Long Days to New Mexico

Having crossed back into the US, I had a deadline to reach New Mexico, where I’d agreed to meet a couple of my friends previous to leaving for Newfoundland. I’d had to cut a couple of days off my time on the island in order to make it, and still needed to make time across the US. I had to ride an average of 500 miles a day for the next few days to get there, which meant little to no time for sightseeing or stops along the way.

My nemesis the rain had continued to plague me each day it seemed, and when leaving Syracuse, NY for Columbus, OH, I saw how close I would come to Niagara Falls, a place I’ve never seen. I made plans to splurge a few hours and see the falls. It came to naught as heavy rain plagued me from Syracuse all the way, so there was no point in even trying to visit. Instead I continued on south in my rainproof cocoon of Goretex jacket and rain pants to Columbus, stopping only for gas and coffee until I reached my goal.

I found a hotel located near the Anheuser Busch brewery, the desk clerk telling me to park my moto under the front facade so I didn’t have to leave it in the rain. I was surprised since it was a large chain and generally management isn’t happy with that. Later that evening when I came back out to the bike, I had a very long conversation with the driver of the courtesy van, a man who’d given up his corporate career after finding out he was an adventurer at heart. He was in the process of outfitting a camper van and planned to travel the US, working seasonal jobs. He was well traveled and I enjoyed the chat.

The next 2 days were a blur of incessant highway time on the moto, spending the night in St. Louis, MO and then crossing the state to Kansas City for the next night. I visited “IHOP”, the International House of Prayer, a worship and prayer center that is open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, with continuous worship music. The facility has been doing this continuously for many, many years. It felt good and refreshing to sit in the auditorium and relax in the atmosphere and music.

The next morning my plan was to get to Dodge City and spend the night, which would then put me a day’s ride from Las Vegas, New Mexico, my goal. The day started out sunny and windy, crossing the flat land of Kansas, until an hour from Dodge City when the rains and intense winds hit hard.

In the region, there was a constant supply of cattle trucks coming in the opposite lane, the turbulence hitting me like a hammer from their grating sided trailers. The smell and overspray of manure was not fun, and I was lucky the rain was hard since it helped wash the spray away. Dodge City was inundated with rain, a bit disappointing, since I hoped to look around the fabled town. I rode through the little downtown but the rain was so heavy it was pointless.

I fueled up, then stopped in a KFC to get lunch and make decisions. Since I was still dressed for rain and the mood wasn’t right to stay, I decided to press on for Clayton, New Mexico a few hours ahead. As I crossed into Oklahoma, the rain became more sporadic but the skies were threatening and changing quickly.

After another hour or so, I finally arrived in Clayton, a town I’ve been through many times in my travels but have never stayed in. I decided to stay in the old historic Eklund Hotel in the downtown section, just for a change. The owner was a character and the hotel was loaded with decor, but comfortable. My room had a leaking AC unit, replete with bucket and dripping all night, but after 9 hours and nearly 600 miles on the road, it didn’t bother me a bit.

The next morning found a clear sky and frost on my motorcycle, with my final destination about a 2 hour ride away. I was glad I’d pushed on to Clayton and had a short day ahead after so many long days getting from Canada 2/3 of the way across the US.

Leaving town and passing through the huge vistas with only random windmills and pronghorn antelope, I was struck at the huge changes of scenery I’d experienced in such a relatively short time. The New Mexico landscape was a true contrast to where I’d been.

It wasn’t too long before the town of Las Vegas came under my wheels, and I headed outside the quaint town a few miles to meet my friends at our cabin for the weekend.

The area was beautiful and got to chill a couple of days with my friends on a big deck overlooking mountains and a valley. I also got my fill of spicy hot New Mexican food to contrast all the Atlantic seafood. The final run back to Dallas, was as always a long and depressing day, crossing west Texas and ending up in the metroplex.

As I've probably mentioned, I've had a curiosity about Newfoundland since the 1990s. I have a map of North and South America on my wall with my route from Prudhoe Bay, Alaska to Tierra Del Fuego, Argentina, marked with red lines. The northeastern section of North America was noticeably absent of said travel lines, but now there's a bit more balance…

I've always appreciated the beauty of the northeastern US, and getting to explore New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, and Cape Breton was icing on a beautiful cake. Due to the distances, I was unable to spend as much time as I would like, but then that's always the case. Getting to see Newfoundland, and the old Viking settlement at the north end were certainly the culmination. I hope that in the future I'm able to travel to that area again and spend more time exploring. I would've liked to have done some of the old railroad trail on the island, and also the Trans-Lab, but with my time constraints and the weather it wasn't really feasible. There weren't really any challenges and the entire trip could've been done on a Goldwing or a Lark Mobility Scooter, but after some of the challenges I went through in Central and South America it was nice to have a relatively drama free trip. If you get a wild hair to travel to Newfoundland, I highly recommend it...

Total time for the trip, including the days at the cabin, was 36 and I was on the bike 32 days of those. Much more butt time than I prefer but I got a lot of scenery and experiences in the process. 20 states in the US and the Canadian provinces of New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island, Newfoundland and Quebec. Total mileage for the trip was right at 9,500 miles or 15,289 kilometers, whichever you prefer.

Thanks for following along…

Adios amigos!

Chalet Des Vagabonds

Slept like a baby in a retro Howard Johnson's motel near the airport. It started raining when I checked in and I couch-potatoed in the room, watching the rain and finally ordering a Domino's pizza delivered.

The next morning was sunny and in the low 50s as I headed northwest from Bangor towards the Canadian border. The sun came and went, alternating between mild mist, gray skies and puffy clouds with blue.

I really enjoyed the back roads, which twisted and turned their way alongside rivers and in the forest with brilliant stretches of intense reds, orange and yellow's painting the tree leaves. The fall colors in Maine were more intense than they had been a bit further north. It's been a very long time since I've seen true fall colors like the northeast gets, and though this is just the beginning, some of the color intensity I would swear was fake. We get a color change in parts of Texas, but nothing in this league.

The various towns and countryside were filled with classic wooden houses and buildings. The ride was extremely enjoyable and I stopped about 20 miles from the border crossing for a short break. One of the local men driving a pickup truck pulled in and parked next to me, striking up a conversation about where I was headed and where I’d come from. He wished me well and headed inside the little store.

There were three or four cars at the Canadian border entry, which went pretty smoothly. The young agent with a black beard and heavy French accent, eyed me a bit suspiciously, staring at me with long pauses between his questions. He then said “You are from Texas? Do you have any weapons with you?" I answered “No sir”, and then he said “Do you have any at home?” It surprised me a bit, and I said “You mean in Texas?” He nodded yes. I answered “Yes I have a bunch.” He looked at me briefly, and stepped into the little building and quickly stepped back out with my passport.

I rode away wondering what the question about my gun ownership at home had to do with anything. I assume his stepping back into the building briefly, was to press the giant red button to send my info to the Illuminati, who will put me on their assassination list and hunt me down with black helicopters while I'm in Canada.

Watching my rear view mirrors for black helicopters aside, the temperature had dropped on the Canadian side, and the rural landscape continued with painted colors. There was no question I was back in French Canada, and I saw more of what appeared to be dairy cattle in the region.

It wasn't long before I was nearing the area where my friends Jules and Christine lived, but their address did not work in my GPS, only with Google maps. In short order I found myself on dirt roads, muddy from rain and the drizzle I was experiencing. I began to have my doubts about Google maps when it tried to send me down driveways past people’s homes on farms. I continued to play its games until I came into a tiny village named Milan and found myself on blacktop again.

I knew I was close, but they hadn't answered my earlier texts so I followed Google which lead me through the town and back onto a much muddier road. The big bike slipped and squirmed a few kilometers through the woods until the narrow road ended at the junction of three little-used two track ruts. I knew they lived in the country, but somehow I didn't think the ruts ahead and to each side would lead me anywhere except stuck.

Amazingly my cell picked up the signal for just a moment and my call went through which was luckily answered this time. Christine agreed to meet me back in the small town of Milan and lead me to their house. I didn't relish returning down the muddy road but made it without dropping the bike. As I approached the church, I could see Christine waving both arms and arrived to a big hug.

For those who read my South America ride report, I'd met Christine and Jules at Casa Elena in Antigua, Guatemala. They had arrived while I was staying there, accompanied by the Guatemalan Tourist Police. They had been robbed the previous day at gunpoint on the infamous road south of Lake Atitlan, and just a few days previous to that had been bum-rushed and knocked off their motorcycles at the Mexico-Guatemala border crossing. They had left Canada to ride to Ushuaia a couple of weeks previous to my leaving Dallas, but after the two incidents and the loss of passports and paperwork from the robbery, they were done and had decided to ship the bikes back home and forget the trip.

Can't say I blamed them a bit, but after a couple of days together, with some good home-cooked meals by the hostess at Casa Elena, some wine and a lot of laughter, they tentatively decided to continue, but only to Peru. I'm happy to report that they made it all the way to Ushuaia and became skilled travelers in the process. Their plan on returning to Canada was to open a travelers hostel, similar to Steel Horse in Colombia, and they are in process of converting a beautiful small farm they purchased.

One of the best things about the long journey through South America is the kindred spirit developed with other travelers. Despite Jules and I not being able to communicate in any form, they're like brother and sister to me.

After a few kilometers down a wet gravel road, we arrived at Christine and Jules’ farm. I burst out with a laugh, because Jules had scribbled a sign “Parkeo Seguro” to the front gate, the one thing every motorcyclist searches for in Central and South America.

