Modern Vespa

Insert scooter here, pt. 1

I have recently returned from a three-week scooter-camping-motel tour of Nova Scotia. For better or worse, the web and netbooks make it no longer necessary to be out of touch. I managed a quick test of the remote abilities of my netbook from a motel in Saint John (just did a little essential email), and now I'm starting a broadcast message series. It won't be many (total 10), and there will be a few pictures.

For Modern Vespa readers, here is a slightly edited (correction of most typing errors!) version, prepared after my return.

There used to be a ferry from Portland ME to Yarmouth NS, which made it easy and fast to get to Nova Scotia. That was cancelled in December 2009 due to funding problems with the Provincial government subsidies, and a lack of any subsidy from the US side. I was determined to do my NS vacation anyway, and that meant that, instead of an easy ½ day to Portland (110 miles), I had to ride 450 miles to Saint John NB - three days on a forced march. I hope to schedule it in four on the way back. I stopped in two Maine state parks on the way: LaMoine, directly across Eastern Bay from Acadia, and Cobscook Bay, in Whiting (look waaaaay up Route 1).

Route 1 crosses the Penobscot River over this fine new bridge. The old bridge is peeking up in the background (click to go to Panoramio posting):



The Obama family had left Acadia the morning of the day I arrived (Sunday 18 July). The only effect on the state park, a ranger told me, was that someone staying at the Regency (the presidential perch) was required to remove his yacht from their dock. So the state park, usually hosting only funky little motor boats and working fishing boats, was for two days host to a 150-foot yacht. What will the neighbors say?

Clear weather for the 250-mile first day. Here's Cadillac Mountain from the other side:



As I went north the temperature dropped noticeably. Boston had been a furnace on Friday and Saturday, and was promising more of same for Sunday. The day also gets longer, in the summer, as you go north. Here are two end-of-day pictures made over the water of Eastern Bay:





Cobscook Bay was altogether different. I missed a turn coming into the park, turned around, and found it second time. But the steering isn't as lithe as usual with a(n overfull) load. I went off the pavement onto the shoulder which was gravel and several inches lower than the pavement; and instead of stopping full, catching my breath, and then going forward slowly with the front wheel perpendicular to the pavement edge, I just kept going and tried to ease back up onto the upper level of the pavement. This is a classic error that I had read about and studied carefully - on paper. That great teacher Experience now showed me what happens. The front wheel slipped as I tried to coax it at a shallow angle up the edge of the pavement, the scoot went down on the left, and I was pinned under it. All this happened at very low speed, fortunately. My leg felt unharmed (yeah, right, I hear you saying; as it turned out, this was true, fortunately) but I couldn't extract it, and couldn't move the bike's weight off me. I figured someone would come along eventually. That turned out to be about a minute and a half. A woman and her two young sons stopped and helped by removing the baggage and then lifting just enough that I could pull out my leg and stand - unaided! When I tried to start the bike, it wouldn't catch. Mind you, this is four miles outside of Whiting, Maine. Nearest Vespa dealer is a long ways away. A ranger came along then. He's a Harley rider, and suggested that it was flooding, and the cure is to start the bike with throttle open. This worked, and after running it a quarter-mile into the park the problem was completely cleared. The ranger and the woman (a nurse, another ranger told me) helped me on in with my considerable luggage.

I had reserved a walk-in site, which means that you park on the road and walk in to the site. This was also a walk-up site. Great place, if I were staying several days and wanted to commune with 747-size mosquitoes; not so good a choice for an overnight. Rain in the night, and a wet pack. But not so bad as in NS a few days later.

I'm sending this from Grand Pre, NS several days after the fact, from a warm, dry motel. To be continued.

Insert Scooter Here, pt. 2

Cobscook State Park is about as far north as you can go on Route 1, except there's still Calais, pron. like a thickening of your skin where you stress it a lot (I hear the smart-alecks saying "bunion"?). That's the border crossing. Then you're at the extreme southern border - of Canada - and there's a lot more of North up there. I continued up the Number 1 (more or less an Interstate-level road) to Saint John. The day before it had occurred to me that perhaps New Brunswick was on Atlantic Time, as Nova Scotia is. It is. For the noon ferry, I arrived at the ferry terminal at 10:57 Eastern, 11:57 Atlantic. The boat had not quite left the dock, but it was closed. I bought a ticket for the next day (Weds the 21st) and with the help of the young lady behind the counter I found my way to the EconoLodge. I can call her a "young lady" because she put in the Senior Citizen Discount for me without even asking first.

The parts of Saint John that I saw on this little pass-through are grim. You come off the Number 1 and bump and grind through a down-at-heels neighborhood to the ferry terminal. I'm sure there are better parts of the city (the EconoLodge's neighborhood was certainly better). Somehow this encapsulated for me the problems contributing to the cancellation of the Portland ferry to Yarmouth. It was fast, easy, convenient, through a wonderfully-restored 19th century-city, and landed you in the Province almost as if next door. Now you have to travel for days (literally in my case) to get to a dilapidated foreign port. We were too spoiled by that boat.

