oh Canada, coastal roads

Thursday

Another summery Gaspesie day. We're pokers this morning. Catch up on the computer, pack up the tent, take showers after the youth hostel rush has come and gone. In the meantime, I sit on the futon couch, noting that the cloth is torn and the sponge stuffing is coming out. The guests leave in batches: an extended family of thirteen, speaking French and Persian, with their own frying pans and eggs, taking off for a drive through the Gaspesie in three black cars. The older women greet me every time they pass me. A very young woman with many tattoos and no shoes looks for her mate. Another young couple pores over a map. The receptionist, who herself has many significant body piercings and strands of pink hair gives advice. Basic stuff. This road goes here, you cant drive here, and so on.

Ed asks if I want breakfast. Sure. He boils water outside on his little stove and makes me coffee and instant oatmeal. Life is good.

But by noon, I think life will be even better if we use the next hours on walking rather than futon lounging. We're going to be taking the late afternoon bus out, but there's time for a small hike. Though choices are limited. We're in the tiny village of Cap-aux-Os and there isn't anywhere you can go except east along the road in the direction of the park, or west, moving down the southern Gaspesie coast. We choose west.

And here's a chance for us to look closely at the village houses along the coast. I quite like the simple look of a typical Quebecois house: it so often is small, with a metal roof and in colors that are harmonious but not at all tame. Pretty. Very very pretty, in my view.




















And you can't help but note the weather vanes:






We scoot down to the village beach, too. Though it's too cold for swimming. Even for Ed. In fact, we're getting quite lazy. When a stream separates us from the coastal sands, neither feels like taking shoes off. I wobble over on a log, Ed hesitates. As usual, he builds his own bridges.











I watch Kids dig in the sand. Three boys set out with sticks and other paraphernalia of boy play on a hunt along the river's edge.





And everywhere, there are the purple flowers of the Gaspesie.











Back on the road now. We pause at a church up the hill. I'm wondering how old it is. There's no date on the outside -- just signs warning you to stay clear of the falling ice.







The church yard looks out over the bay. I get into a ponderous mood, Ed falls asleep. That is often how things play out between the two of us. [Upon occasion, Ed will get that faraway look in his eyes. I'll ask then - what are you thinking? He'll say - you, I'm thinking about you, that's all I ever think about. Never once have I gotten a different answer. I take it as a kind way of saying - your thoughts are your own and will always remain thus.]












And now it's time to head back. We need to flag the bus as it zips by the hostel. Good bye hostel.







After the bus leaves our village, it crosses the peninsula, then turns around and retreats west again, but this time along the northern coastal road, following it all the way down to Quebec City. But we're not going that far on this day. We're breaking the return trip more or less halfway, in the equally small village of Cap-Chat. For the first time since leaving Madison, we'll be sleeping indoors, in a cheap motel. And if the bus pulls into Cap-Chat before 9 and if we find a ride to the motel from there, we'll be able to grab dinner at the adjacent restaurant. They say that they make a fine Gaspesie bouillabaisse there.

The four and a half hour bus ride is stunning.










The sun is setting now and the waters of the gulf of St Lawrence reflect the oranges and reds for a long long while, even after the sun sinks down below the ocean horizon.






As we approach our destination, I'm thinking that we are getting dangerously close to the 9 pm closing of the restaurant. I ask the driver if he will let us out before the bus stop, close to the motel.
I don't know that motel, he tells us.
It's just three kilometers outside the village center. Nothing like telling a driver to stop a certain distance before getting somewhere.

But we all crane our necks and we do spot it and the driver breaths a sigh of relief with us, as it is ten minutes to nine. We will get our dinner.


Saturday

A classic basic motel. I think how back home, we've moved to chains at highway exit ramps. Inns that offer suites and have imposing drive ups. Not here, not this one.





Ed looks at the shower stall. It's old and not a little tattered. He tells me - that's the most basic model. $129 at Menards.

But it's a private shower and it feels luxurious to have access to it at any time. And we sleep well, despite the traffic noises outside.