It was great to see them again and the place they had found for their traveler’s hostel could not have been better. The property sat at the end of a quality road with a house, barn, guest house and plenty of room for tent camping. The property borders government park land and was beautiful.

Christine is a wonderful cook and we shared a lot of memories and laughter. Jules is a horse trainer and horse whisperer, and Christine has worked in veterinary clinics for years so they both love animals, but insist they're not going to get anymore. Right. Currently they have Jules’ horse, two rescue donkeys and four chickens.

When it came time to do chores, especially shoveling poop, I had a sudden flare up from an old Olympic sports injury, incredibly at the same time as an old war wound from some of the famous battles I fought in in the Cold War. I think I got away with it, but I still ended up having to brush one of the donkeys.

It was a bit rainy, but it was relaxing and I really enjoyed being with them. Needless to say they haven't had much time for motorcycling since purchasing the farm and doing renovations, but their F700 and 800 GS’s bikes are parked and ready to go, still covered with stickers from their travels. They expect to be open for business and online pretty soon. Their place would make a great stopping point on travels northward.

The farm is completely off grid, powered by solar and propane generator.

As mentioned, Jules is a horse trainer and a legitimate horse whisperer. At Steel Horse in Colombia, Jules spent one day with an unruly horse there, never speaking a word, and by the next day the horse was eating out of peoples hands. Further south in Argentina, at a farm where Jules and Christine worked for a month, he did a similar thing with the owner's horses. The Argentinian farm owner has asked him to return to train several more horses.

The area they live in, outside Milan, QC, is beautiful, and of course French. They took me to the local restaurant for, as they described, the “best poutine” in the region due partly to the fresh cheese made nearby. Poutine, for those who haven't had it, is basically french fries with meat or other items, cheese and brown gravy. I'd seen it advertised in my travels but hadn't had any until now. Let's just say it's a comfort food that is best finished with a nap and possibly a stent.

My close friend, the rain, had followed me to their house and though a good excuse to lay around by the wood stove, it was time to head further south. It was sad to say goodbye but I look forward to returning possibly next summer. We all hugged and laughed and it was well worth the trip just to see them. The rain had stopped, and the forecast for Montréal and Syracuse, New York showed sunny in the afternoon.

It was chilly and damp through the red and gold covered hills, mountains and valleys until I reached the flatter areas of the Montréal region where the sun broke through the clouds. I was quite surprised at the number of motorcycles on the roads and highways. I've seen relatively few but from the Montréal area all the way into New York there were motorcyclists everywhere.

I was trying to avoid any major cities and Google routed me through a small border crossing at Dundee. I stopped at a lowered gate on the Canadian side, which raised to allow me through and across into the US and I traveled past a few houses before reaching the US Border Patrol station. The young female officer seemed a bit incredulous as to why I was coming through on a motorcycle, and even more skeptical that I had ridden to Newfoundland. Unfortunately I was not frisked, however she never lost her puzzled and suspicious expression.

The weather had warmed substantially throughout the day and it was probably in the mid 70s as I made my way south towards Watertown, New York. I stopped for gas, managing to time it perfectly for the arrival of several expensive sports cars, including a McLaren, a Ferrari 98 and some other exotics. Three of the girls working at the combination gas station and Dunkin' Donuts were all atwitter and giggly at watching the cars.

The sun was still high enough that I decided run another hour south to Syracuse to be a bit closer to Niagara Falls and my next destination of Cleveland, Ohio. I have to say I have mixed emotions about being back in the US, not because it's negative being here, just the fact that I've left one world with a foreign language for a familiar and somewhat comforting one in just such a short period of time. Ahead will lie the familiar, the routine and I'm sure the heat, which is still lingering in Texas. It will be nice to get to the mountains of New Mexico, although that means I have Kansas ahead :O I'll be missing the beautiful fall colors, the mountains and forests for sure!

Baddeck to Bangor, Maine

The motel in Baddeck was like a mini-reunion from the ferry ride. Two 85-year-old men from Michigan were in the room next door, two moose antler racks in the rear of their pickup truck from a hunting trip in Newfoundland. The truck had been parked next to my motorcycle on the ferry deck, and at breakfast a couple who’d sat in front of me on the ferry came up to the table to chat about motorcycle travel. Baddeck is obviously a destination for the ferry passengers since it sits roughly 30 minutes from the ferry.

The weather was substantially warmer when I got on the road, though it was a bit overcast after several sunny days in Newfoundland. My instinct said to head for St. Stephen's and the Maine border, since I've got a specific number of days to get to New Mexico, but since Prince Edward Island was nearby, I decided to ride through the island on the way. I caught the ferry at Caribou, New Brunswick, which is free, with the caveat that you must pay upon leaving Prince Edward Island either by bridge or a return ferry. If Prince Edward Island is trying to build its population by trapping people on the island who can’t afford to pay to get off, they might re-think the plan, since folks who don’t have $40 Canadian might not be the clientele they want…

The trip took about an hour and a half, which I used to plot locations to see on the island, then spent the rest of the time sitting in the wind and people watching. I've certainly had my quota of ferry rides on this trip.

Just off the boat sits Woods Island Lighthouse, which I checked out before heading northwest for Charlottetown. From there I planned to go on to the National Park and loop around the northwest side of the island, with plans to ride back to Nova Scotia on the Confederation Bridge. Though I had no idea what to expect on the island, I was pleasantly surprised to find that it was quite agricultural and rural, passing a lot of farms. The landscape was rolling hills with lots of hardwoods that were beginning to change color.

St. Dunstan's in downtown Charlottetown

Unfortunately clouds had rolled in and sporadic rain by the time I reached Charlottetown. My weather app showed continued rain on the island in the afternoon, so I scrapped my plans for the National Park and the northwest coast. I just have no desire to ride in the rain where I can't get off and walk around and take photos. Disappointed, I headed for the Confederation Bridge then back to the mainland of Nova Scotia. The bridge is listed as 13 km long and you must pay a toll, $19 Canadian for a motorcycle. Luckily I had enough Canadian pesos and didn’t have to live homeless under a 9 mile bridge. I was also lucky that the winds and rain I’d experienced a little earlier were not an issue on the bridge. I’ve had some serious wind experiences on the bike in the past and I’m not afraid to say I take it seriously.

The overcast and rain continued the rest of the afternoon until I reached Saint John’s, which seemed especially dreary and industrial. I booked a hotel with good reviews, but was extraordinarily run down on the outside and in a grubby neighborhood near the freeway. The interior was under renovation and nice, but it had long, confusing hallways with multiple doors and no elevator, which sucked having to carry gear up stairs and so far down hallways.

I didn't sleep well that night nor had I the previous evening, and I was feeling it when I headed out from the hotel the next morning. It was gray, drizzly and overcast while I rolled towards the border of Maine. The fog was very heavy at times and the drizzly rain continued. There was little desire on my part to seek side or coastal roads since the visibility was so bad. Disappointing, but again that's part of motorcycle travel…

Google had shown the quickest route to my friends place south of Québec by routing me through Maine, then back across the border into Canada. Rain came and went until I made the border crossing outside St. Stephen, which only had a few cars, and after a few questions by the border patrol officer I was back in the USA.

Heavy fog and sporadic rain continued until I reached Bangor, and grabbed lunch at a downtown coffee shop. Bangor looked like a pretty cool town and I woshed I had a bit more time to enjoy it.

Even though the weather was pretty bad, the vivid colors of fall were showing much stronger in Maine than they had in New Brunswick.

Tomorrow, I cross back into Canada again!

Newfoundland In My Rearview

The great weather held and the morning was crisp and clear. My hostess served a great breakfast and wished me well, with the statement "No one ever comes to Newfoundland just once!" There may be a lot of truth in that statement, as I'd fallen in love with the country. Not in a "knock your socks off" way but in a gentler "slip-one-off-at-a-time" way.

The night before I'd run back the number of days I had left before having to be in New Mexico, as well as wanting to spend a couple of days with my friends Christine and Jules at their soon-to-be traveler's hostel south of Quebec. I realized I needed to look south again, despite my desire to stay a while longer and really get the experience of so much to do in the region.

The day was another spectacular one, with clear blue skies and sunshine. I headed south from Hays Cove to Hwy 430 where I headed west for a while until the turn south on 432 that looped through Main Brook and eventually reconnected with 430 on the coast. Wendy had said I might see caribou and moose along the road, but I only saw moose hunters, along with a quartered moose across some atv's on a trailer in front of me.

I hadn't realized that Newfoundland was such a hunting destination, but the number of pickups with plates from New York and Pennsylvania, not to mention the groups of guys from the U.S. at cafe tables along the way, confirmed it. There were lots of pickup trucks and ATVs along the roadway.

The only wildlife I saw was a large eagle flying low along the roadside though I never relaxed from watching for moose.

I topped off at a little gas stop at Main Brook and listened to the local lady talk about the coming snowmobile season ahead. I'd seen a fair number of snowmobiles in the back of trucks or being prepped in yards. My B&B host had said she was surprised at the level of professional trail maintenance equipment that was used in her area.

The road through the forest ended at Plum Point and I hung a left towards Rocky Harbour for the destination of the day. The winds, though strong, had lessened from the previous day and the ride was great. I enjoyed riding, and didn't stop much. At Rocky Harbour, I was still energized and continued to Deer Lake where the plan was to spend the night.