The next morning there were about 20 motorcyclists ready to load. As we went down the ramp (metal grating, never a good thing since traction is so dodgy) the sailor-in-charge told us to keep both feet down at all times and DO NOT use your front brake. (In a low-traction environment, braking the front wheel can cause it to lose its last bit of grip on the ground, and - inevitably - the bike falls. This is also true for bicycles, by the way. If you brake very carefully with the back brake you can slow yourself, and if the back wheel loses traction, it will, hopefully, simply slide across the surface until it regains traction.) Motorcyclists know this like the back of heir hands, but it's good to be reminded in a dangerous situation. No one fell.

It occurred to me only later that I was the only one who had a back brake available. With a manual transmission (as on almost all motorcycles) the back brake is under the right foot. In that environment, then, you could have four contact points and no brake, or three contact points and a brake. 4-0 is the less-bad choice. With an automatic transmission (as on a scooter) the back brake is on the left-hand caliper. So I got both 4-point contact and braking.

The sailor-in-charge wasn't kidding. The deck is smooth iron plate, another devil-in-disguise for two-wheelers. Under the best and driest of conditions they are dangerously slippery. Here...the previous trip must have had a lot of fish-hauling tractor-trailers on board. The deck was wet and oily, and you could barely walk on it safely, never mind riding a two-wheeler. Somehow we all found our way to the right side (sorry, "stahb'd") and tied down the bikes (heavy straps with tensioners that clip into fixtures in the deck). Topside for a little time on the water.

Loading went on for a while. This pic is from the front-most deck, looking past the ship's bell, under the prow of the boat, which is flipped up to permit the vehicles to drive in:



The boat finally pulled out and the prow closed, and we headed across the Bay of Fundy. Weather is variable there. This was a beautiful, clear day, with wonderful cloud formations in the distance:



Note the fog-bank hanging down close to the water. This is what happened as we approached it:



The crew member is not taking the breeze up there; he is the captain's forward eyes as we sail into the fog.



The clouds can still be seen peeking above the fog.



Less than three minutes later:



This is Digby Gut, where the ferry enters Nova Scotia.

-Nick

Insert scooter here, pt. 3

One of the things I've wanted to do since my 2nd bike trip to Nova Scotia 24 years ago was to see if the two tiny islands at the tip of Digby Neck could be gotten to, or if they were ever-inaccessible little pieces of land only visible across a fog-bound bay.... Turns out there are regularly-scheduled ferries to both. There is not any access to Peter Island, between the last two, which is a bird sanctuary with a picturesque (well, except for the solar panels) light house on its rugged face.

The Whale Cove Camp Ground is run by Vern and Gloria Tidd, and the other campground in the area is run by another Tidd couple. The village is Tiddville. When I landed on Brier Island (the farthest out one) I encountered a moto-ist on a Honda Gold Wing, the Cadillac of motorcycles, with gas mileage to match. It was almost larger than the island. We chatted a bit, and he told me his wife is a Tidd.

Whale Cove Campground is a bit of a throwback to an earlier era of commercial camping. Vern and Gloria are real nice, the place is clean, although the museum and the fossil collections aren't exactly up to museum standard. The social room in the basement has, like so many similar places in NS, a collection of memorabilia which are quite moving in their testament to the tight-knit nature of the community across generations, with an apparently naïve (in good senses of the word) ignorance of our larger sophisticated, urban, cultured (etc. etc.) world. This is a country that, in some ways, is still a land of pioneers struggling against large odds the natural world set against them. Most of the US is only a few generations removed from this; and along the way, we've lost some of our sense of community.

The village of Whale Cove consists of a few houses (one with a mailbox for Orin and Helena Tidd), a disused club building of some sort on the rocks, a newer club house of some sort with a "members only" sign, one small boat tied up at the wharf, and a couple pulled up on the shore.







There is also a resident painter, most likely a sort of folk-primitive type (think Grandma Moses) of whom there are many producing work ranging from engaging to pretty bad.



My trip down to the islands was a pleasant enough affair, in spit of some occasional rain. Here is Peter Island and its light:





These ferries make the Casco Bay car ferry in Portland ME look quite grand:



On the way back up the islands I stopped on Long Island (the first one) to trudge out to the shore to look at the much-heralded Balancing Rock. The area has a lot of columnar basalt structure (also visible in the Peter Island pic) and somehow this one column remained standing with no visible means of support. It is carefully fenced off, so it cannot now be maliciously toppled. But eventually nature will take its course:



When I returned to the parking lot I lay down on a bench to snooze, and as I was stretching a half-hour later a well-turned-out woman and her male companion walked by to go out the path to the rock. "Cute bike!" she said, almost provocatively. Yes....

A slightly-wet pack, and on up the Annapolis Valley to Evangeline Beach. I camped at the commercial campground there 24 years ago, and knew it to be reliably clean and tidy. Well, it still is, but the RV count in the world has increased substantially since then, and the campgrounds know which side their professional bread is buttered on. There were 17,332 (I counted them) RVs in there, shoulder to shoulder, and the tents go out in the nicely-mown field. I set up my tent so the door looked the other way. Here's the pastoral view:



Now turn around:



Can't have everything.

