A blissful birthday

Yeah, yeah, I was gone for a day. I went far enough north not to have Internet or cell reception. And frankly, as Delilah rolls the tape, you'll see why only a jackass would have been on a computer there...

Day 3: Port Hood to Meat Cove
Total mileage at the beginning of the day: 892.6

As is always the case with me, I was on the road around 7ish. Charlie came around the back of the motel and pulled a Scooby-Old-Man-Withers and scared the shit out of me: "You leaving already?" Garrahagah! Yes, sir.

My first stop off was Inverness, for a brief look at the coastal town near where Alistair MacLeod grew up (age 10 onward). MacLeod's short stories about working class families on Cape Breton are impeccably written. I've been rereading Island as I go on this adventure. One of the themes MacLeod touches on a lot are men working in the mines. Lots of mines across CB, and all the hardships that accompany that way of life.

The ride north switches from winding woods to open sea. And again, I love being the only person on the road.

And eventually, looming in the distance: Highlands National Park.

But before that: the adorable little town of Cheticamp. Being of French Canadian descent, I was really looking forward to this. While most of the towns up here are of Scottish descent, Cheticamp has stuck to its Acadian roots. Everyone appears to be bilingual--what I dig is that when I speak my toddler French at them, and they quickly begin talking in English, some have French accents, and some don't. I don't know. Maybe I'm spending too much time by myself if I think that's worth sharing. Whatevs.

The first two pics were taken from the island across from town.

All was right with the world, until I came across this and pulled a Dukes of Hazzard stop in the gravel on the side of the road.

Just real enough to be real creepy

The stuff of nightmares.
And who thought to put the triangular flag there?

I admit, this stuff gets people talking. I met a woman from Winnipeg at this spot. She asked me to take a picture of her with the scary dude. After, she asked if I wanted the same pic taken of me with him. Um, no.

Cheticamp is famous for its hooked rugs. Way back, traders from big cities paid Cheticamp women for their rugs, and the women were pretty thrilled to be able to make an income. There are several stores featuring rug hooking, as well as a museum. I'll just bore you with one pic.

This was done with yarn. It's incredible.

After exhausting Cheticamp, it was time to gas up and head into the park. First stop: visitor center.

So many head cut outs, so little time.

Okay, let's get serious. Delilah, roll the tape...

This ridge is the Skyline Trail, where a young woman was attacked by
coyotes in broad daylight. I was warned emphatically by many people (and books) not to go it alone. The pictures I have seen from the top are stunning, but so am I.
No need to get hurt for a picture.

"Damn! Who is that sexy bitch taking pics of herself in the national park?"
--said everyone driving by

Pleasant Bay

A dude. Just 'cuz.

I pulled in to Pleasant Bay just in time to board a whale watch.

First Mate Brandon. Ahh, to be young and wear tie dye.
"Sonny, it's my birthday. Wanna give an old lady a kiss?"

I didn't take pictures during the whale watch because I wanted to just sit back and enjoy myself, not try desperately for that perfect shot like everyone else. The trip was fine, and there were a healthy number of whales, but it all felt just kind of meh to me. I think I've been spoiled by the whale watches in New England.

Eventually, I was back on the Cabot Trail and headed toward Cape North. From there, I got off the trail and headed to my final true destination: Meat Cove. The road winds for a while, then it turns to dirt and gets really interesting. Like 45 minutes of interesting. Now, bloggers and guide books described it as a precarious drive in. But if you're in a car and not driving like a jackass, you'll be fine. It's certainly remote and quickly ascends and descends around tight corners--I wouldn't want to drive an RV there. But people do all the time. I did see one car flipped over in a ditch on my way in. An emergency vehicle was working to get it back onto the road. I don't know what happened, but I never had a moment of concern while driving in or out.

Now behold the campground on the left side of this picture. It's in the middle of nowhere, owned by a 7th generation Scottish family. It's not the kind of place you want to get to and think, "Oh, shit. I forgot to pick up butter."

Ta-da...