I topped up the bike and grabbed a snack at the adjacent KFC. A group of school boys came in, excited about the motorcycle and asking lots of questions. They wished me safe travels, kind of shocking me at their genuine conversation and manners. On the way out the door, a couple snagged me about the bike for a few minutes. They were traveling to a moose festival somewhere, where lots of moose based foods would be sampled. With the accent and speed of conversation, I only got about a third of what they said but understood the moose and food part.

At the bike, the sun was still high and I wasn't tired, so I decided to go a bit further south and find a place. The scenery south of Deer Lake was really nice, with plenty of mountains and vistas of water.

Before I realized it, I'd rolled into Port Au Basques. I hadn't planned on going that far south by any stretch, but it was getting darkish and my sunshine-fueled energy was waning. Since it was only about 7:30, I checked the ferry schedule about catching it that evening. As I sat debating whether to book and board the overnight boat, my energy level dumped and the thought of spending the night in a chair sucked. I decided to get a good night's sleep and catch the morning run.

Though I hated missing much of Newfoundland, the place really hooked me, and I want to return at a pace less than a rolling moto trip. I certainly understand the other posters who've said they want to return or wish they'd had more time. I feel the same way.

September has been a good time to be here, as I've not seen a single mosquito and hardly a single bug, other than some bee-like creatures who smacked me on the forest road today. The tourists are greatly reduced, generally being older couples, and the limited tourism infrastructure isn't overwhelmed. It's easy to find lodging though a few places begin to close up near October.

Newfoundland seems to be a place of quiet treasures, where you listen to locals who tell you of places to see, or people to meet. I look forward to returning and doing exactly that.

The next morning I packed gear and headed for the ferry, about a 5 minute ride away. Another gorgeous day and again greeted by the friendly Marine Atlantic ticket booth gal.

The line of cars wasn't bad but it took a little while to get into the main lot. My wait time in the line was interrupted by yet another romantic interlude. I was spotted by a young, blond-haired beauty, who donned an orange safety vest and picked up clipboard, pretending to write down license plates and ask people questions in order to get a chance to talk to me. It happens all the time - women police officers write me speeding tickets just to get to talk to me, female nurses shock me with a defibrillator each time I'm rolled into the ER on a gurney, all because they're just too shy to ask me out. I'm used to it. But this girl was much too young, bless her heart, so I just played along and answered her silly question about whether I had any plants on the bike.

Once aboard the ferry, and after a few conversations with travelers about the bike, I settled into one of the lounge chairs and before I knew it had passed out. It was a very pleasant day of travel and we arrived in North Sydney about 6 PM.

I had hoped to get a couple hours further south but by the time I reached Baddeck, the sun was gone. I grabbed a piece of pizza and a motel for the night

The Lonely North

It was another clear morning and cold in Port Au Choix. The winds off the water were even stronger than the previous day, and in a minute or two my face shield and video camera lens were coated with the smeary salt film as I rode out of the community.

The beauty of the road north continued along the water, occasionally drifting away from the beach through wooded areas. Here and there, pickup trucks carried loads of firewood in the back or pulled flatbed trailers covered with cut wood.

I began to see small roadside garden plots along the highway. The soil was rich and black and here and there were small gardening patches marked with homemade fences. Some were abandoned and overgrown, but most had been maintained and several had people harvesting vegetables.

I pulled off at differing communities and rode through the small towns, enjoying looking at the small homes and fishing boats.

My exploration of pullouts and side roads added to the length of the day, though the distance towards my goal of L’anse Aux Meadows wasn't that far. The old Viking settlement at the northern end of the island has intrigued me and was my primary goal of coming to Newfoundland, or at least a good excuse to make the ride.

In many areas along the highway, the scrub vegetation was low enough to expose huge areas of bare gray rock on the landscape and the nickname of the island, “The Rock”, was very appropriate.

I passed the turn off for L’anse Aux Meadows and continued a short few miles to the town of St. Anthony, seeking a butt break and some hot coffee. I had arrived around two in the afternoon and planned to go to the site for a couple of hours before finding my bed and breakfast. I stopped at the Tim Horton's and as I was taking my helmet off was approached by a man in his North Face and Patagonia attire. He introduced himself, saying he had followed me for couple of blocks to ask a few questions about traveling by motorcycle. He and his partner were currently traveling in a Ford F350 crew cab diesel with a fancy camper on the back. They were exploring Canada after having been to the Overland Expo. He had a 2010 BMW GSA but had not utilized it yet and was in the process of educating himself on how to set it up for a long-term trip he planned. We talked for a while and I inspected his camper set up, which was very well done.

Afterwards, I sucked down a hot coffee and hopped back on the bike. I got a bit of a rush as I neared the park, realizing my goal was in sight. Rolling into the parking lot, the visitor is greeted with a steel silhouette of a group of Vikings on top of a mound. The visitor center is accessed via walkway and was quite nice. I got into a conversation with a lady in the souvenir shop who informed me that the snowmobiling in Newfoundland was top notch with highly maintained trails. She said she and her husband and family would take snowmobile trips of 400 or 500 km over four day weekends. She said she loves the winter and the snow.

The view over the location of the small settlement from the porch of the visitors center was one I took in for a while, before slowly taking the wooden walkway towards the rocky beach. For me it was a mesmerizing experience, standing in the wind and looking out at the sea, buried in thoughts of such a barren remote location and the difficulties in sailing the small boats across the sea and establishing an outpost. The wind made the experience timeless.

The small bay where Viking boats were pulled up on shore for repairs, nails and other metal items being made in the blacksmith shed in the colony.

Interpretive sculpture at the entrance to the catwalks leading through the archaeological remains of the site

The foundations of the small sod buildings still remain, along with a reconstructed residence replete with three or four reenactors. Though it was a bit chilly outside, the structures were very warm from the fires inside. The reenactors did a really good job of explaining various aspects of life at the time.

Reconstructed sod lodge house

The interiors were very comfortable and the fires made the place warm and inviting. Re-enactors are a wealth of information.

My wonderings about how harsh a winter climate would be here for a colony were somewhat soothed by the sod structures, which offered great insulation and warmth. They wouldn’t be a bad place to live…

Though there's not a Nordic bone in my body, for some reason I was really attracted to being there. I sat for a while in what seemed like a timeless place, and actually had a bit of difficulty in motivating myself to leave.

The sun was getting low in the sky, so I made the short drive to Hays Cove and found my AirBNB for the night. My host, Wendy, was very nice and a photographer for the area. I dropped my gear and followed her suggestion for dinner a few miles back down the road.

The Daily Catch, a local cafe.

I found the little café my host recommended, “The Daily Catch”, and had what turned out to be the best meal of my trip. A bowl of delicious seafood chowder was followed by a slab of pan-fried fresh cod sprinkled with “scrunchions”, and a huge fresh salad. I’d heard of scrunchions along the way, but they were delicious, small cubes of what seemed to be fried fat. Upon reading about them later, they are indeed pork rind or fatback, fried until crispy.

By time I got back to the little community where I was staying, a small amount of light remained. I rode down to the bay and sat on the bike, watching the clouds suffocating the sunset.

It wasn't very long before a man wearing a safety orange outfit and riding a scooter pulled up next to me in what seemed to be the deserted little town. He was curious and welcomed me to the community, sharing that he had a motorcycle previously, but had to sell it due to health issues. He shared he’d had two strokes, followed by six stints and and the clearing of his carotid artery. Amazingly he showed no signs of having had a stroke, though he said one hand has still not returned to 100%. He was upset because they had taken away his drivers license, and his wife had no drivers license either, so they were somewhat stuck. I introduced myself to him and he the same, stating his grandfather had been an expert on the Viking settlement and had originally shown the Norwegian couple, Helge Ingstad and Anne Stine Ingstad, who’d excavated the place 55 years earlier and changed history. I told him there was a picture of what must have been his grandfather in the visitor center, which raised his eyebrows. He admitted to never having been in the visitor center despite living less than a mile from it.

Eventually the light died and the cold wind drove me back to my bed-and-breakfast for the night.

The Viking Trail

The decision to ride a couple days in the rain paid off with a crystal clear sunrise. I finally had time to wash a load of laundry the night before and for some reason woke up with an extremely sore muscle in my lower back. I think it was due to pushing the bike off the center stand a couple of days before without having the side stand down, and the bike got a bit off-balance which I had to muscle back up. It's about the only thing I can think of but it made getting out of bed a royal pain.

It was in the low 40s when I got moving but the forecast said the temperatures would get into the 60s. A few miles outside of Deer Lake I turned off of Highway 430, a.k.a. the “Viking Trail”, onto Highway 431 for Trout River. In short order, the scenery and road were a highlight. The area was rolling with high hills, forest and lakes, a bit more dramatic than the small amount of the eastern coast I had seen. It was a sunny and crisp ride.

I stopped briefly at the Canadian National Park ticket booth, as I was unsure if I needed to pay entry. The kind lady said that as long as I drove through there was no need. I pulled over in the parking lot afterwards to peel out of a layer in anticipation of it warming up, and also to top off my engine oil. The odometer had rolled over 5000 miles for the trip and the oil was low in the sight window.

The road stayed in the forested region with fantastic views of the water and small towns on distant shores. Just outside Bonne Bay the road to Trout River turned sharply and begin climbing. It wasn't long before the way had entered a high valley with gnarly brown bluffs on either side. The scale was massive and brought back feelings of riding in Alaska for some reason. The winds picked up substantially through the area, before the road began descending down to the community of Trout River on the coast.

The little town was quiet, with few people out. The two or three little shops along the waterfront were closed. I parked and looked at the bay, then explored the few streets before heading back out for the Viking Trail north.