Breakfast is of the backpack type though: instant coffee, instant oatmeal again. And now we have a whole day before us.
What's there to see here? Ed asks.
The mountains are bigger here than in the Forillon Park, but you need a car to get to them.
On the motel website it says that you can visit the wind turbines. There is a vertical one -- largest in Canada, or the world, or something.
How far?
Just up the road!
How far?
Oh, a handful of kilometers.

Out we go. And it's not unpleasant to hike the road here. There are wide shoulders and the sounds and smell of the ocean waters of the Gulf are quite energizing. And, too, we pass the occasional small shop. Like this old man's moccasin house. He makes all the shoes by hand, from local deer hide. His Indian girlfriend showed him how to do it.





Does she still make them too?
No, she went off some years back. But I stayed. With my dog. He plays the piano, want to see?




Where are you staying? he asks me as I admire Mr. Beethoven.
The Fleur de Lys motel.
The man at the desk, the owner's son, he wears my moccasins.
This is the kind of village where you know who wears your shoes.
I'll stop by on my way back. We're heading for the windmills.
That's far! Good luck with that!

I'll say this: it is beastly long, but at least it is an interesting walk. We stray off the road a bit, along the water's edge. And when hunger strikes, we are lucky to come across a sign that advertises fresh vegetables. The group of farmers, new arrivals to this region, are taking a lunch break...





...but they pause and scramble to sell us a few tomatoes, cucumbers. And a jar of pickled relish. For future use.





And we pass too, a park with a lighthouse...





... and with an unusual set up. This is what Canadians enjoy doing in their spare time:





Ed is tempted to try, but I urged us on. The turbines. We still have to get to the darn turbines. On top of some hill or other. Requiring a climb.

They are waiting for us at the wee little wind turbine station. We're the two English speaking visitors, walking all the way from the Motel du Lys. Crazy.






We have our own guide, because we're the only English visitors this day. He's a local man who served in the military for several decades before deciding, when his wife got sick, to give up work that required travel. To Afghanistan, for instance.

Our guide has his work cut out for him. You have no idea how curious Ed gets about the details.
Just wait, I'll get to that part, our guide will say.
Okay, but why...







I do love his presentation. And his casual, unassuming manner. I'm not an engineer, he says, even as he overwhelms me with the details of wind electricity.






I learn a lot. Not only about the mechanics of windmills, but also about their introduction here in Quebec, where energy is linked more to water than to air.
See that broken one? That stands on my uncle's land, he tells us. Well, my uncle died three years ago, but when he signed the contract, he agreed to take $3000 per year for the use of his land. Now they're paying farmers $10,000 per mill!

We ask how many tours he gives each day. Many. I work 9 to 6, seven days a week. But it's seasonal. Only the four summer months.
And during the other months? Oh, I sort mail at the post office. And I occasionally carry the dead bodies to the cemetery. What do you call that in English? Ah, a pallbearer. I always wondered.

He gives us a ride back to town. Such a kind man. Saved us a dozen kilometers on the road.
Do you get tired of living up north here?
People who come from outside, like from Montreal, stay two years, then head back. Too quiet for them. Me, this is what I know. My wife and I have a daughter. Keeps us busy.
Oh, lovely...
A Chinese girl. She's thirteen. She'll be going back to school next week.
And in the winters, is there snow?
Is there snow! Four feet one day and you shovel it and you get four feet the next day! The only thing is, you have to drive so much. You need a doctor, you drive to the big town. That's just fifteen minutes. But you need the hospital, it's three hours, or to Quebec City, that's five hours.

Back in Cap-Chat, we pause at a bistro pubbie type place and get refreshed with a Quebec apple cider. Of the harder kind.





And we walk to the motel and then back again to the pub, adding the kilometers: ten, fifteen, twenty. That's okay. Legs are strong now. And the sound of the ocean waters is ever so good for the soul. As is the lobster sandwich. With fries and plenty of mayo.

oh Canada, oh my!

Some days just heap the rewards, one after another, boom boom boom! I'm going to say that this day was one such runneth over day.

Take the weather. Normally a ho hum subject, but when you have sloshed through wet terrain, you are dazzled when, upon waking, you find a perfect sky. A brilliant, stunning, crispy blue. One they haven't seen at the Gaspesie for a long while.