Note that I no longer have the little bitch tent.
I got a different small LL Bean tent and adore it.

I got to the campground mid afternoon. The days are longer up here, and I've found myself a couple times waiting for the sun to go down--weird, I know. So I sat and read. I wrote for a while. I cooked a hot dog. I stared at the water. And unfortunately I started thinking about what this all means--going to the end of the earth on my birthday. The thoughts were mixed. They went something like this:

• I came here because I wanted to see Cape Breton and all its majesty.
• I also came here because I wanted to push myself outside my comfort zone.
• If I didn't take this trip, I might not have traveled at all this year.
• Half of what I enjoy about the road trip is blogging about it afterward.
• Doing something like this alone does NOT mean I don't need people.
• I do need people.

I'm an introvert who puts on a good show at work and out with friends. I'm shy and afraid of getting hurt. I operate in self preservation mode most of the time. It breaks my heart when people say, "I know you don't like to be hugged." And a remote fishing village is a wonderful place to go for a week. But when it comes down to it, I need all of YOU. So I sat on a mountain side, turning thirty-blah, and thinking about all of this, and about all of the people who have come and gone in my life. It. was. so. heavy.

I was about to pack it in, when a woman at the next site came over and asked if I wanted to join her and her boyfriend for a drink. I instantly went into shy mode and politely said no and thanked her. But I offered her the rest of my fire wood, and as we carried it over to her site, she mentioned that it was her birthday. I stopped. "It's my birthday too!" Then we did the girl thing--What? Get out! Shut up! Seriously? I can't believe it!

What are the odds?

Next thing you know, I'm sharing champagne with Kathleen and Ian from Moncton, NB, under a billion stars, on a cliff, next to a fire. It was a beautiful thing, and I'm forever grateful for that memory. K and I, you really made my birthday--our birthday--a memorable one. I hope you found the note I left on your windshield when I pulled my Houdini stunt this morning, disappearing before anyone at the campground woke. I hope you're enjoying your last day of vacation. And I hope I see you again in the not-too-distant future.

xo

Whisky and beach roses

Day 3: Merigomish to Cape Hood
Total mileage: I'd have to put on a bra and shoes to look, so forget it. Let's just say, "lots."


I snuck out of the campground around 7 a.m. One residual pic from yesterday:

This, my friends, is what Christmas in July looks like
at a campground (see sad tree to right).

From there, I wound up the coast through Malignant Cove (totally benign!) and down to Antigonish. The sweet kids at Tim Horton's couldn't tell me where rt 104 was (psst, kids, you're working on rt 104).

Biscuit sandwich in hand, I hit the open road toward the island. No traffic, beautiful scenery, lovely weather. All signs point to go. And then I crossed the wee Canso Causeway and bam! Like that, I'm on Cape Breton.

One of the guide books strongly suggested stopping at the visitor center immediately at the entry point. And that author was not kidding. I owe a huge shout out to Elly at the visitor center. I won her over by introducing myself, "Elly, I'm Kelly!" At 9 a.m., humor like that works just fine. She was a doll. She booked me a motel room on the spot, talked me through the entire Cabot Trail with a map, pointing out time and distance between towns. She loaded me up with so much paper I told her I was going to need a little red wagon to get it all out to my car. Elly laughed a hearty, almost smoker laugh and said, "Okay then, dear." I love you, Elly.

I settled onto rt 19, The Ceilidh Trail ("ka-lee"), known for, well, its ceilidh tradition (Scottish music). Think Natalie MacMaster. The first stop I made was Christie's Lookout. I was won over by the incredible smell of beach roses as I drove by and had to back up and pull in.

The beach roses are everywhere, and they're a lovely surprise. I didn't expect the smell of roses in such a remote, some might say "cold," place. Instead, I was reminded of Martha's Vineyard, where beach roses are an integral part of the rugged beauty.