Back at Bonne Bay, I rode through the little community of Woody Point and checked out the lighthouse.

I’d left Deer Lake at 9:30, and didn't roll into Rocky Harbour until 1:30. It was hard to believe I’d spent four hours in such a short stretch, but was beginning to feel hungry. Rocky Harbour only had one place open, a small tourist shop with self serve coffee, snacks and luckily for me, decals. The man there, whom I’m guessing owned the little shop, struck up conversation about my travels. He had been to Central America and Chile, sailing a ferry boat from Rocky Harbour all the way to Costa Rica for a sale and training the buyers. He said he plans to return to Chile someday and explore, so I told him I would tell him hi when we met down there one of these days. He laughed from the porch and waved goodbye as I pulled away.

My goal was to make Port au Choix, still a hundred miles north. The dramatic terrain of Gros Morne and the surrounding area slowly transformed into a flatter and more rugged landscape as the road hugged the coastline north. In all my time spent in Canada, I'd only seen one or two Royal Canadian Mounted Police cars, but for some reason was lucky enough to end up directly behind one for many miles north, keeping me honest on the speed limits.

The winds were strong and constant and despite being 54° it felt cold as hell. The short and sturdy evergreens had been certainly affected by lifetimes of the wind, as those being closest to the water were growing parallel to the ground. It was something I had not seen before, and the trees that were successively farther away became more and more vertical. The growth looked like a fallen stack of dominoes.

As I continued further northward, the lowering sun illuminated the wind driven air filled with mist and spray from the sea. I stopped in Hawkes Bay for a butt break and to warm up at a convenience store, sucking down a bag of potato chips and a cup of coffee to warm up some before riding the remaining few miles to Port au Choix. The sun was setting when I grabbed a hotel, and after dumping my gear wandered across the street to the boat docks. The wind continued, but the temperature had dropped dramatically and after a few minutes I was shivering enough to hoof it back to the hotel.

For the first time on this trip, I began to feel that I was a long ways from Texas...

Searching For Sunshine

After the beautiful afternoon previous, I was disappointed to wake up to winds and rain in St. John’s. I was glad I had taken advantage of the good weather, but the forecast for the next two days was rain with a brief two or three day break with sunshine, followed by another week of rain.

My plans had been to explore the various fingers and peninsulas of the eastern side of the island, such as Grates Cove and Bonavista, as I worked my way westward. My main interest in the island was Gros Morne National Park and L’anse aux Meadows, both on the western coast, but with only 2 to 3 days out of the next 10 without rain, I needed to rethink my plans on the east coast.

For me there was no point to explore in rain and fog with no ability to do much photography, and then miss the sunny window and have to ride the western coast in rain and fog. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but I decided to forgo my explorations around St. John’s, Grates Cove and even Bonavista.

I set my sights on Twillingate and after a hearty breakfast served by a girl with either a Scottish or Irish accent, reluctantly rode off in rain and wind. I stopped in briefly at the Toy Box BMW shop to check it out and say hi, checking to see if they had any waterproof gloves in my size, or a Heidenau K-60 rear tire. They had neither, though the guy behind the counter said that the shop owner used them on his BMW 1200s and 1250s. My rear tire was now pushing 9000 miles and though it had a couple thousand left, if they happened to have one I would've had it installed.

The temperature remained in the high 40s and the rain continued for the next couple of hours without stop. The highway construction that had required a detour on the way to St. John's was still in effect and the slow detour off the highway added almost an hour with the stacked up traffic. I was beginning to feel the chill and turned off the highway up to Dildo, one, because of course you have to go there, and two, I was ready to warm up with some coffee and lunch. Most of the little town was closed up, save for the Dildo Brewery. I got off the bike and went inside, only to discover the place was full and had a line of people waiting. I grumbled and went back out to the bike and continued on.

A bit farther down the highway, the rains lessened and stopped for periods of time. I gassed up, then whipped into a fried chicken joint called Mary Brown's where I shared a table with Peter Frampton, the famous nautical engineer from St. John’s. Peter was towing a very large boat, and when he came inside he ordered his meal and asked if he could sit at my table. We talked about a lot of things, and of course he warned me about the moose along the highway.

In between the spells of rain, the rocky landscape and short evergreen trees made a nice vista. Here and there on both sides of the highway there were large bodies of water, and in some cases I was unable to tell if they were lakes or actual fingers of the sea. The highway led into a higher landscape with some high hills or low of mountains, whichever you choose to call them.

After so many warnings, I finally saw my first moose briefly off the side of the road and down in a gulley. Mr. Frampton had told me that the moose had been introduced to the island to create a herd to function as a food source for the residents in case the fishing industry ever died out. The Special Forces dude I had talked to on the ferry told me that they estimated there were close to 200,000 moose on the island. Luckily this particular moose was in no position to get on the road, but I have to admit with the rain and spray, spotting a moose could be a challenge at times.

The temperature had peaked around 50 but was now dropping back into the mid 40s. The rain continued on and off, however it was not heavy but my soaked summer gloves had finally gotten the best of me despite my heated grips. When I reached Gander, where I turned north for Twillingate, I had to stop and get a cup of coffee to warm up. By the time I had warmed up and finished my coffee, I considered the hour and a half more it would take to go to Twillingate, just to spend the night and get up and reverse back out to Gander. The weather for the next day was predicted to be even worse, so it made no sense to go to a little community just to spend the night and add three hours of travel time with no enjoyment. I’d left about 9:30 am and it was now 6:00 after a long day in the cold rain. I found a hotel off the main highway for the night. Though it was a bit chilly, my rain gear had held out and I hadn't gotten seriously wet.

I have to admit I was a little bit bummed at having to change plans and miss much of what I wanted to see, but that's part and parcel of travel. Tomorrow the rain is supposed to be heavier, but the goal will be to get to Deer Lake or Rocky Harbour on the west coast, which, if the weather forecast is accurate, will give me sunshine for the west coast and northern part of the island.

During the night, I was woken up to the wind moaning outside. I got up and looked out the window, the motel parking lot lights illuminated my motorcycle sitting in the cold rain and wind backlit by the light.

In the morning, the rain and wind continued. My phone said it was 42°, and it took quite a bit of effort for me to motivate myself to head out in it for the day. I layered up enough that I could barely breathe when I zipped up my already snug jacket, but once I got in motion it didn't seem too bad. Since the rain was forecast to continue the entire day, I decided to make Deer Lake my goal rather than pushing on further to Rocky Harbour. I wanted to see the region in sunshine rather than shielded in fog and rain.

An hour into the ride, the cold was beginning to creep in. The rain continued nonstop and eventually had soaked my gloves enough that the grip heaters didn't seem to help much, that is until I took my hands off the grips. I still felt a bit bummed, and the gray heavy overcast and rain didn't help.

The winds were pretty active and deceptive, slapping the front wheel when least expected and always it seemed when in a standing puddle on the highway. I know the speed limit was 100 kph (62 mph), but I tried to stay above that as much as possible, trying to constantly sweep the roadsides for any sign of moose. It was nice that the highway department had cut the roadsides back pretty far in an attempt to help.

Two hours in, I regretted having opposable thumbs as they were now aching from the 70 mph wind and wet. I tried various positions to get them against the heated grips, however the other four fingers were having none of it and they were hung out on their own. The thumbs hung below the grips just enough that the brush guards didn't cover them from the wind. Of course, I forget my winter gloves and come to a land known for its rain and cold, only to find that none of the six different stores I have tried have any rain proof winter gloves and if they do, they certainly don't have XXL.

The last hour to Deer Lake, which is roughly an hour from the coast, was spent eyeing the mileage countdown on the GPS, which seemed like a lifetime. A little before reaching the town, some patches of blue could be seen and foretold of a better day tomorrow.

The Atlantic Ferry to Newfoundland

The next morning was gray and chilly. I had several hours to kill, since the ferry boarding wasn’t until 3 pm. I piddled around in the hotel room as long as possible, then loaded up the bike and explored North Sydney, which didn't take very long. I stopped in a waterfront park for a while, sitting on the bike and watching the ferry.

To burn a bit more time, I drove to a little park on the opposite side and watched the ferry from the other side. A group of three travelers got out of their car, taking pictures of the Atlantic Vision ferry as I sat and watched in my riding gear on the wooden bench. They eventually wandered over to inquire about the bike and were, like me, killing time to catch the ferry. We talked for a while before they drove off to some other place to burn a bit more time.

I got on the bike and went to the local Canadian Tire to search for waterproof gloves to no avail. The selection was pretty limited and the only pair that would've worked were camo hunting gloves however they didn't have my size. By this time I've killed two hours and wandered over to the Tim Hortons next-door to down another hot coffee and kill some more time, eavesdropping on conversations at the tables around me.

The ferry was to leave at 5:30 and we were supposed to arrive at 3:30, so about 3:15 I rolled up to the window at the parking lot entrance. The lady was nice and efficient, and in short order I had my boarding ticket and windshield sign that said “Argentia.” She told me motorcycles loaded first and when I rolled into the lane, I could see the tail end of another BMW GS ahead. The rider was from Virginia, and was traveling with his wife however she was driving behind him in her car. She had decided she didn't want to spend two weeks on the back of the bike. There were three Harleys in front as well as several UTVs. Conversation took enough of the time that it didn't seem too long before we were warned it was time to load.

Once aboard, a couple of rusty tie-downs secured the bike for the sailing. The loading process had been fast and efficient.