A good morning photo, taken across the road from the youth hostel, where we pitched our tent:





And one of the hostel itself:






Breakfast -- well, it's a hostel with food on its mind. Good eggs, toast, fruits. I'm looking around the room. Not surprisingly, a young crowd, though with some salt and pepper types as well. We need a ride to the point where we left the trail. That's some ten kilometers up the road from the hostel. Ed thinks I should announce in the dining room that we'll pay someone's entrance fees to the National Park in exchange for the ride to the park. Yes, sure! Graduate students from Montreal. They'll take a free anything. (Most everyone here is from Quebec, quite a number from Montreal.)

And so we pick up the trailhead where we jumped off the IAT yesterday. We're now close to the tip of the Gaspe Peninsula and not surprisingly, we have some day trippers here. It's the place to go if you're in search of the most stunning view this side of the Mississippi. And on this day, this clear and brilliant day, you are in for a heady trip if you follow the portion of the trail that leads up to the observation tower at Mont Saint Alban.

What a view. What a beautiful, beautiful view.





To the north, the wide gulf of the St Lawrence, with Newfoundland on the horizon.





To the east - the Cap Gaspe, our final destination and the end of the IAT. Beyond that, the ocean.





To the south, the coast of the Gaspesie.






To the west - the Appalachian chain that we had walked the past three days.





Most come for the view, then turn around and hike back to the parking lot and so as we continue up and down the IAT, we have the delicious pleasure of a few quiet kilometers. And yes, we see tracks again. As a commenter pointed out, the Gaspesie is uniquely fortunate to have both caribou and moose and I cannot say whose hoof prints we continue to pick up but they are fresh. And large.

(Just so you know, we never on this day run into either.)

As the peninsula grows thinner, the IAT jumps the road and hugs the shore for a bit. We pass an old Gaspe farmstead, recreated to show what life was like for the settlers who came here (from England, France, Italy and shockingly, Poland) to fish in the previous century.





And we continue along the trail. And we are rewarded with something I did not hope to see - a whale, breaching, hump and fin out for the world, or at least for us to see. I was not fast enough with the camera. But, here he is, retreating into the water.(Forgive me, I don't typically post failed shots, but this one has meaning for me.)






Still marveling at the incredible luck of a whale sighting, we continue along the lovely path, through a thicket of firs and meadows of flowers...






...except, something is there ahead of us, an obstacle of sorts...
Ed, that is a black bear!
We pause. He doesn't see us, he is busy eating. But he's advancing toward us.






Act big, Ed they say that you have to act big if they approach!
I am big. Stand quietly. Wait.
I stand quietly, but with arms out, hoping that I seem big to the bear even if he could nicely tear me up with one swipe of his paw.
But he doesn't do that. He looks at us, hesitates, turns around and goes back, veering off the path into the thicket of flowers, with one last soulful look in our direction. The Ferdinand of bears, lost in his world of flowers and berries.





We continue and now I'm just so psyched for wildlife. A whale, a bear, what next?

A porcupine. Retreating as we walk down the trail.





And now is the time to concentrate on the flowers, the cliffs, the deeply blue waters that are a constant presence on this portion of the IAT.





I never got tired of it. Each turn delivers a view that was exciting, fresh.





We've been hiking for some six hours and we cross the road again and start climbing for what is the final ascent. Up up the last of the Appalachian summits, with a pause on a beautifully positioned wooden bench, just before the last decent.





And then suddenly, there is the lighthouse. The end of the IAT.





And it catches me in the throat, in a really satisfying way. The end of a fifty kilometer journey, a breeze today, more like a hurricane the previous days. But always majestically beautiful.

There is a map of the entire trail -- the blue northern stretch is where the AT changes to the IAT.





As we look around the lighthouse and gaze out toward the waters of the choppy ocean, someone points to a dozen seals playing in the water, just to the right of the rocks.





They add a lovely closing moment. The sun is now mellow but still warm. We are surrounded on three sides by water. And the seals play and romp as if there is nothing particularly special about this moment or this day. It is just the way life is.

We have hiked for a long stretch today (without packs we cover twice the distance) and as we walk now along the road toward the park's parking lot, taking in the strong fragrance of golden rod and who knows what else...