The campground is right across a small road from Evangeline Beach, named after the famous lady kicked outta her home territory, of course. At the beach, I was astounded to see a mud flat perhaps a half-mile (sorry, ¾ kilometer) wide. Tide was completely out. And due north was a large promontory, which turns out to be Cape Blomidon, the big headland where Cape Split turns east to west. Cape Split divides off the upper part of the Bay of Fundy into the Minas Basin, and the Basin is where the world's highest tides are recorded. Here are two views of Blomidon; the first is across the mud flat at low tide about 6:30 in the evening. High tide was at 0003 the next morning. I went down to see, and there was no mud flat at all, the water was right up to the shore line (It was too dark then to photograph).



Here is a shot at higher water, with a very long lens:



The next day I decided to take a day trip up to Blomidon Provincial Park, on the top of Cape B., something that wasn't really possible with a bike, but was eminently do-able with the scooter unburdened of its donkey-load of gear. It was a beautiful day. The area, like the whole of the Annapolis Valley, is a rich agricultural landscape. It reminded me of the Illinois farm land of my youth, somewhat miniaturized and with a roll to the land. Here's Blomidon closer up, with said vehicle ready to go:



From the top of Blomidon you can look up the Minas Basin toward Burntcoat Head, where the highest tides are recorded. These two pics are looking somewhat north of east, toward the northern side of the Minas Basin, around the town of Economy, I would guess:





But the fine weather would not last.

Thank you for sharing this. Cape Breton is one of the most gorgeous places in the world. I've traveled through New Brunswick and Nova Scotia a number of times, but never on two wheels. I'm looking forward to doing it someday. Until then I'll live vicariously through your trip report.

Looks like a great trip!! Would love to visit NS someday. Lived in Randolf VT for a time, went into Canada some, but never made it to NS

Thanks for the encouragement. I can't recommend enthusiastically enough, riding in NS.

Seven episodes yet to come! I'll do a couple more tonight.

-Nick

Insert scooter here, pt. 4

When last I keyboarded the weather was about to turn, like Pauline's skiff about to go over the falls. But you know something would pull her out of danger, just in time.

The next day I got up to gray skies, and by the time I was packing it was raining - copiously, by my usual standards, although no one around here would be fazed by it. I was packed wet, but consoled myself that I could drop into a motel if necessary once I got to Cape Breton. That goal was about 200 miles up Routes 101, 102 and 104, some of NS's Interstate-level roads. Except that they are not all 4-lane divided. In places where the traffic would be lighter, they go to two lanes, then to two undivided lanes. But the speed stays the same.

About three miles out of the campground I was about to turn onto the 101, which would take me to the 104. My visor was foggy if I closed it, rainy if I opened it, the road was running with water, I had no confidence about banking in turns.... I finally had the good sense to turn back rather than risk another and much more serious crash, and headed back to the campground for another night. Monday was predicted to be dry and sunny, so I could dry out before packing.... At the corner of The Number 1 and Grand Pré Road is the Evangeline Motel. They had a room. I was off the road.

The only remaining problem was a purely mechanical one: nowhere in the parking area was flat. Motorbikes don't like that, 'cause they can't lean correctly on the sidestand, or perch correctly on the center stand. I parked facing slightly uphill on the center stand (difficult to push the bike forward off the stand) figuring I could turn it around in the morning and park facing slightly downhill, load it, and push it off the stand easily with the extra weight This worked, and nothing fell or rolled the wrong way.

In the room I spread tent, rain fly, sleeping bag, riding clothes all over the room, and turned the peculiar AC system up full, had a hot shower, and felt relieved that I'd let my good sense prevail over any need to Get There. The little café appended to the motel has only so many items on its menu, but I was staying only one day.

Next morning was clear and sunny, as promised. Having overcome the park-load-unpark-but-don't-fall conundrum, I was on my way. South on the 1, east on 14, north on the 102 and the 2, then east on the 104, hell-bent for leather. Fortunately Canadian drivers are considerate, even when going 120 (that's about 72 in milespeak). And there are enough passing lanes added at the right on hills to get everybody sorted out. I arrived in Auld's Cove, at the mainland end of the Canso Causeway, in good time. As a result of this ride, I'll loathe the US Interstates a bit less...but not much. I think the Canadian versions are actually safer, simply because of the better drivers.

I found the hardest part of riding this leg (and several others) of the trip to be the buffeting crosswinds. They are especially fierce when you're near the sea, but in the open landscape they are bad, too. It is very tiring to constantly be holding the bike and its high-perched load steady and compensating whenever the wind grabs you sideways. So of course, as an added bonus, the worst crosswinds to date were at the very end of the trip, on the Causeway, which is about 4600 feet (1500 M) long, and it was a very long near-mile. There is no protection from the sea on both sides and even on a calmer day these winds would be strong.

Fortunately my cheap motel was in Port Hastings, the very small limited-service town right at the rotary at the Cape Breton end of the Causeway. So - as soon as I figured out the rotary - I was home. All roads on the Island seem to descend to this one rotary, and they all go around and around and you have many many possible places to get off on the wrong road. And a GPS can do only so much for you.

(I have no photos from the 104; in addition to its other trim features, there is essentially no shoulder to pull off, and no service plazas or rest stops. If you can't handle it, go on over a couple miles to the old 4, halve your speed, double your mileage, and relax.)