I grabbed the clothes bag off my bike and after a while of wandering through various hatches and hallways, managed to find my berth for the night. The cabin was nice and I ignored what I’d paid for it, determined to get a peaceful night of sleep. I wandered back out of the room area and explored the upper floors and outside views of the dock and harbor.

The blast from the ship's horn scared the living crap out of me while staring at the town from the top deck, and the next leg of adventure to Newfoundland began.

The routes around Cape Breton and Isle Madame to North Sydney

Early the next morning as I stood outside in the thick heavy fog on the deck an hour before arrival, a local Newfoundlander came out and lit a cigarette. He'd been one of the riders on a Harley, a retired Canadian Special Forces guy. He spent a good amount of time talking about motorcycling, and giving me advice on riding in Newfoundland. Again, he warned me seriously about the number of moose on the island and not to take it lightly.

I'd planned to go south from Argentia and take my time looping around the southern capes on the way to St. John's. He advised me that the thick fog would be covering the southern cape and I probably wouldn't see anything on the transit. He suggested just going straight to St. John's and exploring around that area, advising me that much of the southern capes were flat and not particularly interesting. I asked him about the UTV's below deck and if they were street legal in Newfoundland. He told me about the old abandoned railway line that crossed Newfoundland, now used as a trail, and that since it came directly to the port, the UTV's were allowed to exit the ferry and head straight onto the railway trail, but weren't street legal.

When we rolled off the ferry, the fog was extremely thick. I stuck with my original plan for a while heading south, but the fog didn't let up and I decided to turn around and head for St. John's.

As I got further north, the fog lessened and eventually some blue sky appeared. I would have been in St. John quickly, however the highway had been shut down for repairs and we were detoured onto small roads, with traffic crawling along in a major traffic jam. I eventually peeled out of the official detour and continued to St. John's on smaller back roads.

The city had a nice feel, with a lot of character in the old downtown section filled with pubs and restaurants beside the picturesque harbor. The high hills and cliffs around the harbor were impressive, as were a lot of the boats and ships. I looked for a hotel in the downtown section, but the smaller inns offered no parking and the bigger hotels were much too expensive for my budget. I snagged an older hotel a mile or two from the downtown section that was nice enough and had parking directly in front of the rooms. As much as I would enjoy them, I have avoided staying at bed-and-breakfasts because in years past I had gotten tired of carrying gear up and down narrow staircases in older historic houses. I’m not a small guy and those spaces can get pretty tight.

The gray day had become warm, with blue skies and sunshine and after securing the room for the night, I hopped on the bike and headed out for Cape Spear. It's only a short ride from the city and getting a chance to see the stunning coastline as you approach was impressive.

I parked and got off the bike, stumbling around some of the paths in my riding gear and taking in the magnificent views of the coastal cliffs in either direction.

As I walked back up to my bike, a lady asked me if I could take a picture of her with her phone with a particular naval vessel coming out of St. John's harbor in the distance. After I did, she proceeded to tell me that it was a Portuguese naval vessel that had been in port and she knew the commander of the ship.

We had an interesting conversation that lasted at least 15 minutes, and she told me much of the history of the 500 year old Portuguese connection. The retired special forces guy I'd spoken with on the boat earlier had mentioned the Portuguese navy and its connection with St. John's as well. She said that for five hundred years, the Portuguese had fished the Grand Banks offshore and the Newfoundlanders had fished close in. It was always an amicable arrangement, with the Portuguese ships restocking and trading in St. John's.

She apologized and said that her ride was leaving and she had to go, but grabbed another local woman who had just walked up to her car and introduced us, asking her to continue talking to me about the area. Before I could say anything, the second woman turned off her car and got out, warmly smiling and proceeded to tell me of different places to visit including coffee shops and restaurants in the region. She also said I was very lucky, because the weather was beautiful and there was no high wind, as is typical on Cape Spear. I was sort of dumbstruck and mesmerized at the sincerity and genuineness of the two ladies wanting to talk and help. She eventually said she needed to go, apologized and drove off. I had experienced my first taste of the Newfoundland friendliness.

I made the walk out to the farthest point, then up to the official "Easternmost Point in North America" plaque, feeling somewhat smug that I had now made the northernmost, southernmost, westernmost and now easternmost points in the Americas accessible by road. Honestly, I had never planned on making that happen, just eventually coming to the realization that in my various travels I’d made those points.

I pondered the thought at each stopping point on the long steps to the lighthouses, after substantial breathing pauses from climbing in boots and riding gear. (Truth is it’s cause I'm fat and out of shape, but I hope passersby assume it’s all the riding gear)

An unexpected point of interest were the old military bunkers and artillery points tunneled into the rock promontories for World War II.

After enjoying Cape Spear, I headed to a small town nearby on the coast before heading to Gould and then back to the city.

When I eventually made the downtown section of St. John's to grab a snack, I spoke with no less than six individuals who wanted to talk about the bike and my travels, just in the space of time of walking to the bike and trying to put my helmet on. I have a feeling I may be in Newfoundland a bit longer than expected…

The Western Cape & Isle Madame

I took my time packing the motorcycle, since the ride south along the western coast of Cape Breton wasn't very long. I've also been enjoying making myself slow down and smell the roses. The previous night it had gotten pretty cold and it was still crispy in the morning even though the sun was out.

The winding road climbed up into the mountains and it was cold enough at higher elevation that my eyes were watering despite the face shield. Though the mountains weren't dramatically high, they were fairly steep and very pretty, especially as you drop through a narrow valley back down to the ocean.

I don't remember if I mentioned it before, but I’d chosen to ride the loop counterclockwise which placed me on the outer edge of the road along the water for the loop. Not that it would make that much difference, but I did enjoy being able to look off the edge the cliffs pretty easily.

I passed through the little town of Cheticamp, then Margaree Harbor and stopped at Inverness for a short break. A member of advrider.com had messaged me and suggested stopping at the Glenora Distillery and then grabbing a meal in Mabou at The Red Shoe cafe. I was zipping along and blew past the entrance to the distillery, making a sharp u-turn and pulling back into their beautiful driveway.

I had a couple of parking lot conversations before going inside and signing up for the tour. The distillery also has a fine restaurant and destination inn. The grounds were especially beautiful in the sunlight, with a babbling brook running through the center. I was to find out that this brook was the reason for the distillery’s location.

The tour was interesting, both for the history of the facility as well as the background of Scotch whiskey production, some of the lawsuits from Scottish Scotch makers and the relatively short period of time they're able to produce their whiskey each year. It was a stop worth making and I learned a little about the production of whiskey.

A couple in their 30’s approached me and asked about the motorcycle, having seen the stickers from South America. They’d spent a month exploring Newfoundland in their van and shared how much they loved it. The beautiful location and warm sunshine made me want to laze around, but the clock is always ticking…

From the distillery it was just a few minutes until I rolled into the coastal town of Mabou and spotted the Red Shoe cafe, several motorcycles parked in front. The group of riders sitting at the table inside didn't acknowledge my wave, but after their meal came over to chat. They were heading north and doing the loop clockwise from where I’d just come. I asked the waitress what she recommended, and got a big bowl of seafood chowder. It was delicious. The café/bar is definitely a great place to stop when you're there.

The Red Shoe, a great little cafe in Mabou, NS

I continued farther south down the coast to Port Hood, where I thought I might spend the night, but I wasn't in the mood to stop and continued on through Port Hawkesbury to the Isle Madame, which had looked like it might be interesting on the map. The island was quiet and slow-paced, and though not necessarily beautiful or dramatic, it was a little off the beaten path. I spotted a nice-looking hotel/motel in the little town of Arichat and pulled in. The owner, Shauna, was very nice and told me they had a motorcyclist's special rate. She and her husband rode Harleys, and we had a long talk about travels and motorcycling. She printed out a map of the island and highlighted some little local roads that she said were pretty nice considering the size of the place. They had purchased and renovated the hotel recently, and the room was the nicest I've stayed in on this trip, rivaling some expensive hotels. Shauna said she had grown tired of living in big cities and now was really enjoying living on "island time". If you happen to find yourself in the vicinity, the name of the hotel is "The Clairstone Inn."

The next morning, knowing I was only an hour and a half or so from North Sydney where I was to catch the ferry the next day, I took my time loading the bike and rolled out of the parking lot about 10. It was another crisp morning with sunshine, Shauna lamenting the fact that she wouldn't be able to ride on such a beautiful day. Though most of her time was taken up with the hotel, she said that was how she preferred it and said she wanted to be “hands on” in every aspect of it. She wished me well on my travels and I headed off to ride the local roads she had mapped out for me.

The first small road turned out to be twisty, following along the water's edge. It was a very nice ride. At one point I passed a huge bald eagle perched on a stump right at the edge of the road, his head turning to follow my approach and slightly lifting his wings in case he needed to fly. I had no idea there were bald eagles in this area and it was a nice surprise.

The blacktop came to an end and turned into a little two track gravel road which I followed, spotting a small light house in the distance. A few hundred yards before reaching the lighthouse, the roadway had washed out, where I left the bike and continued on foot. Googling it later, the small lighthouse sits on "Cap Auget".

Cape Auget Lighthouse

Reversing out, I followed the other small roads Shauna had suggested and looped around the island before heading north.

At the little community of St. Peters, the town was festooned with pirate flags and in the small downtown section people were dressed in pirate costumes and readying for a parade. It was a good excuse to stop and grab a coffee and find out what was happening. One of the locals told me that years before, the town had celebrated a small event, and it had now grown into a festival, complete with parades, music and fireworks.