...we're also hoping that we'll find someone to give us a ride back to the hostel. And we do! A lovely Italian couple who save us a few hours of walking along the shore road.

It's our last day at the hostel and in the Forillon Park. Thursday afternoon we take the bus half way down the northern shore of the peninsula. They say storms are moving into the region. Funny how inconsequential this is for me now. And how unsettling it was just two days ago.

We eat dinner at the hostel. Tomato soup, seafood, chocolate tarts.

After dinner I want to post, but I cannot stay awake. My thoughts stray. I think back to the bear and the look of indifference in his eyes. Preoccupied with his own food search. He did not know I had a nice trail mix of nuts and raisins and seeds in my bag. Likely he didn't care. Content with what he had before him. A meadow of plants, a breeze from the ocean.

Pause

No, no not another pause! How reliable are you anyway?

Just one day. So that the soreness abets and I can relax again.

Tomorrow. I'll catch up then.

oh Canada, one day at a time

Perhaps peeking into someone's hiking adventures and mishaps is not your thing. Tally forth, then, to the next post. This one's not for you. For the others - sit back. I've got a lot of catching up to do.

Saturday: failing in the art of compromise

The day is brilliant, the views are enticing... but the train is late pulling into Gaspe. It is already two in the afternoon, we have no maps, no idea yet how to get to where we want to begin our hike.

The general plan is spectacular: we will take the International Appalachian Trail to its end -- at the tip of the Gaspe peninsula. The trail commences in Georgia and both Ed and I have hiked various segments of it (he, significantly more than I) and so it is quite a thrill for us to take it along its final Canadian segment. And I'm even okay with wild backwoods camping and with having an ambitious walking agenda for each day, despite the iffy weather forecast for this region.





But as we discuss our options at the Gaspe Tourist Office, the clock ticks forward and I am growing uneasy.
I want a tiny bit of time on the computer, I say to Ed.
Okay, we'll find Internet first thing.
There's some kind of festival in town. Places are packed. An how do we find the trailhead for the International Appalachian Trail (IAT)?
Here, it's off this highway. We'll have to hitch a ride there. It's about two dozen kilometers from here.
And if no one takes us?
Someone will take us.
The lady here says it's so packed with tourist this weekend because of the festival that hitchhiking is not an option.
We'll walk then.

I look at my watch. It's nearing 3. Maybe we should stay here overnight at some BandB and start out refreshed in the morning. (I'm thinking of the sleepless night on the train with the moaning kid and the last shower back on Friday.)
We can start the hike now and camp.
What if we have to walk the two dozen miles to the trail head and it turns dark?
We'll pitch off the side of the road.
I don't want to pitch off the side of the road.

I may be bold in matters of rains and planes, but in all matters related to camping, Ed is the one who is maximally adventurous. I'm fussier. Camping anywhere, including, if need be, in the gutter, won't do. I don't need campsites. I don't need toilet facilities. Running water can be of the brook kind. But I do need ambiance. A nest of sorts.

Hoping for a day's pause in Gaspe, I find a place for us to stay halfway up the road toward the trailhead. Ed's not happy. He urges us to push forward. I'm not happy. And so we reach a compromise and of course that simply means that neither of us is happy -- we book what's left in town and what's left is a room that is, by our standards, too much and it looks out onto the loud festival.

On the upside, the fast food place where we find WiFi also has fantastic local tiny shrimp, served in a pita wrap.





And surly the festival music will end before midnight.





Later:

In the hotel now. I plug in the iPad, Ed tries to sleep. The music down the road is blasting. Oh, oh oh oh, da da da da! Ed is tossing. I say to him, want to go take a walk through the festival? He responds - no... He admits it, he's sulking. If there is one thing you don't expect in northern Canada it's noise and here, by happenstance, there's plenty of it. I feel sorry for him. An inauspicious beginning, indeed.

Okay, do you want to leave? I ask.
Can we?
Even if they'll charge us for the room? We haven't used anything, but still...
I'll talk to them.

He does. No charge. We're out. Now what?
Want to reclaim that room half way up the road to our hiking trail? I ask. Now he's feeling magnanimous.
But it was not to be. All places within miles are now booked solid. You know, because of the festival.
Let's get a ride to the trail head and begin our hike now.
Really Ed? It's after six. It gets dark here early. Really?