Here is a view from the front desk, overlooking the double (maybe it's triple?) rotary, the gift shop and the Provincial Information Centre. The Causeway itself is at the extreme right edge of the picture, that low stone wall leading from the mainland side to this, the island side. The headland with the enormous gash in its side, directly across, is Cape Porcupine. The gash is where the rock to build the Causeway came from. This is the world's deepest causeway (the water is just short of 300 feet deep) and is something like 80 feet wide at the top and 800 feet wide at the bottom. [When the Causeway was built Canada was still using the English system of measurement.] Since its completion (1955) there has continued to be aggregate (gravel and the like) mining from the site; it is now run by Martin Marietta. And you thought they just did aeroplanes:



The Causeway was built with a narrow canal through it at the island end, just wide enough to pass any vessel that will fit up the St. Lawrence Seaway. Because the Gut of Canso (there's that word again!) was narrowed so severely the current in the channel is quite fast, and two large locks were installed to control it, and to compensate for the tidal difference between the St. George's Bay (west) side and the Chedabucto Bay (east) side (the greatest tidal differential is only about a metre). There is a swing bridge over the canal, and when it swings open all car and rail traffic simply stops and waits. The only time I saw it in use was for little speed boats whose windshields were just pretentious enough that they couldn't fit under the bridge. Here's the bridge (swung closed for the car and rail traffic to and from the Island):



At the mainland end of the bridge there is an arch that famously proclaims:


{Well, in case you can't quite read it, it famously proclaims "WELCOME TO CAPE BRETON"}

Looking across the road and rail bed to the south-east you can see Port Hawkesbury, about 7 kilometres southeast of Port Hastings. There is a large paper mill here, and trucks carrying lumber for pulp can be seen throughout the day and night coming down the 105 or 19 from the northern reaches of the island (there is no logging in the Highlands Park), going around the rotary and out the 104 to the paper mill:



I'm now safely ensconced at my outermost home base. I've decided that I will not haul my whole camping kit through the mountains. I will go up the two sides of the Cabot Trail on two day trips, or up over the northern road and down with a simple overnight somewhere. The camping kit will stay in the motel in Port Hastings. The scooter would probably soldier on uncomplainingly, but I ride more confidently when it's not loaded.

Good weather is predicted (always a dodgy thing, predicting the weather up here) for the next two days.

It's time to log off and...watch the Newshour! (6 Eastern, 7 Atlantic) The cable tv here has Boston's own WGBH located, of course, on channel 2. How civilised, I guess.

Insert scooter here, pt. 5

Up the west shore, stopping at Judique (pron. "JUdick") to visit the Celtic Music Interpretive Centre and catch the noon-time ceilidh ("kaley" - jam session), all the way north up Route 19, east to the Atlantic coast, south to Ingonish (another full-service town) to find a room, and - most important - get my "I rode my moto over the Cabot Trail" t-shirt, available only from the biker-friendly Coastal Waters Restaurant in Ingonish, and they don't do mail order.

At the Boston Globe Travel Show in February I met the archivist of the Music Centre, and we had a nice talk about archiving, the Centre, and such eminently civilized topics. I'd never heard of the place, but I put it on my itinerary. It was worth giving up one modest branch of the Cabot Trail (Hunter's Mountain to Margaree Harbour) to visit there. So I have to go back for that last branch, and another ceilidh.

In spite of the good weather prediction the sky opened once I was just far enough out to not turn back. I had my waterproofs at hand, and switched ASAP. Only moderately damp. The sky looks clear here - ha - but the road is still plenty wet, which means dangerous for motos:



The Centre is in a fairly new building which is a good combination of attractive plain modern design and spare, or sparse, Canadian building esthetic - make it square and weather-seal it, seems to be the extent of architecting on a lot of Canadian domestic building. There is a café-club-performance venue used for the ceilidhs. The stage has a carefully-restored and cutely-painted wood stove at the back, so clearly a prop that they get away with it. The piano is an electric keyboard, and both it and the violinist are amplified - not to make them loud, but it's the way they are used to playing and they balance it well. The player is Mike Hall, a 30-ish man who has been playing one instrument or another most of his life. He seems to be a rising star in the Cape Breton traditional music scene. The keyboardist is Allan Dewar, Music Director of the Centre. They are both thoroughly professional and musically good. And the café makes a delicious, fresh Greek garden salad:



After the ceilidh I buy several records, which seem to give a very basic intro to the Cape Breton traditional repertoire. The archivist is in her office and we have a nice chat for a few minutes. My first impression on walking into her office is very favorable - she has climate control there. She doesn't remember me from the Globe show, of course - she talked to a million people - but I get a little guided tour. There's a vault with compressed shelving full of lp's, and a "Quarantine Room" where the donations from Aunt Millie's attic go until the mold and silverfish are beaten down. It's a fine little facility, and she says she'll tell people that their going to the Globe travel show was worth it. I tell her that it certainly was for me.

Follow Route 19 up the west coast. At Margaree Harbour you enter the park area. Up to Chéticamp you are running along the coast. (Decent restaurant in Chéticamp, another full-service town: Restaurant Acadien. The raisin cupcake with ice cream and coffee is good.) At Petit Etang and again north of Presqu'ile the road swings inland. Looks ordinary enough on the map, but on the ground you're going over mountains. The first loop takes you up the sides of Grande Falaise (420M) and Jerome (366M) mountains. Then the big loop south of Pleasant Bay takes you over French Mountain (455M) and MacKenzie Mountain (355M), followed by a demanding technical descent toward Pleasant Bay. The road then turns east across the island, crossing North Mountain (457M) and then does another demanding descent toward Cape North on the east coast.

