passed out in the wee hours of the morning watching Bio dome on VHS.<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/THtCP3KBkpI/AAAAAAAAEDY/ecr9Nay-aq0/s1600/368.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 150px; float: left; height: 200px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511071409289400978" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/THtCP3KBkpI/AAAAAAAAEDY/ecr9Nay-aq0/s200/368.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />In Quebec City (well, people here just say Quebec, but I always say Quebec City because I find it confusing otherwise) we stayed with couchsurfers. Our hosts Clair, Jean Sebastian, and Antoine were really chill folks, making us pancakes and giving us the low down on the city. Oh, and they had a newly acquired Super Nintento, on which we squandered many hours playing Mario and battling velocoraptors in Jurassic Park. Good times :)<br /><br />Old Quebec was amazing. I mean, I'm from the West: if there's a building older than a century it's pretty much a historical landmark. So to visit a place where most everything is a few hundred years old was just a little bit mind blowing. We locked up our bike and explored by foot; wandering through the windy cobblestone streets, stopping in at chocolatiers and soaking up sounds of fiddlers playing in the street for coins. We explored the excavation at Chateau Frontenac, wandered around the enormous walls of the citadel, and gawked at the magnificence of the churches. We spent the better portion of an evening chilling out on top of some ancient fortification (with cannons everywhere!), watching the world go by below us and the sun set above us. One night we watched a Cirque du Soleil performance under a bridge, and it didn't cost a cent! Dancers soared across wire over our heads, romped through the crowd on the backs of stilt animals, and performed incredible acts of contortion. It was mind blowing. Then we ate ice cream, which was pretty good as well.<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/THtC_EhuqTI/AAAAAAAAED4/rvY8IBnzh_Q/s1600/699.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px; float: left; height: 150px;" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511072220332337458" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/THtC_EhuqTI/AAAAAAAAED4/rvY8IBnzh_Q/s200/699.JPG" border="0" /></a><br />In a moment of blondness, I dropped my camera on the ground with the lens open. It kind of created a fishbowl affect, and all my pictures looked like they were from a skate video or through the eyes of a drunkard. So I splurged and bought a new one (hot pink this time!), vowing to be more careful in the future.megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03687031759616638202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606751562252422498.post-86753568965414491282010-08-23T13:40:00.000-07:002010-09-17T10:19:29.290-07:00Gaspésie!<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/THtEOihXqUI/AAAAAAAAEEM/HtewUVNno-I/s1600/001.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/THtEOihXqUI/AAAAAAAAEEM/HtewUVNno-I/s200/001.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511073585593559362" /></a><br />Another short post, sorry folks. I'm in Chandler, on the southern coast of Gaspésie! This past week has been a blast-riding up and down hwy 132 with soaring cliffs on one side and blue blue ocean on the other. Riding with the boys, there are plenty of laughs on the roads. We lackadaisically cruise down the street with no hands, singing old jazz hits at the top of our lungs and hurling apples at each other from time to time. Amazed, the three of us watch seagulls dive bomb into the sea for fish, eye up seals bobbing up and down in the little bays, and nap at the base of waterfalls. Outstanding lighthouses, beautifully painted seaside homes, and friendly folks pop up wherever we go.<br /><br />And the food! Only in Québec. Ice cream parlors and little casse croutes are everywhere; I can`t get enough of the poutine :) Finally, my dream of eating potatoes whenever and wherever I want has come true.<br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/THtEPGj7Q9I/AAAAAAAAEEU/WmTCWx60jjQ/s1600/104.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/THtEPGj7Q9I/AAAAAAAAEEU/WmTCWx60jjQ/s200/104.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511073595267957714" /></a><br />I'll be in New Brunswick in less than a week. Until then, I'll be enjoying the coast and the company of my fellow cycling companions. Oh, and I slept in a kids playground last night; the sound of crashing waves lulling me to sleep. Fearful that I would wake to a small child flying down the slide and into my tent, I woke early to enjoy the sunrise over Tété d'Indian.<br /><br />peace,<br />Megmegshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03687031759616638202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606751562252422498.post-79929630043446978462010-08-19T11:01:00.000-07:002010-09-17T10:18:49.618-07:00Where in the world is Meaghan?Bonjour!<br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/THtFWa_NpmI/AAAAAAAAEEg/X05hsE_AWpA/s1600/142.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/THtFWa_NpmI/AAAAAAAAEEg/X05hsE_AWpA/s200/142.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511074820521829986" /></a><br />Ok, so the short answer is that I'm in Quebec. I'm cycling with Toby and Dave, and we're rocking out the Gaspe Peninsula. This was totally not on my route plan (haha, as if I had a route plan to begin with!) but Toby kind of convinced me that it would be awesome and it was too much fun cycling with them to part ways so soon. Sooooo, here I am :) everytime I see a tanker cruising along the waters of the Saint Lawrence, I'm hit with the sudden realization that I'm actually IN Quebec. It's just crazy to think that I'm on the Atlantic, not the Pacific anymore.<br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/THtFWzD2AhI/AAAAAAAAEEo/03TMmjfZy5U/s1600/318.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/THtFWzD2AhI/AAAAAAAAEEo/03TMmjfZy5U/s200/318.