A second surprise happened on arrival in Port Hood, my destination for the night. It was only 11 a.m., so I had the whole day ahead of me and started by checking out the downtown. Like most towns here, "downtown" is a section of the main road going through. It usually has a hardware store and post office. Maybe a pizza joint. These are not touristy spots. And I'm glad for that, because it would have spoiled having almost an entire sandy beach to myself.

Yonder is an island with ferry service. I love how it can
look so remote and communal at the same time.

View from my motel room. The sunset was beautiful.
Shout out to Charlie, the owner at the Hebridean Motel

After taking a much-needed shower, I headed north. And was quickly stopped for a parade. What? In the middle of nowhere? That's a long-ass march, my friends. Anywho, I turned around and took a random turn, as I tend to do. I followed it until it turned to dirt, and kept following it. And it paid off.

Um, only beauty ahead, folks. 

 Eventually, I turned when I saw a sign for West Mabou beach. Another beach, you ask? Why yes!

A beautiful sandy beach, a few families picnicking. And I am so intrigued by the random, incredibly remote houses on the other side off the cove. I know it's not everyone's idea of beauty, but I think it's great. And I keep thinking of what it must look like in winter. Wow.

After this jaunt, I headed back to the main road and drove through the post-parade excitement in Mabou. I kept going north to one of my two goals for the day: whisky, baby!

The Glenora Distillery is beautifully tucked into the countryside. I went on a tour, sampled a 10-year-old whisky (short run down on the rules--no "e" in whisky here, and because we're not in Scotland, it can't be called scotch), and ate in the pub. And of course there was a fiddler playing, accompanied by piano. It was very charming.

Kelly gets a Tall Ship Amber and a sample
of the 14-year-old whisky.

Kelly also gets bacon-wrapped scallops in a whisky maple glaze
and a "deconstructed" Caesar salad.

Bartender: How do you like the deconstructed Caesar salad?
Me: It's great. A little more work on my part, however.
Bartender: Well, we want you to share in the experience.

During the tour, I listened the the guide and thought a bit about her accent. As I get further north, the accent sounds almost . . . Australian. Like an American and Australian ran really fast into one another and out comes this "normal" speech with certain words sounding endlessly peculiar (in a good way). It's more exotic than I expected.

The whisky starts with the water in this stream behind the distillery.

After the whisky tour, I drove around a bit and checked out some shops. One thing about Nova Scotia that psyched me out the first time, and is psyching me out now, is that businesses are run out of homes. So, you'll see a sign for "Joanne's Quilts" up ahead. And when you get there, you're staring at a long driveway and a house. No hint of a business. So do you turn down the drive, thereby committing to essentially walking into someone's home, with no quick getaway? I have a hard time with this. So today, some places I passed by, and others I entered, taking a deep breath. It's got to be the New Englander in me ("Nobody make eye contact, and everything will be fine...").

I still had lots of time to kill before dinner, so I went back to the Mabou shore. I sat in the open breeze, under the warm sun, opened a book, and promptly fell asleep. Delicious!

Also delicious was a leisurely dinner at my second goal for the day: The Red Shoe.

"Nova Scotia home cooking"

My waitress, Shannon, was very sweet--all of the women here on CB so far are kind and pretty, in that soap-and-water, freshly scrubbed sort of way. I inquired about one of the desserts, and she actually took a deep breath, her eyes glistened, and she sighed, "It's good..." Sold!

"Rich chocolate sticky date pudding with housemade chocolate sauce
and whipped cream, garnished with seasonal berries." I almost licked the plate.

In my travels, what I felt today was fortunate. I am fortunate to possess the gumption to do something like drive to Cape Breton by myself. And while many people don't think that's a big deal, many other people do. A lot of people wouldn't take this on. But if I didn't--if I waited for someone to go with me--I would either never get here, or I potentially would have someone beside me in the car, grudgingly agreeing to my idea of a good time, reserving the right to resent me or sigh when things aren't perfect. And it's not perfect. I'm in a place that doesn't appear to change much over time. But I adore its imperfect perfection.