There are lookoffs positioned all along the road, and when you're up in the mountains they are placed so that you almost never see any sign of the road. You see Acadian, Boreal, and Taiga environments (according to the brochure). It appears to be the forest still as it was when the last ice age receded thousands of years ago. And yet...they've built a modern road right through it all. (The desk attendant back at the motel later informed me that they do in fact engage in some pretty intense arbiculture out in the forest area, because there have been serious beetle invasions. They've had to remove trees and clear patches of the "primeval" forest, but have carefully replanted to repair or at least conceal the damage. I never detected any of it.)

Every lookoff is worth stopping at and shooting at least one roll's-worth of pictures. I shot a lot, but only a fraction of what I might have. I'd be there until October otherwise. Hmmm, what a good idea! Here is one from the coastal road, an iconic publicity shot, shot easily enough, as it turns out, from the lookoff at 18283 Cabot Trail:



Only the golden glow of the westering sun is missing (it was only about 3 in the afternoon!). So I indulged myself in one "I was there" shot:



In a turnout looking back up the road just traveled:



These two are looking southeast, back toward French Mountain:





This is from the MacKenzie Mountain lookoff, toward Wreck Cove:



My favorite view of MacKenzie; all it needs is a couple dinosaurs grazing in the valley, a band of orcs slogging along the river bottom, the odd hobbit peeking out from behind the pines:



A few scruffy email pics, or even big gallery presentation pictures cannot begin to convey what it's like to be there. You have to move through the environment to really experience it. Over the tops of the mountains (not especially high by some standards) it gets noticeably chilly. The road plunges into clefts that swallow you, then spit you out sideways, and you need to make the turn. And better a motorbike than a car. Too enclosed! The only travelers who had a better view were the ones on bicycles - and they were hurting more than I could face anymore.

If I lived here I think I'd take up the celtic violin, too, and never care what the lower world thought.

-Nick

Very nice trip, fellow Bostonian

You inspire me..

What a beautiful ride...great photos!!!

Insert scooter here, pt. 6

After passing across the north edge of the Cape Breton Highlands Park I travelled south to Ingonish, and, that late in the day, finally found a "cabin" one of two motel rooms in a little freestanding house - just to the south in Ingonish Beach. At 7:30 pm it was a seller's market, and, as it turned out, her last room. Good restaurant in Ingonish Beach: Main Street. New, plain, lofty cathedral-ceiling room, the sports-bar-like tv 15 feet up on the wall was silent and was small enough (at that distance) that it could be easily ignored.

As I was lumbering back across the street to the cabins at 9:30 a two-up Harley stopped and asked me if I knew of any campsites nearby. Well, there's a mistake I haven't made - yet. I pointed them a few miles on up the road toward the park, and hope they found a site.

Next morning I had to backtrack a few miles to get that shirt. Mission accomplished. Then on south, for the last leg of the Trail. The big one here is Cape Smokey, so-called because it is often crowned in a thick haze, although not today:



From the top you see...the North Atlantic:




The ascent up the north side was steep, the descent down the south was steep and very twisty. Here's a shot from near shore level looking back at a stretch of the road clinging to the side of the mountain:



The most spectacular was past, at least until I do it again.

South toward the motel with my gear. I routed myself through Englishtown in order to take the cable ferry. I envisioned two stout steel cables across the strait, perhaps 6-12 feet off the water, with potentially very dangerous winches mounted on the boat deck winding the boat back and forth across the water. It may have been that way long ago, but the modern version uses a single cable mounted just at and below water level. This worked well, except for the time when thugs sawed the cable near-through, it snapped when the boat was midstream, and the ferry drifted slowly toward Bras d'Or lake, and sat there for six hours until the Coast Guard could muster a tug to bring it back home. I trust drinks were on the house:



As I approached Baddeck I remembered Tim's advising me to stop at the Alexander Graham Bell Museum. I'm glad I did. It is a sort of A-frame-shaped building on the front, with a good deal more exhibition space built back behind the general view. Bell was a visionary and practical inventor all his life. In addition to the telephone and his life-long work with hearing impairment, he did practical construction in light-weight stressed-member structures (think BuckminsterFullerDomes); and in about 1915 he had a hydrofoil boat running reliably and repeatedly on Bras d'Or lake at 70 mph. The Canadian and US militaries were very interested in this! ...until WWI ended. The boat then sat beached and deteriorating until the 1970s, when the government and the museum salvaged it. The museum contains specimens and a large replica of the amazing vessel.

Bell was always glad to get away from the heat of Washington DC (some things never change) and he built a rambling romantic castle/barony/home/house for his large family on the next peninsula over, just visible from the museum's coffee shop:



Weather will hold only part of tomorrow. Margaret's favorite place in all of Nova Scotia, Isle Madame, will have to be a half-day trip only.