As I sipped coffee and searched Google maps for places to stop on my leisurely day north, I punched in a hotel search on the Booking app for North Sydney. The app would not take the current day’s date, saying that North Sydney lay in a different date zone entirely. I panicked at the possibility that in fact that might be true, in which case my ferry would be leaving in just a few hours rather than tomorrow. I doubted this was the case, but since I was on the bike and only an hour away, I decided to go ahead and ride directly to North Sydney and skip my leisurely exploration plans.

I rolled into North Sydney, looking for an ATM to get some more Canadian cash to replace what I’d lost. So far the trip had been done entirely on plastic, but having cash covers you just in case and I had no idea what the ferry situation would require. As to the ferry and getting to Newfoundland, there are two choices. The first is an 8 hour trip from North Sydney to Port Aux Basques, Newfoundland, the closest point on the island, or a longer trip that heads for the eastern coast of Newfoundland, landing at the old naval port of Argentia and depositing you about an hour from the capitol of St. John’s.

Initially my plan had been to land at Port Aux Basques, being the cheaper option, and then going all the way north along the western coast, then crossing the island to the east coast to see St. John’s. This would then require reversing back across the island and add a few days of travel. The more I’d thought about it and the realities of how long the trip distances were taking, along with my fears that winter would be arriving soon on the island, it made more sense to take the 17 hour ferry to the eastern side of the island. It would be much more expensive, however it would save me a few days and hotels. I’d also decided to get a cabin for the overnight trip so that I could be rested when the ferry landed at 9:30 in the morning. In my past travels, I’d always been budget conscious and either slept on the floor or in chairs for overnight ferry travels, and this time I decided to do it the proper way to avoid a dead-tired day on arrival.

North Sydney was small, and I found a Scotia Bank downtown for their ATM, then ran across the street to a small sporting goods store in the downtown section. I went in to see if I could find a pair of waterproof gloves since I’d forgotten my winter gloves back in Dallas. All they had were wet suit gloves, all far too small for my hands. I have had zero luck finding waterproof gloves in my multiple searches of various stores in Canada of all places.

I got back on the bike and rode to the ferry terminal entrance area, parking the bike before entering the secure zone and a female attendant walked out to meet me. I asked her if North Sydney was indeed in a different time and date zone, and she hesitated, checking her phone for the date. She verified that the ferry for Argentia would leave the next day and told me a little about the process and to be there two hours before departure time. I told her about the reason I’d come early, and having crossed multiple time zones I hadn’t been sure about the date.

I circled back to the little downtown section and stopped for a slice of pizza. Through the window, I watched a man come down the street and stop to inspect the bike before continuing on with his walking cane. Later, as I was preparing to put my helmet on in leaving, the same man returned and came over to the motorcycle. He had difficulty in speaking, having to put his finger at the base of his throat in order to make a sound. I could see the big scars on his neck from surgery as he spoke to me in his gravelly voice. When he heard that I was headed for Newfoundland, he warned me extensively to be careful about the moose and whatever I did not to ride at night. He was the second man in the same number of days to warn me about the moose there and to make sure I did not ride after dark.

For some reason I suddenly got very tired and sleepy, and mentioned to the man that I needed to find a hotel for the night. He pointed with his cane to a hotel on top of the hill and wandered away. A few minutes later, I passed him on the motorcycle and tapped my horn, seeing his wave in my rear view mirror. From the hotel, I had a good view of the harbor where a large Marine Atlantic ferry sat with its nose open. Back in the room, I fell asleep for a short period of time and upon my return to the restaurant window, there was now a different ferry docked and disgorging semi trucks and trailers. From the looks of it, it did not appear to be the “Atlantic Vision” which was my ferry for the next day.

Cape Breton

I lingered around the motel room until about 10 in the morning. Since my ferry passage was booked, I had two days to complete the Cabot Trail. The road is doable in about four or five hours nonstop, but I've been riding nonstop and wanted to be able to do a bit of exploration.

The two or three other motorcyclists at the motel had all left by the time I saddled up for the road north. The weather forecast said that it was supposed to be partly sunny, but the morning was gray, overcast and drizzly, another reason I lingered. I planned to ride to Meat Cove, the northernmost point on the island and Google showed it to be about a two hour ride so I was in no hurry.

The air was brisk and in the high 40s but small patches of blue could be seen through the cloud cover and after a while the sun broke through in pieces.

The road north along the coast was smooth and easy, with wide S curves and rolling hills. It was a nice and easy ride, slowed by a large number of SUVs with older couples driving slowly. I pulled off at the Wreck Cove General Store to see what they had and scored three Power Bars for my tank bag.

At the counter, a man had just purchased a lobster sandwich and made the comment "I hope I don't get sick from it". The girl working the register, who looked like she didn't take crap from anyone, commented that the sandwiches had just been made and were fresh and gave him a mild stink-eye.

Outside, a man leaning against his cab asked about the bike and where I was headed next. Before we could finish the conversation, his client, Mr. Stink-Eye Lobster Sandwich Man came out of the store with the sandwich and climbed in the car, so the driver apologized and said the man was off a cruise ship and he had to get him back to Sydney.

From the store, the road to continued to climb and the scenery improved, not that it hadn't been excellent already.

At some point I entered the Canadian National Park which said admission was required, however the ticket booth was closed.

I perused the various roads in the park, and continued on north, stopping at many turnouts and side roads. The views glimpsed here and there were pretty amazing, with high cliffs and rocky coastlines. Classic cottages were sprinkled along the waterfront and up on the hillsides. The Cabot Trail was living up to its reputation. The gently twisting road and picturesque scenery made for a very nice ride.

At Neils Harbor, I deviated off the official Cabot Trail highway and took the smaller winding coastal road for a few miles until it reconnected with the Trail, then a few miles further at Cape North, I turned northward on the road to Meat Cove.

I wheeled into Cabots Landing Provincial Park, on a beautiful crescent beach. There was a bust of John Cabot, the English-ized name of Giovanni Caboto, a Venetian exploring for England, and some bronze plaques discussing his voyage of discovery in 1497. It's stated that the official landing site was unknown, generally accepted that he landed in Newfoundland, but some traditions suggested this location on Cape Breton. The huge beach was worthy of a movie location landing site for sure.

The narrow blacktop road continued north, passing a few homes and bayside villages and winding its way up and down along the coast. Clouds had moved in and the temperature dropped just about the time the asphalt ended for the last few mile stretch to the end of the road at Meat Cove. The dirt road was in good condition with a few mud puddles here and there from the recent rains.

Meat Cove and the campground

The last of the road climbed up a small hill with stunning views from the top, where the Chowder Hut cafe and a campground sat. It was cold and windy and I looked forward to warming up with a hot bowl of seafood chowder. The little café was full and the waitress made a fresh pot of coffee for me, but informed me that they had just sold the last of the chowder. The hot coffee was good, as well as a slab of fried haddock. Warm and satiated, I could see the skies darkening and threatening rain so it seemed appropriate to continue on. The winding road out was every bit as fun as the way in, with beautiful views around each curve.

Back on the Cabot Trail, the skies remained dark and threatening as the road climbed higher and higher. The GSA's thermometer showed 44° and the additional gusting winds made it feel even colder.

Eventually the road dropped back down to the settlement of Pleasant Bay on the west coast where I found lodging for the night. My 2 hour trip had turned into 8 hours and I was ready to warm up and relax for the evening.

The winds were intense and cold on the beach, but I savored every second of the time watching the sun set, hearing the boom of the waves on the rocky beach below.

The Curse of Oak Island

In trying to juggle the weather, schedule and ferry, I decided it might be best to get over to Newfoundland sooner than later and decided to head for Sydney and vicinity in case I could catch the next ferry outbound.

As I loaded the bike in the parking lot, an old couple came by and began talking to me. The woman came over to the bike and began inspecting my cases, saying how much she loved them. She then asked if she could pray a blessing on the bike to which I replied "absolutely!" She said a short prayer and then said to me "Don't take that lightly." I told her I didn't and thanked her. They were local from Dieppe and had been without power for three days, finally deciding to get a hotel room.

I rolled onto the highway and began the mental process of settling in for the long haul. It wasn't too long after, when I got a sudden flash and flutter of pieces of paper blowing past my face shield and I glanced down to see my jacket pocket unzipped and my wallet in the process of falling out. I slapped my hand on it and made the roadside to stop, to discover all my Canadian cash had been sucked out by a wind gust and I'd almost lost my wallet. The cash was separate from the wallet, and I was pissed to know I'd littered the highway in the high winds with all my cash. I was happy that I'd not lost my wallet thankfully. In the midst of my gearing up process, I'd been distracted by the couple and hadn't zipped up the pocket. Grrrrr.

So if you need some cash and have a huge amount of time to waste, peruse the roadside along Trans Canada Highway 2 between Moncton and Sackville.

After bitching and moaning a while, I settled into the monotony of highway travel and entertained myself by trying to pronounce the French names of places on the highway signs, using a cheesy, cartoon-like version of a French accent, that is until I crossed into Nova Scotia where I had to switch to a cheesy, cartoon-like version of a Scottish accent. Trust me, it's harder than you think.

Though my goal had been Sydney, when I saw the signs for the proximity of Halifax, combined with the warm and spectacular sunny day, I caved and decided to head for the coast of Nova Scotia south of Halifax. It's one of the blessings and curses of traveling a bit free, as you CAN do whatever you like, but also can get yourself stuck. Due to past experiences, I've been afraid to bypass Nova Scotia and the Cabot Trail on Cape Breton, thinking I'll catch them on the return because life happens and often I've regretted bypassing a place and then not being able to return.