We get a ride to the trailhead. The driver is chatty, a little baffled by our plan, but he drops us off right where the sign reads: the International Appalachian Trail. In French and English.

We aren't ambitious on this night -- how could we be, it's almost seven, dusky dark and the forest around us is thick. Perhaps a kilometer into the hike we start looking for a spot to pitch the tent. It's hard! The sloppy terrain offers no choices. Finally, we sort of find a half level surface. We unload our bags and settle in. Not hungry for dinner, not thirsty either. Tired. Out by 8:30.


Sunday: all hell breaks loose

Well, you know we are alive, because you're reading this post, but man oh man, this day had it all: the steep uphill climbs, spontaneous clouds of bugs -- in a few spots swarming as if nothing worth eating had passed through in years. Then, too, storms and torrential rain. And flooded paths with ankle deep mud. Still more: washed out stream crossings. Three of them.

But let's not forget luck. We had a lot of good calls and even more good luck.

We set out highly optimistic and hugely behind schedule. Sleeping for some 12 hours, lolling for a couple more, it's 11 before we're packed and out. Still postponing eating. Waiting for the right spot, the right moment.

The path is initially ridiculously steep. The packs feel heavy and despite the cloudy skies, we're sweating. We reach a slight spur -- a descent to Lac Renaud. Here's where we pick up the hoof prints of an elk and here's where we also pick up the boggy, muddy portion of the trail. We begin now, too, to feel the mosquitoes. Still, we pause at the lake, wash ourselves to the core and Ed even takes a brief plunge. Total immersion. Good for him.





Me, I'm hearing the rumble. And feeling the familiar unease when I am in the middle of nowhere, in difficult terrain and a storm is about to descend.

It wasn't supposed to storm today!

Ed, can we get out of this lake area?
He reluctantly gets out of the water and then in a painfully slow manner, begins to pack his pack again. Louder rumble. Ed, please hurry.
But for what reason, one may well ask. It's not as if there's shelter nearby. Deep rumble. I just want to get going. Away from the lake, somewhere under some cover even if it's only tree cover.
We're wading through thick, puddled mud, finding our way back to the trail, which, too is one mud bath (the Gaspesie has had a horribly wet month) and now the sky looks like we are in for a cloudburst.
Let's put the tent up! Now! It's not easy to find enough of a level surface to pitch a tent, but I tell you we are lucky, because behind some thick branches there is enough of a level-ish spot that we can quickly and I mean QUICKLY throw the tent up. Not a minute too soon. The skies open up and it pours, buckets and buckets of crashing, thundering rain. It's nearly two now, we haven't eaten breakfast yet, but all I feel is the tremendous relief of having shelter.

Two hours later, it passes. The skies clear and it is actually quite pretty outside. Our tent is soaked and there is still a patter of drops from the wet branches, but Ed finally boils water and oatmeal and coffee never tasted so good.

We set out again, buoyed by the luck, by the narrow escape, by the trail before us, by the fresh scent of wet pine.











But much of that high five feeling passes as the trail deteriorates. It's flooded in places: streams gush through it and there is so much mud that sometimes it's impossible to avoid sloshing right in, ankle deep. Hiking boots are soaked, pants -- don't even ask.

And never before have we hiked to washed out stream crossings. Not just any stream -- gushing torrential streams with icy water and terribly slippery rocks.






And all the while, hoof prints in the mud, to remind us that we are not alone. Except we really are alone. The are no backpackers here, no camping people, no hikers either. We plod on. What can you do but continue. We have a goal -- there is a rough camping space some kilometers ahead. To make it there, ah to make it there! Past lakes, severe now in the fading light, past clumps of mushrooms growing on the path, up an incline, sloshing down again, and so we continue...
















We're there! And miraculously it is by a lovely stream so we can wash away the mud from pants, socks and shoes.






And oddly, the mosquitoes disperse so that in few minutes, we are with no bugs at all. As if the Canadian mosquitoes do not like dusk, or the cool night.

We splash and wash and Ed boils water again for our pouched dinner.

We had wondered why the label for this stretch of the IAT is "difficult." How could it be, when the elevations aren't so steep. Now we know. Difficult indeed. So happy to be inside a semi dry tent now, typing away...