Insert scooter here, pt. 7

Friday was to be a day trip to Isle Madame, under the southern-most shoulder of Cape Breton Island about 30 miles from my motel. The weather was predicted to close in by noon, so I got out early. The roads on the island wind through little hamlets, some of them more focused-looking than some of the diffuse aggregations of houses and buildings you see elsewhere. Are they gathering closely under the skirts of those imposing French-Catholic parish churches? This road wanted to be the background for a - yet another - scooter picture:



Jaunty, isn't he?

On the south shore of the main island, along the road between Arichat and West Arichat was this view:



I rode out to the south shore of Petit de Grat, the little island hanging south of Madame. There was a road to Sampson's Cove. The last house on the street is still occupied by Sampsons, and this is their cove:



Back up on the roadway, here is the same view across a back yard:



I wish I'd had a day or two to explore all over the three or so islands in the group. But the weather started looking ugly, as promised. I didn't realize how far south I'd gone from the entrance highway (complete with a metal-grate bridge, ugh! Bad traction for bikes of all sorts). I roared north to the 104 (the high-speed highway) saying to hell with the speed, I don't want to ride in the rain. When it started to mist I had to cut from 70 (mph) to the 50s. Fortunately it never got serious, and back at Port Hawkesbury and Port Hastings (base camp) it never really rained at all.

My time on Cape Breton is up. Tomorrow (July 31st) I start back toward the Digby-Saint John ferry. I'm still not sure of my route. I could run the hell-bent-for-leather mainland 104 in reverse. Do I have the time to go down the Atlantic coast instead? I think I do.

Insert scooter here, pt. 8

The best part of the trip is over, but there's still some riding to do, and - so far - no further drama has come to pass. My muffler now sounds as if might fall off before I'm all the way back, but, hey, things happen.

On Saturday (the 31st) the weather is perfect and I decide to do the Atlantic coastal route. It's about 180 miles to Porter's Lake Provincial Park, about 30 km east of Dartmouth (the Halifax metro area). The roads are a mix of good new pavement, and rutted but eminently negotiable old pavement. If you're following on a map, the route was:

From Port Hasting across the Canso Causeway (not near the town of Canso) off Cape Breton. I'll come again, but next time I may fly into Halifax and rent a small lithe car. Route 344 south hugging the coast to Guysborough, The Roachvale Road to 316 (pass all those gravel side roads!) in South River Lake, 316 around the corner to Goshen, 276 to Federal Route 7 (one of the old main roads), south to the Atlantic coast. In Stillwater, at the coast, 7 turns sharp right and becomes the coastal route.

Next Monday is some sort of holiday, so this is a long weekend. Time to check drivers' credentials. As I approach the right turn in Stillwater, there are three RCMP cars with lights going, and their appended officers, patrolling the intersection. This must be one of the local nerve centers of the road system. The officer is extremely polite, lets me pull to the side to park on a safely-flat spot, examines my licence (waita minnit, it was issued in the US: "license") carefully, my plate and stickers, and asks for my insurance documents. Fortunately I remembered to ask about this before leaving. The Motorcycle Guide to Nova Scotia (of course there's one!) says that you need an Inter-Province Insurance Certification Card (or something like that) as proof that you're covered, and carry it at all times. When I emailed her about it, my agent emailed back that MA insurers no longer use that form, and the page of the policy that details the coverage is sufficient. I'm carrying that, in both hard copy with a copy of the email from the agent (if I remember where I carefully stored them...) and on the netbook. Suddenly, I hope she's right.... I dig the documents out from under the scooter's seat, he inspects them, and against my license, uh, licence, is satisfied, and bids me a good day.

And I hope they catch every fucking drunk driver in Nova Scotia and then come down to clean up Massachusetts, too.

The coast road is good pavement, and just as lunch and pit-stop time approach, I come to a twee little B&B/restaurant/tea room/gifte shoppe in Port Dufferin, called, thankyouverymuch, the Marquis of Dufferin, with an appropriate little card. The place is absolutely perfectly maintained and looks completely unpatronised. Turns out that I'm just the first one in for lunch, and they do quite a good business. The seafood chowder is very good, the rolls are 45 minutes only out of the oven, and the coffee has caffeine. I'm back on the road, with Halifax metro just a holler up the pike.

The provincial parks, like the state parks in the US, have no fun and games play parks, no water works, just camp sites, and usually they're more wooded and separated - and quiet - than the commercial parks. They're much cheaper, and the staff are very dedicated to what they do. The only entertainment they provide is informative nature walks and lectures. They also usually have no food services, so bring stuff in or drive out regularly. (If you're traveling with too much freeze-dried food, this is no problem.)

When I register, the agent asks "senior discount?" I reply "64." She thinks about that for a moment and says, "Close enough." I like these folks. A couple cute little elf agents in their doughty ATV mini-tractor succumb to Vespa envy (what is it about scooters?) and we have a nice chat about scooters, motorbikes, the tourist economy and what the cancelling of the Portland ferry has done to Yarmouth's economy (devastated it, in short); and finally, "They put you down in the overflow field? We can't have that, follow me!" The ATV fires up, I jump on the scooter, and off we go! away from the very direction of the overflow field (how could they have thought to put a Vespa down there?), up the hill, against the OneWayDoNotEnter sign, and "How's this look?" I decide to play my hand to the max. "Um... where does the sun come up?" and I negotiate the next site up the secret road, which is more sunny. (You wake up wet in a NS campground, even on dry days.) He and she take off in their tractor. In my enthusiasm at this marquis-level treatment I had rolled grandly into the grassy site a little too casually, and discover to my alarm that I am not on flat ground, and I don't dare get off the bike because it will fall. Neither stand will hold it here. I twist myself this way and that to survey the site without dismounting, and with much back (by pushing forcefully but very, very carefully with my feet) and forth (with motor) I achieve a spot at the opposite corner that, yes, is flat enough. ("Flat" is not like "unique" or "pregnant": you can be "almost" or "nearly" or "enough" when evaluating "flat".) No picnic table, but lots of sun. The stove will work on the grass.