With that in mind I set my sights on Oak Island south of Halifax. Yes, the Oak Island of the TV show "Curse of Oak Island". I foolishly got sucked into watching it a few years ago and now have invested so much time in watching them discover so little, that I can't afford to stop watching "just in case". Actually it is an intriguing show, despite feeling like I'm watching grass grow. I have a couple of Facebook friends who've begged me to go by and see it for them, so that's another excuse.

I made the little one lane blacktop road that leads to the island - and frankly I'm now amazed at how they got some of the monster equipment down that road to the island. In short order I was pulling up to the little roadway across the inlet and wondering if it was open, since there was a guy in a safety vest and some safety cones on the road. There had been some places along the route still without power and I had no idea if the site had hurricane damage or electricity, but I rolled on across.

When I rolled up, a production assistant waved me away from the buildings, then later apologized for doing so, but said they were filming in the building nearby and he was afraid the motorcycle sound might get picked up. We talked a bit and I asked him how big the production crew was, his response being about 50 on the film end and an additional 20 or so doing research. I wandered into the museum/gift shop and checked out the items on display, then bought a sticker for the cases. The production assistant suggested waiting a bit in case the filming stopped and I might get to say hi to the guys, but it was getting later and I decided to move on. I'm a fan of the show, but not that much of one. It was fun setting foot on some place I never expected to.

I headed further south, passing through the nearby picturesque town of Mahone Bay where they film some, then rolled further south to Lunenburg, a really cool old town with colorful buildings on the water. I stopped and had a great meal of grilled haddock overlooking the waterfront.

I grabbed a motel just a little out of the downtown section to avoid the premium prices, and was accosted in the parking lot by a man from Sweden. He was admiring the GSA and told me the police in Sweden rode GS's. His name was Rolf and he introduced me to another friend "KG". They laughed when I told them I'd raced a Husqvarna 250 between the Jurassic and Cretaceous periods, when men were men and motos ran on melted dinosaurs rather than ethanol. We chatted a while before I drug the gear inside and flopped on the bed.

I was anxious to get back out to the town and looked forward to getting some good photos, however heavy clouds rolled in and killed the light. Disappointed, I headed back to the room and drowned my sorrows in conversation with other guests sitting on the chairs outside the rooms, to the occasional whiff of cigarette smoke from down the way.

The next morning I decided to head for the Cabot Trail, the weather forecast indicating rain. I raced northward and detoured briefly through Halifax, circling the high citadel and downtown area before continuing on. It was in the low 50's and brisk, heavily overcast, but I managed to avoid the worst rains most of the way, squirting between showers and only suffering a few moments of sprinkles on the wet highways. That is… until about an hour out of Baddeck where the rains came in earnest.

I made Baddeck about dusk, piling off the bike for a cup of coffee at a downtown bakery to warm up and find a hotel, creating a puddle around the table with all my wet gear. Outside the downtown area, I found a room at a large motel. Several motorcycles were there, no doubt to ride the Cabot Trail the next day, as was my plan.

Bras d’Or Lake in Baddeck, an inland sea of mixed salt and fresh water

I confirmed my booking on the ferry to Argentia, Newfoundland from North Sydney for the 15th, a Sunday, which gave me a couple of days for Cape Breton. Even though the loop can technically be ridden in a long day, I wanted to be able to enjoy the area and not feel pushed.

A Piece of Fried Chicken...

The morning was sunny and a bit warmer leaving Caraquet, with crystal clear skies and a sense of excitement after the gray day previous.

I stopped briefly for coffee at the local Horton's and sat amongst the French speaking clientele, for whom the chain seems to be a meeting place. The Tim Horton’s chain, best described as the offspring of a McDonald’s and a Dunkin’ Donuts, have always been crowded and boisterous, with the locals and their French language full of emotion and sound. It’s a bit off-kilter in my brain, sitting in a chain coffee shop and hearing conversations in French, of which I have no idea of the content, but I enjoy the feeling of being a distant traveler in a new world.

As I stood in line, a man spoke to me in French and upon my response began speaking slowly and thoughtfully in English as best he could. I managed to understand he had a Vulcan 1500 as well as an 80 horsepower snow blower. I introduced myself and he said his name was Rudolph, then said "Rudolph the red nosed reindeer" and we both laughed. He wished me "bon voyage" and rejoined the three women chatting at his table.

When I walked outside to the bike, I was approached by a guy, obviously very cold, who began speaking in French and asking for 2 dollars for coffee. I had no cash since it now littered the highway behind me a few hundred miles, but I could tell he'd slept outside and was chilled. I tried to tell him I had no cash but would buy him a coffee and breakfast, but he misunderstood and walked quickly away while I was taking my helmet off. I yelled and he turned around, responding to my motion to come back. We headed inside and I pointed to breakfast or donuts, but he waved no, happy to just get a large coffee. He thanked me as we went outside and disappeared quickly across the roadway behind a building. He seemed to be a man down on his luck rather than just wanting drug money… but one never knows.

I rode east for an hour out to the Ile d' Mscou and the old wooden lighthouse on the point. It is stabilized for the high winds with long steel cables. In the parking lot I spoke with a couple from Maine who'd ridden up to see Nova Scotia, and like me, had to change plans. They weathered the storm in Moncton, however the rain was so intense their room in the hotel got wet from leaks around the windows and they were without power. They'd ridden in the same winds I had the day before and said the bridges were a handful with the wind gusts.

There was a small coffee shop inside, and the two ladies working the place were very friendly. They discussed how bad the winds and rain had been on the point, shattering glass at the lighthouse and destroying the road in, saying it had only been repaired this morning and making the lighthouse open again to the public. I'd seen flotsam along the road and the freshly repaired road section on my ride in. The cook told me they almost never get a hurricane there and was concerned that climate changes would make them a more regular occurrence. More to the point, she said the beaches had been littered with thousands of dead lobsters, all female and bearing eggs. She said the region depended on the lobster harvests and now with the death of so many females they were worried how it may effect the next season.

The warm sun and lack of wind made for a slow and lazy exploration of the site before heading south for Miramichi and then Moncton. Though I've been watching news to try and figure out how much of Nova Scotia and Breton are still without power, the TV news simply repeats the same stories showing fallen trees and bent signs, before quickly switching to the news of the Canadian girl who beat Serena Williams in tennis. It's actually a bigger story than the hurricane and she has become a legend in her country.

As the road droned on south towards Miramichi, I suddenly got a craving for fried chicken. Not something that normally happens, and when I got to the town I detoured off the highway and then googled “fried chicken” to find a listing for "Dixie Lee". When I found the place, it was bit run down and the parking lot mostly blocked by a large box truck and long trailer. Inside sat two young guys and an older man, and when I came in the man began asking me about the bike. They were all dirty from hard work, obviously on a lunch break.

The man was intrigued to hear about my trip, then began making suggestions about places to visit and such. Before long, he mentioned his wife of 33 years had died a couple months back from complications of dementia. I told him I was sorry to hear it, and he opened up, telling me the story. After her lingering death, he said he used the insurance money to pay off all his debts and get financially free. He went through major depression and came to the realization that he'd missed the real meaning of life, which was helping others. He said he had a brush removal business and had most of the region as clientele, but he decided to turn his loss into something good in life. He began taking 15% of his business income and setting it aside to help others who were struggling with similar situations of spouses with dementia.

In his work with so many homeowners, he said it was surprising how many he met whom he could tell were dealing with spouses having the same issue. He began buying Visa gift cards and keeping them with him to hand out, or would pay off their monthly bills or in some cases give them cash. Of course, his charity spread to those in need aside from his initial idea. He said with his background, he could tell who really needed help as opposed to those who were scammers. He said he's never been happier in his life now, and I told him "I'd say God bless you, but with what you're doing there's no way you won't be." He said that indeed he was so busy there was no way he'd ever get to it all, and now with the hurricane aftermath he had lots of work ahead. He wished me safe travels, introduced me to his two sons that worked with him, then headed out to his truck wearing dirty chainsaw chaps. I watched out the window as he climbed into the cab of the box truck, then jumped down and came running back inside. He handed me a laminated card with a photo of he and his wife on one side, and a poem about her on the other. He said he always gave one of them to whomever he helped, in memory of his wife, then ran back to the truck.

The laminated card will go into my little box of memories from the road, a touching remembrance of a moment in my life, along with little crosses, stones and other treasures caring people have given me in my travels.

Travel routes in New Brunswick

Caraquet & Acadia

It was a tit bit nipply this morning when I headed out on the bike after my coffee at the local Tim Horton's.

The area had only gotten a light dusting of rain the previous day, missing the wide bands of wind and rain from Dorian. Nova Scotia had some major power outages for almost 500,000 people and southern New Brunswick was not much better according to the outage maps, so I decided to head east for the New Brunswick coast where the hurricane had not impacted the area as badly. The French couple who ran the motel I stayed in said they felt sorry for me having to ride in cold weather, but it was in the low to mid 40s which isn't too bad.

As I motored east, it was apparent the rain was only a bit ahead of me as the roads were still wet in most areas. The temperatures seemed to hover between 46 and 50, with the dampness and constant 70 mph speeds slowly bringing a bit of chill as I cruised through the endless forest land.

The road rose and fell some, climbing slightly higher and giving some vistas across the landscape. Here and there along the way, fall colors were beginning to appear, a random group of red leaves occasionally and a general yellowing of much of the greenery. The skies remained dark and grey, with a lot of dark cloud features.