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5511074826983703058" /></a><br />We cruised through Montreal, Trois Rivieres, Quebec City, and then started to make our way up the Saint Lawrence River. We took a couple of ferries, climbed a few massive hills, camped at an airport and wound up sipping beer on the sandy beach in spectacular Tadoussac. Dave dropped his video camera in the fjord, I dropped my camera on the cement, and The water has gotten saltier (and colder!), the scenery more astounding, and the English language less frequently used. I would write more, but the librarian here in Saint Anne des Monts wants me out of here now. Apparently blogging isn't a good enough reason to hog the only computer in the town. As soon as our laundry is done, we're heading out to chase the crashing waves and setting sun.megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03687031759616638202noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5606751562252422498.post-13637086013536676562010-08-19T10:36:00.000-07:002010-08-29T22:48:34.887-07:00Shepards Pie a la Velotramp<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TG7OKY-q1JI/AAAAAAAAECM/0yqs2bwGKA8/s1600/IMG_2205.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 281px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 221px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5507566072220013714" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TG7OKY-q1JI/AAAAAAAAECM/0yqs2bwGKA8/s320/IMG_2205.JPG" /></a><br />A <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_0" class="blsp-spelling-error">scrumptously</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_1" class="blsp-spelling-error">filling</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_2" class="blsp-spelling-error">dinner</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_3" class="blsp-spelling-error">suitable</span> for <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_4" class="blsp-spelling-error">backpackers</span> and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_5" class="blsp-spelling-error">pedalers</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_6" class="blsp-spelling-error">of</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_7" class="blsp-spelling-error">all</span> sorts!<br /><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;"><strong><span style="color:#ff6666;"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_8" class="blsp-spelling-error">Ingredients</span>:</span><br /></strong></span><br /><em>Part <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_9" class="blsp-spelling-error">one-the</span> base:<br /></em><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_10" class="blsp-spelling-error">lentils</span> (<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_11" class="blsp-spelling-error">substitute</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_12" class="blsp-spelling-error">with</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_13" class="blsp-spelling-error">sidekicks</span> if <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_14" class="blsp-spelling-error">preferred</span>)<br /><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_15" class="blsp-spelling-error">Texturized</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_16" class="blsp-spelling-error">Vegetable</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_17" class="blsp-spelling-error">Protein</span> (<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_18" class="blsp-spelling-error">TVP</span>)<br />curry <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_19" class="blsp-spelling-error">powder</span><br /><br /><em>Part <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_20" class="blsp-spelling-error">two-the</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_21" class="blsp-spelling-error">midsection</span>:<br /></em><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_22" class="blsp-spelling-error">one</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_23" class="blsp-spelling-error">medium</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_24" class="blsp-spelling-error">onion</span><br />1/2 green <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_25" class="blsp-spelling-error">pepper</span><br /><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_26" class="blsp-spelling-error">one</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_27" class="blsp-spelling-error">small</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_28" class="blsp-spelling-error">zucchini</span><br /><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_29" class="blsp-spelling-error">five</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_30" class="blsp-spelling-error">cloves</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_31" class="blsp-spelling-error">of</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_32" class="blsp-spelling-error">garlic</span><br /><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_33" class="blsp-spelling-error">other</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_34" class="blsp-spelling-error">seasonal</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_35" class="blsp-spelling-error">veggies</span> as <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_36" class="blsp-spelling-error">available</span><br /><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_37" class="blsp-spelling-error">one-two</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_38" class="blsp-spelling-error">tablespoons</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_39" class="blsp-spelling-error">of</span> olive <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_40" class="blsp-spelling-error">oil</span><br /><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_41" class="blsp-spelling-error">pinch</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_42" class="blsp-spelling-error">of</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_43" class="blsp-spelling-error">oregono</span><br /><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_44" class="blsp-spelling-error">dash</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_45" class="blsp-spelling-error">of</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_46" class="blsp-spelling-error">salt</span> and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_47" class="blsp-spelling-error">pepper</span><br /><br /><em>Part <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_48" class="blsp-spelling-error">three-the</span> top</em><br /><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_49" class="blsp-spelling-error">one</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_50" class="blsp-spelling-error">package</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_51" class="blsp-spelling-error">of</span> instant <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_52" class="blsp-spelling-error">mash</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_53" class="blsp-spelling-error">potatoes</span> (<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_54" class="blsp-spelling-error">preferably</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_55" class="blsp-spelling-error">garlic</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_56" class="blsp-spelling-error">flavoured</span>)<br />four <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_57" class="blsp-spelling-error">fresh</span> green <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_58" class="blsp-spelling-error">onions</span><br />2 <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_59" class="blsp-spelling-error">heaping</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_60" class="blsp-spelling-error">tablespoons</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_61" class="blsp-spelling-error">of</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_62" class="blsp-spelling-error">cream</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_63" class="blsp-spelling-error">cheese</span><br /><br /><em>Part <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_64" class="blsp-spelling-error">four-the</span> accoutrements<br /></em><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_65" class="blsp-spelling-error">one</span> large <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_66" class="blsp-spelling-error">avacado</span><br /><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_67" class="blsp-spelling-error">tex</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_68" class="blsp-spelling-error">mex</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_69" class="blsp-spelling-error">seasoning</span><br /><br /><strong><span style="color:#ff6666;"><span id="SPELLING_ERROR_70" class="blsp-spelling-error">Step-by-step</span>:<br /></span></strong><br />1. 1-2 <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_71" class="blsp-spelling-error">hours</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_72" class="blsp-spelling-error">prior</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_73" class="blsp-spelling-error">to</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_74" class="blsp-spelling-error">meal</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_75" class="blsp-spelling-error">soak</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_76" class="blsp-spelling-error">lentils</span> in thermos <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_77" class="blsp-spelling-error">to</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_78" class="blsp-spelling-error">aid</span> in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_79" class="blsp-spelling-error">water</span> absorption and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_80" class="blsp-spelling-error">cooking</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_81" class="blsp-spelling-error">time</span><br />2. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_82" class="blsp-spelling-error">purchase</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_83" class="blsp-spelling-error">cheap</span> malt <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_84" class="blsp-spelling-error">beer</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_85" class="blsp-spelling-error">from</span> local <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_86" class="blsp-spelling-error">cornerstore</span> (<span id="SPELLING_ERROR_87" class="blsp-spelling-error">unless</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_88" class="blsp-spelling-error">you</span> don`t live in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_89" class="blsp-spelling-error">Quebec</span>, in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_90" class="blsp-spelling-error">which</span> case <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_91" class="blsp-spelling-error">you</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_92" class="blsp-spelling-error">might</span> have <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_93" class="blsp-spelling-error">to</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_94" class="blsp-spelling-error">walk</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_95" class="blsp-spelling-error">further</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_96" class="blsp-spelling-error">than</span> a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_97" class="blsp-spelling-error">block</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_98" class="blsp-spelling-error">to</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_99" class="blsp-spelling-error">buy</span> a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_100" class="blsp-spelling-error">beer</span>)<br />3. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_101" class="blsp-spelling-error">Prepare</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_102" class="blsp-spelling-error">WhisperLight</span> for <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_103" class="blsp-spelling-error">meal</span>. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_104" class="blsp-spelling-error">Be</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_105" class="blsp-spelling-error">careful</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_106" class="blsp-spelling-error">not</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_107" class="blsp-spelling-error">to</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_108" class="blsp-spelling-error">light</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_109" class="blsp-spelling-error">your</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_110" class="blsp-spelling-error">hair</span> on <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_111" class="blsp-spelling-error">fire</span>.