I start to unload, and look for the perfect location for the tent. The poles aren't quite unsheathed when... there's the roar of that mini-ATV again! My two minor angels appear over the rise. "Look what we found for you!" The bed of mini-tractor is filled with a full-sized picnic table. "Where would you like it?" Right over there would be just fine, thanks:




Pleasant surroundings, a quiet night, sunny morning. This lovely place is only about 30 km (20 miles) from the Halifax metro area:





Next morning, my two friendly overseers appear again the be sure I slept well. I had. There were fireworks over the harbor last night, they tell me, and at least one of these folks has a rubber stamp on the back of a hand. Guess it was a big night.

Today... Digby and the ferry terminal are the goal. I call ahead to try to reserve a room at the Admiral Digby Inn, which is right at the ferry terminal. That way, I can take the early morning boat (line up at 7 am!) to Saint John. But they have only poshly-priced executive suite rooms left. I may not have been the only person to have thought of this plan. I line up location and contact info for two campgrounds, knowing that, if necessary, I can ride 23 miles out Digby neck, and take one more night at Whale Cove with Vern and Gloria. Then take the afternoon boat on Monday, the Official Holiday.

Insert scooter here, pt. 9

The GPS and the signage in the Halifax metro area make negotiation of the highway interchanges easy on a quiet Sunday morning, and soon I'm heading north, fast, on the 101 out of the Halifax area. Fast = 100-120, which is about 62-70 in old-fashioned English miles. This highway will take me right back where I started in NS, but once I'm in the Annapolis Valley I spend some of the time on the older Number 1, which is really pleasant riding and goes fast enough. Fast enough = 70-90, about 45-55 mph. The scoot and I both like this speed range. I am not pressed for time.

Then it occurs to me...I can be in Digby in time to take the ferry today! Suddenly I am mildly pressed for time. I achieve the ferry terminal, and go in to change my reservation (for next Thursday) to today. Mild drama. There is a waiting list because the boat is so full, and I might not get on. Well, I still have the info for local campgrounds if I need it. An hour later, I'm assured to go today, and my schedule for the ride home has just loosened up significantly. I dash to the phone and call the EconoLodge Saint John on their 800 number, which the ferry counter woman and another tourist located for me in the New Brunswick Tour Guide (the motel's bill from my last visit includes only the 506 number, of course). I get an executive room - too high a cost, but it's guaranteed.

Motos load into the ferry first, and go to the corner. There are all of two of us. Five others show up very late and get parked in the middle of the deck; and the boat isn't at all full. Don't know what the drama was. I feel almost like an expert at tying my bike down to the deck now, the big problem being that a Vespa does not provide very many accessible points on its superstructure to hook a strap onto. As I'm unstrapping three hours later I figure out a very clever better system for next time. But since this crossing was mirror-smooth it didn't matter. The guy on the Harley has a lot more tie-down options. But, well, it's only a Harley. Boy, do those things bark.

Here's what it looks like in the belly of the Princess of Acadia:



We are against the outside wall of the boat (to the left) under a car ramp barely a half-metre overhead. It is fully-loaded with very, very heavy cars. You see the Harley in front, and the right haunch of my light-green Vespa just behind. His roll bars are strapped to the front and second big yellow buttons in the deck, my safety loop to the second and third. Then there's a car behind me with its passenger-side door open. The aluminum wall to the right is the side of a 16-wheeler parked in the middle of the deck, which is high enough to swallow your average 16- or 22-wheeler with a bit of loft left over. There's a woman between the trucks and the cars, walking away from the camera. It's all very snug.

The drill for riding across the deck is the same as before: it's iron sheet, wet and oily, all possible contact points down and do not use your brakes. When we exit the boat we two prompt motos have to wait until most of the other traffic is out. As the 16-wheelers go, stop, go, stop, slowly out of the boat, each time they move, another 30-40 gallons of liquid splash out of each of their back doors, washing the deck anew with water, oil, and l'essence de mer. I expect my scooter to sprout fins any time now.

Topside, the views are similar to the last crossing, but here is Digby Gut from the inside:



Hmm, looks not unlike Digby Gut from the outside.

Digby Gut is the mouth of the Annapolis River. Here's a view back into the river basin. The small promontory to the left is near Port Wade, on the north side of the river. Directly ahead way across the river basin is probably the town of Cornwallis, some distance up the south side of the river from Digby:



Three and a half hours later I'm in the office of the EconoLodge Saint John NB, listening to the desk attendant tell someone on the telephone that they're full.