And I realized that people should consider taking two vacations a year: one with others, and one alone. Because it's important to be in some of the pictures on your trip, and it's important to push yourself and know what you're made of.

xo

Dipping a toe in the Northumberland Strait

Day 2: Fredericton,NB, to Merigomish, NS
Total mileage by day's end: 732.4

I didn't sleep last night. Oy. And it made for along day. I was on the road by 7:30, passed Moncton at 9:15, and hit Nova Scotia shortly after. I beamed rolling over the border. I love love love Nova Scotia.

The NS visitor center is very sweet, with beach roses and arbors.

From the visitor center, you can see Fundy Bay.

That may not look like much, but all that red is the ocean floor while the tide is waaaay out. Fundy wasn't part of my agenda because I've been there before, but I felt a slight tug while I stood there. Maybe we'll go there on the way back from CB.

And who doesn't love a chick playing bagpipes?

From the visitor center, I decided to get off the highway for a while and explore rt 6, which was reportedly more scenic. And it was okay. But not award winning. Maybe I was just too tired to appreciate it.(Though I loved the fact that I was generally the only person on the road.)

However, you know I love you because I went days out of the way to get this shot for you:

World's Largest Blueberry, Oxford, NS

What the Web and guide books don't tell you is that it is on the corner of an Irving gas station parking lot. That makes it lose a little of its charm.

Don't get me wrong, there were many beautiful things to see along rt 6...

The Chatterbox Cafe, Pugwash, NS

Gratuitous food shot to upset half the audience

The signs are bilingual here--does that seriously translate to "Black St"?

Now, I'm all about novelty. And when I first started researching this area, I came across the website for this place. And if you love trains, I'm about to rock your world.

Train cars set up as a restaurant and hotel...

Each of the train cars/cabooses are available for your luxury stay in Tatamagouche.

Also in Tatamagouche: a sign announcing a Ta Ta Tattoo Festival. What?! Unfortunately, I'm a day early going through. And for the record, my ta-tas are tat-free.

Remember, I am the sheep whisperer. I can find sheep anywhere.
Do not underestimate my sheep sensing ability.

I had a momentary pang of loneliness. No one to hold the
camera while I act foolish. Sad.

I came across a lavender farm in Seafoam, NS.

 And it smelled heavenly when I got out of the car, bien sur.

And finally--wildlife!

I hate fake wildlife--more so in places where said wildlife might actually exist. Grrrr

From here, things took a turn. Literally. I needed to get through Pictou and over to to Merigomish to camp at Cranberry Campground in Barneys Lower River. But look at this cluster-F on the map. I hit a rotary and pulled a European Vacation trick--spinning around several times, reading the signs, not knowing what the hell to do.

A friend loaned me her GPS, a gadget I've never used before. I thought this would be a prime time to try it out. It promptly got me through the rotary, onto a highway, off on a dirt road, and lost as fuck in the woods. "Rerouting..." Yeah, I gave the GPS a time out.

Eventually, I got here. And was lucky to get the last tent site. This place is beautiful, even though it's a total permanent RV establishment. As I was filling out the paperwork, the kid at the desk let me know that it's Christmas in July here this weekend. If someone dressed like Santa comes barreling through on an ATV, I'll be very disappointed. But for now, I'm happy to just park it and be done for the day. I'm going to read a book while the sun sets over the water and enjoy the delicious cold here. Seriously, it's impressively frigid. Except the water--the Strait is known for its warm water, and it wasn't warm, per se, but it was not as icy as I would have expected.

Tomorrow, we finally step foot on Cape Breton. Sometimes I look around and catch myself thinking, "Wow, I'm really doing this." It feels incredible.

xo

I need to axe you something . . .

At 9:30 this morning, I cleared the mileage, left Newmarket, and headed up 95.

Clean slate!

And most of the ride looked like this:

I ate cookies my boss baked for me, sang along with the iPod on shuffle (KellyFM), and once in a while laughed out loud while remembering a conversation or some random silliness in my life. I let all the tension and annoyance melt away, tucked somewhere in the back seat. And the further north I went, one word kept coming to me: Joy.