Monday: it's how it should be

Wake up to the sound of rushing waters. I go out and note the fresh hoof prints in the mud. The stalking elk was here last night.

The water is icy cold, but we wash up anyway. Who knows when the next opportunity will present itself.

I've gotten used to drinking water treated with Ed's iodine pills. We fill up our bottles, boil some, too, for breakfast and really, it all is so predictable and therefore comforting -- the routines of camping and hiking are finally setting in.





And it continues to be this way throughout the day. We have a huge climb early in the day and a descent on along a stretch of slippery rocks that sends me crashing on my butt, and, too, there is an hour of a mosquito attack that comes out of nowhere, but all this is not unusual. The skies stay gray early on, but by late afternoon, we see spots of blue.





And the flowers. In clumps along the path, in fields, everywhere we see the purple buds.





Berries, too. You can tell where the bears have recently passed -- the plants will have their heads cut off. In other places, you can see them, untouched yet.





And the mushrooms. Under the tree, on the tree...





And every few kilometers, we come to a view, to the mountains, to the gray sea waters beyond.





Perhaps our finest moment is when we pause on a bridge (yes, imagine that! A bridge! This second segment is much more tended than yesterday's path) and dangle our feet, even as we don't quite touch the water.





We reach the wild camping spot in good time and here, too, there is the sound of a stream nearby. Soothing sounds. And the smell of pine. Sweet Canadian pine. I imagine that this smell will stay with me. A reminder of these dense, sloping forests, and elk tracks mixing with our own.


Tuesday: in search of civilization

We're a day or two away from the end of the IAT, but we want to take a break from the wilderness and touch base with the world. It feels odd for me to be out of contact for so many days. And so when the trail crosses a road, the plan is to veer off and head to the shore. Surely there we will find ...well, for starters, Internet service.

A good plan. A mutually agreeable plan. Except in the middle of the night, the rain starts. And it continues -- a steady drumroll of water against a sagging wet tent. 6 am, still pouring. 9 am, pouring. 11 am, raining hard. Noon - a momentary lull. We take the tent apart and hide under a roof, conveniently there at this particular campsite. (There are 3 wild camping areas along this 45 kilometer stretch of the IAT. We stayed at two. All have been completely empty.) And we wait some more.

Finally, at 1, I make the call. Let's go! Now! Go, while it's only drizzling!

Ah, but it's slick out there! This time Ed lands on his butt. We have rain gear but the drizzle lets up (for the most part) and so we relax. And really, as always, we are thrilled by this magnificent forest (the part we hike belongs to the Forillon National Park of Canada). The fragrance alone can send you into a dizzy spin. The fauna is dense and always changing. On this day, we pick up the tracks of animals again. We're told later it's not elk at all, it's moose. And we completely lose all pesty bugs. Despite the cloud cover, the views remain breathtakingly splendid










We reach, finally, intersection with a road. Ed thinks we can hitchhike our way to civilization, but our crossing point is on a steep hill and no one can slow down for us, even had they wanted to. And so we continue. One more mile, another, and another, moving along the trail, aiming to at least reach the Park's Recreation Center. Surely they'll have WiFi.

They do not. But the ever so nice receptionist is almost done for the day and if we wait for her, she'll drive us to the Youth Hostel (someone mentioned there is one down the road). We wait. There is a snack bar and we order shrimp salads to pass the time.





She drives us the dozen kilometers or so and even though there aren't available rooms at the hostel (or, is it that we aren't youth?) we are allowed to pitch a tent and use the facilities, including WiFi.

We're sitting in the lobby room, on futons that remind me of student days. Ed has pitched the tent somewhere in the back of the house. We're both enjoying being online. But the smell... What is it? I go to investigate. Ah, a youth hostel that serves dinner. I look at the list of foods for tonight: lobster, crab, seafood over pasta, tarts, pre dinner drinks, after dinner drinks...what? This is hostel food? It's late, but we ask if we can have just one plate of something -- the sea food pasta will be just fine. With a half carafe of wine. The tent is waiting -- Ed tells me he had to pitch it just off the parking lot. I don't mind. Ambience? Eh, overrated.