Monday: from Saint John to the border at St. Stephen NB/Calais ME. A few miles before the border there is a new section of NB 1 which has been in about 18 months (the guy in the gas station farther on tells me) but still hasn't shown up in the GPS's maps. Lee (the nice Australian voice in my GPS) gets more and more alarmed, as he thinks I'm heading out across country miles off the road. When I look out my visor, it sure looks like a road though. But even in 18 months signage has not yet been installed. I hope this is still the Number 1 and not some new road to The Northwest Territories. Time to send an email to Garmin.

At the border, I get the Official Unsmiling Greeting and Examination from the US Customs agent. Then he asks if I really did this trip on ... isn't that a Vespa? Yes, officer, it is. He asks if I'd do it again. Not with this load. Big smiles all the way around and a pleasant good morning.

I take Maine 9 west out of Calais. It is an excellent stretch of road, and goes for miles and miles, and miles... through open, empty, gorgeous land. Maine is very, very big. And I'm less than half-way nawth up the state. Then 179 south to Ellsworth, the prosperous-looking last town on the mainland before you cross onto Mount Desert Island, of Bah Hahbah and Acadja fame. When I call from Ellsworth the Mount Desert Campground's phone is answered by the machine, which means that Our Desk is Busy. On a big chance I just drive out the additional 13 miles and present myself at the office - just as the staffer is turning someone away. In my most charming and tired 'cause I've just ridden all the way from Saint John in some country very far away manner, I quickly blurt out the desired terms of my contract. "Just a minute..." She retires to the back office and there is a muted conversation for two or three minutes. Yes, there is just one site, the people who reserved it were delayed for precisely the two days I desire. So I'm here until Wed morning:



Then 160 miles to Portland, overnight on a quiet, comely island in Casco Bay, then 120 miles home. Tuesday, into Bah Hahbah just for lunch (a corn beef sandwich that is perfectly adequate as sandwiches go, I guess, but that tells you that you're sure not in New York, nor even Boston).


Finally a big shout-out to Vespa Newport (RI) who sold to me, prepared, and maintains my doughty little ride. The Michelin tires have worked beautifully, and the bike has performed flawlessly in spite of my occasional stupidity. It'll be in for its next scheduled service fairly soon now. I should roll over 10,000 miles about when I get home.

This (probably final) missive comes to you Tuesday evening from The Gathering Place in Mount Desert Campground.

I'd do it all again in an instant - but not with the ridiculous load I carried this time. God gave us cheap motels and credit cards for a reason.

-Nick

Insert scooter here, pt. 10 - Envoi

Wait - there's more! The very end didn't go exactly as I assumed it would in Episode 9.

In the Mt. Desert Island campground the weather finally unequivocally declared itself about 2:15 the morning of my departure (Wednesday Aug 4). This was not a misting or a mild rain. It was Serious, Full-bore Nawth-country Rain. I finally backed out of my tent and into my poncho and headed for the washhouse about 6:15. When I turned off the shower, the sound of cascading water continued. This was prahpah Maine Rain, with thunder and lightning just to keep things interesting. I started packing up inside the tent as best I could, and headed for the community building to get a wi-fi weather report and (more important) a pretty good sticky bun. The rain had ceased for the moment - there was a sickly yellow light cutting through the trees and scraping across the ground. Yes, the sun! Weak, querulous, but sun nonetheless. Then the weather report was cautiously encouraging. I returned to my site to pack.

The rain fly was wet on the outside but the tent was pretty much dry; so far, so good, this is a well-designed tent. By the time I'd packed the tent it had manage to pick up some moisture, and the fly ended up wet on both sides. Oh, well, it was a wet pack. The waterproof stuff sack was a good idea, inside-out as it were. The scooter cover was soaked outside with a pool on top. Vigorous shaking more or less equalized the wetness, and hours later when I pulled the cover out from under the seat to recover the scoot, it was wet through and very warm. Fortunately, the Maine rain is clean, so no malodorous signs of mold - so far.

On the road, only minor rain, the sun finally definitively came out - it's now hot and damp - and on down the road 160 miles to Portland.

I arrived at the ferry terminal at 1:50, 25 minutes before the next boat, went inside to buy my ticket. The agent informed me that the car ferry to Peaks Island was broken and out of service. Later today, tomorrow, next week, no idea when it would be fixed. I carry no cell phone, and my host's number is a Boston number. An attempt to use the calling card number attached to my home phone, last used several years ago, was fruitless. I wasn't comfortable leaving the scoot unattended at the terminal while trying to find a calling card and the parking garage was full. So...I could wait an indeterminate time for the boat...or head for home. According to the GPS home is 2 hours away. Well, it's not accounting for summer traffic on Route 1. More likely 4 hours. That would make a 280-mile day and I'd be safely home at 7:30.

I'm putting in my earplugs to head south. A quite old man, well into his 80s, comes walking out of the ferry terminal, slowly, laboriously, with determination, in my direction; he walks with a cane but otherwise unassisted. He examines the vehicle.

"I had a Gran Turismo years ago. It could go 75." He scopes out the speedometer. "This one goes 100?"

"I hear it can go into the low 90s, but personally I can only vouch for 76.2. Which is too fast for me."

"Mmm. 75 is fast enough." "Yes, 75 is plenty fast."

A quarter century from now, I might be on the other end of that conversation.

-Nick