The first time it came to me was when I saw a sign for a pull off to view Mount Katahdin. Sure, why not?

But it was no ordinary view. Up a steep hill, there is a small, quaint parking lot featuring this:

Better in person, of course. But I just felt incredible joy looking out at this.

It more than made up for the depressing fact that Maine gives up on naming towns after a while. 

"Where did you say your parents live again? T1-R6?"

I felt it again at the border crossing in Houlton, ME. Mr. Oo-la-la sexy Frenchie border patrol guy wished me a happy birthday as he handed back my passport. It was unexpected, and that brought me joy. I smiled for the next few kilometers.

The drive along rt 2 in New Brunswick is beautiful--sweeping landscape, views for days. It reminds me of Vermont. And rt 102, along the Saint John River valley, is stunning. 

And here, in the middle of nowhere, is a town named Nackawic (population 1,049). A very sweet little town of well maintained ranch homes and a cute little park, Nackawic is known for something. Something big. It's home to The World's Largest Axe.

It's awesome

The guy in the picture was setting up for a town concert. As soon as he heard me speak, he asked where I was from. When I said New Hampshire, he said, "Oh yeah. I've been to Port's Mouth." How cute is that? We bastardize it by pronouncing it "Pohtsmuth." We talked for a little bit and then I was on my way. And I realized how different that exchange would have been in New England--it never would have happened. We would have awkwardly pretended each other wasn't there. But Canadians are nice like that. Joy.

 

My plan was to go to Woolastook Campground, where Blaine (yes!) promised via email that I could just show up and get a spot. And be still my little heart when I pulled up to this fine view.

I purposely left all 7 billion RVs behind me out of the picture.

But then be still it more when I learn it's cash only and no ATMs in the area will accept my debit card. As I walked back to my car, the woman said, "Even if you can't find money, just come back. We'll figure something out." And as tempting as it is to think I might wake in the morning and start chopping wood to earn my keep, I took it as a sign and got back on the highway. Maybe on the way back, Woolastook.

I ended up getting a room at a dive-y HoJo's (as opposed to all of those upper crust HoJo's establishments) in Fredericton. Personally, I think my tent is probably cleaner. But I don't care. A comfy chair from which to write Musings, free wifi, free breakfast, and riiiight on the highway. I can start out nice and early tomorrow. 

Downtown Fredericton is small and has a few cute spots. I hung out in the Historic Garrison District, which, according to one of my guide books, was "built in 1784 as headquarters for the British army." It was quaint. I got to watch a march procession and listen to bagpipes, so I was happy.

Then it was time for food. The guidebook suggested a place called Lunar Rouge. When I got there, all I saw was cramped outdoor seating with a lot of people taking themselves too seriously. No thanks. 

After wandering a block or so, I chose this little pub:

Not snooty at all. Just pretty fantastic.

The first thing I noticed when I looked at the menu was this:

Class, can anyone tell me what's wrong with this?
Yes, Mark, that's correct. There's bacon on the veggie burger.

People make fun of those of us who post pictures of food online. If you're one of the former, a) I don't understand the horrible wrong I'm doing and b) I don't fucking care. 

Look at this little number after a long day of driving:

Mixed greens with roasted red peppers, goat cheese, cranberries, and steak that
had a marinade that tasted Thai or Indian. Fracking delicious. Joy!

Here at the bar, I listened to the Canadians speak Canadian. It's so cute when they do that. "I popped out the boombox, and it uses D batteries, yeah? I replaced them, and I'm all set for the summer, ya know." If you can't hear that sentence with the accent intact, you're missing out. Go to Canada immediately.

One thing I didn't realize is that the time change starts in New Brunswick, not Nova Scotia, as I'd thought. So it's actually quite a bit later than I'd wanted to sign off, but I knew that if I waited for morning, this blogging thing would fall way off track. So it's off to this scary bed for me. Tomorrow I intend to break ground in Nova Scotia and be-bop along the Northumberland Strait. I think my sense of joy will continue to emerge as we go. 

xo