<br />4. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_112" class="blsp-spelling-error">Boil</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_113" class="blsp-spelling-error">lentils</span> in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_114" class="blsp-spelling-error">water</span> for 10 minutes. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_115" class="blsp-spelling-error">While</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_116" class="blsp-spelling-error">lentils</span> are <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_117" class="blsp-spelling-error">boiling</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_118" class="blsp-spelling-error">chop</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_119" class="blsp-spelling-error">veggies</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_120" class="blsp-spelling-error">using</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_121" class="blsp-spelling-error">the</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_122" class="blsp-spelling-error">underside</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_123" class="blsp-spelling-error">of</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_124" class="blsp-spelling-error">your</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_125" class="blsp-spelling-error">bowl</span> or a large <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_126" class="blsp-spelling-error">boulder</span> as a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_127" class="blsp-spelling-error">cutting</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_128" class="blsp-spelling-error">board</span>.<br />5. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_129" class="blsp-spelling-error">Remove</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_130" class="blsp-spelling-error">lentils</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_131" class="blsp-spelling-error">from</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_132" class="blsp-spelling-error">heat</span> and let <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_133" class="blsp-spelling-error">sit</span>. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_134" class="blsp-spelling-error">Toss</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_135" class="blsp-spelling-error">veggies</span> in a pot <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_136" class="blsp-spelling-error">with</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_137" class="blsp-spelling-error">oil</span> and a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_138" class="blsp-spelling-error">little</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_139" class="blsp-spelling-error">water</span> and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_140" class="blsp-spelling-error">bring</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_141" class="blsp-spelling-error">to</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_142" class="blsp-spelling-error">boil</span>. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_143" class="blsp-spelling-error">Add</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_144" class="blsp-spelling-error">spices</span> and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_145" class="blsp-spelling-error">stir</span> as <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_146" class="blsp-spelling-error">necessary</span>.<br />6. Once <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_147" class="blsp-spelling-error">veggies</span> are <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_148" class="blsp-spelling-error">done</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_149" class="blsp-spelling-error">switch</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_150" class="blsp-spelling-error">back</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_151" class="blsp-spelling-error">to</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_152" class="blsp-spelling-error">first</span> pot and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_153" class="blsp-spelling-error">heat</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_154" class="blsp-spelling-error">up</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_155" class="blsp-spelling-error">the</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_156" class="blsp-spelling-error">lentils</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_157" class="blsp-spelling-error">again</span>. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_158" class="blsp-spelling-error">Add</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_159" class="blsp-spelling-error">TVP</span> and curry <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_160" class="blsp-spelling-error">powder</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_161" class="blsp-spelling-error">to</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_162" class="blsp-spelling-error">the</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_163" class="blsp-spelling-error">mix</span>.<br />7. In a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_164" class="blsp-spelling-error">third</span> pot, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_165" class="blsp-spelling-error">bring</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_166" class="blsp-spelling-error">water</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_167" class="blsp-spelling-error">to</span> a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_168" class="blsp-spelling-error">roaring</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_169" class="blsp-spelling-error">boil</span> forinstant <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_170" class="blsp-spelling-error">mash</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_171" class="blsp-spelling-error">potatoes</span>. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_172" class="blsp-spelling-error">Remove</span> pot <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_173" class="blsp-spelling-error">from</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_174" class="blsp-spelling-error">heat</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_175" class="blsp-spelling-error"></span></div><div><span class="blsp-spelling-error">stir</span> in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_176" class="blsp-spelling-error">potatoes</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_177" class="blsp-spelling-error">until</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_178" class="blsp-spelling-error">smooth</span> and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_179" class="blsp-spelling-error">creamy</span>. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_180" class="blsp-spelling-error">Toss</span> in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_181" class="blsp-spelling-error">fi<img src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_57N8Jh8hPxQ/TG7OK_jGW2I/AAAAAAAAECU/r4duONJeoMY/s320/IMG_2208.JPG" width="175" height="238" />nely</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_182" class="blsp-spelling-error">chopped</span> green <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_183" class="blsp-spelling-error">onion</span> and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_184" class="blsp-spelling-error">cream</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_185" class="blsp-spelling-error">cheese</span> and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_186" class="blsp-spelling-error">fluff</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_187" class="blsp-spelling-error">with</span> a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_188" class="blsp-spelling-error">spork</span>.<br />8. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_189" class="blsp-spelling-error">Now</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_190" class="blsp-spelling-error">that</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_191" class="blsp-spelling-error">it</span>`s <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_192" class="blsp-spelling-error">all</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_193" class="blsp-spelling-error">cooked</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_194" class="blsp-spelling-error">begin</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_195" class="blsp-spelling-error">to</span> layer <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_196" class="blsp-spelling-error">the</span> pie in <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_197" class="blsp-spelling-error">individual</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_198" class="blsp-spelling-error">bowls</span>. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_199" class="blsp-spelling-error">First</span>, scoop out <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_200" class="blsp-spelling-error">the</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_201" class="blsp-spelling-error">lentils</span> and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_202" class="blsp-spelling-error">then</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_203" class="blsp-spelling-error">smooth</span>. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_204" class="blsp-spelling-error">Next</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_205" class="blsp-spelling-error">heap</span> out <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_206" class="blsp-spelling-error">the</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_207" class="blsp-spelling-error">veggies</span>. <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_208" class="blsp-spelling-error">Finally</span>, <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_209" class="blsp-spelling-error">add</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_210" class="blsp-spelling-error">the</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_211" class="blsp-spelling-error">creamy</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_212" class="blsp-spelling-error">mash</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_213" class="blsp-spelling-error">potatoes</span>.<br />9. Top <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_214" class="blsp-spelling-error">with</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_215" class="blsp-spelling-error">thinly</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_216" class="blsp-spelling-error">sliced</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_217" class="blsp-spelling-error">avacado</span> and a <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_218" class="blsp-spelling-error">generous</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_219" class="blsp-spelling-error">sprinkle</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_220" class="blsp-spelling-error">of</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_221" class="blsp-spelling-error">tex</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_222" class="blsp-spelling-error">mex</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_223" class="blsp-spelling-error">spice</span>.<br /><br />Bon <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_224" class="blsp-spelling-error">Appetit</span>!<br /><br />(I <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_225" class="blsp-spelling-error">would</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_226" class="blsp-spelling-error">add</span> a photo, but <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_227" class="blsp-spelling-error">this</span> computer <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_228" class="blsp-spelling-error">is</span> lame and <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_229" class="blsp-spelling-error">doesn</span>`t have a place for <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_230" class="blsp-spelling-error">my</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_231" class="blsp-spelling-error">USB</span> <span id="SPELLING_ERROR_232" class="blsp-spelling-error">cord. I also apologise for any spelling errors-the spell check is in French and thus it highlights nearly all my words as incorrect, so I can`t really use it</span>)</div>megshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03687031759616638202noreply@blogger.com1