Strong gusts of wind pushed the bike randomly while the trees and roadside grasses seemed to remain in a constant state of gentle chaos. The remains of hurricane Dorian were rumbling along in front of me just a few hours ahead, leaving a trail of tossing wind and boiling clouds.

Three hours on the bike seemed to pass more quickly than usual, but by the time I rolled into Bathurst I was ready for a bit of warmth. Bathurst sits right on the coast, and the winds there were even stronger. I spotted a Tim Horton's and pulled in, going inside to warm up with a cup of hot coffee. For those unfamiliar with the chain, it would be the love child of Dunkin' Donuts and McDonald's in the U.S. Coffee and breakfast sandwiches, as well as a case of pastries and donuts.

A couple of the French gentleman having coffee were curious about the motorcycle and where I was from, chatting with me in English a bit before wishing me well. As has been the case since my arrival, everywhere I go, whether English or French-speaking, the people have been extremely friendly.

My goal for the day was the town of Caraquet since it sat on smaller roads out on the peninsula and on the way to the Miscou Island Lighthouse. The local road following the coastline towards the town was enjoyable. The wind off the whitecapped bay kept the bike busy. I enjoyed seeing the old structures along the roadside and I truly enjoyed the feeling that I was in a different place. In one stretch of the road next to the water, there were some areas of debris and gravel, which appeared to have come over the granite rock sea wall at some point during the storm, but it was relatively minor.

The winds remained high, and the water along the shoreline was a muddy red. Here and there along the roadway, along with old large barns and other structures, were little white churches that matched the little white frame houses that dotted the roadside.

I arrived in Caraquet, called the “capitol” of the Acadian French region, after riding some of the smaller roads to other villages. One has no doubt you’re in a French part of Canada, and I'm certainly glad that they are nice about speaking English. I found it interesting to be in the center of the Acadian French area, because my family roots are French from southern Louisiana. However my family were not “Cajun” (as “Acadian” became mispronounced) but came directly from France to Louisiana, not from the French expulsion from the Acadian region of Canada. Nevertheless, all my relatives could never be distinguished from any other Cajuns in language, diet, dancing, music or love of outdoor sports.

For those unfamiliar, after the French Indian war, the British expelled most of the French from New Brunswick, Prince Edward Island, and Nova Scotia, which was collectively known as “Acadia”. A large group went to Louisiana and became known as "Cajuns", while others were sent to differing areas in the world. Some of the French escaped and settled in the area around Caraquet, where the British apparently left them alone.

The pride here is tangible, with the Acadian flag ubiquitous...

Was a good day and I'm really happy to be on the coastline. Tomorrow I'm aiming for going out to the lighthouse and then probably heading a bit further south.

[IMG]https://photos.smugmug.com/Galleries/Newfoundland/i-gNKR2JT/0/21e59b65/XL/DSC00492-XL.jpg[/IMG]

Running From Hurricane Dorian

So in deciding what to do about Hurricane Dorian and having read about the ferry delays to Newfoundland, not to mention the torrential rain they're expecting in Nova Scotia, I decided to use those things as an excuse to explore a bit of New Brunswick and headed north from St. George and away from the coast. It was bit frustrating to have ridden all the way to Nova Scotia and have a freak hurricane arrive a day later. But then again, that’s what makes life an adventure right?

I set my sights on Edmunston, NB as the rain forecast showed it to be on the outskirts of the heaviest projected rain. In most cases, my motorcycle has to endure the elements outside each day and night, and not knowing how bad the winds and rain might be, I didn’t want to have it sitting in tropical storm winds and rain for a couple of days. My alternative was to try and find a large hotel in a city with underground parking, but the idea of being stuck there without power for a couple of days didn’t appeal to me.

Another spectacularly beautiful crisp and clear day found me on roads and highways with almost no cars for long periods of time. One thing I can say, is that New Brunswick does not lack for forest land. I rode for hours through tree lined roads so thick you couldn't see into the vegetation. Very rarely would I see a house or habitation and the little villages were few and far between, as were gas stations. I had half a tank of gas in the big GSA which would've gotten me anywhere I needed to go, but I try to top off out of habit.

Other motorcycles are few and far between here and I've yet to see another adventure bike. Mostly they seem to be Harleys owned by locals but today I saw a couple of other bikes going the opposite direction on one of the main highways. I've also noticed since I've been in Maine and Canada that maybe 1 in 10 riders will wave, pretty much the reverse of other places.

I stopped briefly in one little community to fiddle with the GPS, and a lone car pulled up to park next to me. The driver, a lady, walked up and smiled and said "I bet you don't even know what day of the week it is..." I chuckled because I didn't and told her so. She laughed out loud then slapped me on the back and went into the little store. On the way out she came back over and said "Oh by the way it's Friday!" with a laugh and a wave.

Though I've only been in Canada a short time, I've really enjoyed the friendliness of most of the people I've met and get into conversations at almost any stop.

Aside from wanting to fill up with gas, I needed to get some Canadian pesos at an ATM. The map showed that I was not too far from the city of Fredericton. Since I was having no luck finding fuel or an ATM, visiting the large town seemed like the best solution.

Fredericton provided both, along with getting stuck in a morass of stop and go traffic. I like to tool through the downtown sections of a lot of these towns, but this town was packed with traffic, made worse by road construction. By the time I found an ATM, had ridden through downtown and gotten gas, I felt like I had been spanked.

I continued riding north and checking out towns, as well as the changing landscape, until I reached Edmunston and decided to grab a coffee and Google a hotel. I spotted a McDonald's and when I walked up to the counter, the girl spoke to me in French at a blistering speed. Being the experienced world traveler that I am, I panicked and responded in the awful Spanish I had learned for South America.

She had mercy on me and spoke to me in English, but I realized that Toto and I were no longer in Texas. I squeezed out a "merci", trying to make it sound French but sounding instead of like a terrible impersonation of Peter Sellers’ Inspector Clouseau character. I figured I had traveled far enough from the projected rainy coast at this point and found a small hotel for the night.

The following day was as projected, overcast and rainy, but thankfully not heavy tropical storm rains. I spent the day alternating between the small dark hotel room and standing out on the porch watching the rains.

It was a tit bit nipply the next morning when I headed out on the bike after my coffee at the nearby Tim Horton's. The area had only gotten a dusting of rain the previous day, missing the wide bands of wind and rain from Dorian. Further south, Nova Scotia had some major power outages affecting almost 500,000 people and southern New Brunswick was not much better according to the outage maps. I decided rather than go south to the affected area, I’d head east for the New Brunswick coast where the hurricane had not impacted the area as badly.

The French couple who ran the motel I’d stayed in said they felt sorry for me having to ride in cold weather, but it was in the low to mid 40s which isn't too bad… at least for a while.

As I motored east, it was apparent the rain was only a bit ahead of me since the roads were still wet in most areas. The temperatures seemed to hover between 46 and 50, with the dampness and constant 70 mph speeds slowly bringing a bit of chill as I cruised through the endless forest land. The road rose and fell some, climbing slightly higher and giving some vistas across the landscape. Here and there along the way, fall colors were beginning to appear, a random group of red leaves occasionally and a slight yellowing of much of the greenery. The skies remained dark and grey, with a lot of dark cloud features. Strong gusts of wind pushed the bike randomly while the trees and roadside grasses seemed to remain in a constant state of gentle chaos. The remains of hurricane Dorian were rumbling along in front of me just a few hours ahead, leaving a trail of tossing wind and boiling clouds.

Three hours on the bike seemed to pass more quickly than usual, but by the time I rolled into Bathurst I was ready for a bit of warmth. Bathurst sits right on the coast, and the winds there were even stronger. I spotted a Tim Horton's and pulled in, going inside to warm up with a cup of hot coffee. For those unfamiliar with the chain, it would be the love child of Dunkin' Donuts and McDonald's. Coffee and breakfast sandwiches, as well as a case of pastries and donuts. A couple of the French gentleman having coffee were curious about the motorcycle and where I was from, chatting with me in English a bit before wishing me well. As has been the case since my arrival, everywhere I go, whether English or French-speaking, the people have been extremely friendly.

My goal for the day was the town of Caraquet since it sat on smaller roads out on the peninsula, and was on the way to the Miscou Island Lighthouse. The local road following the coastline towards the town was enjoyable. The wind off the white-capped bay kept the bike busy. I enjoyed seeing the old structures along the roadside and I truly enjoyed the feeling that I was in a different place. In one stretch of the road next to the water, there were some areas of debris and gravel, which appeared to have come over the granite rock sea wall at some point during the storm, but it was relatively minor.

The winds remained high, and the water along the shoreline was a muddy red. Here and there along the roadway, along with old large barns and other structures, were little white churches that matched the little white frame houses dotting the roadside.

I arrived in the town of Caraquet, called the “capital” of the Acadian French region, after riding some of the smaller roads to other villages. One has no doubt that you are in the French part of Canada, and I'm certainly glad that they are nice about speaking English. I found it interesting to be in the center of the Acadian French area, because my family roots are French from southern Louisiana... However my family came directly from France rather than from the Acadian region, so I cannot claim “Cajun” roots despite all my relatives living in the Cajun region and sounding exactly like them For those unfamiliar, after the French Indian war, the British expelled most of the French from New Brunswick, Prince Edward Island, and Nova Scotia which was known as Acadia. A large group went to Louisiana and became known as "Cajuns", a morphing of the word “Acadians”, while others were sent to differing areas in the world. Some of the French escaped north and settled in the area around Caraquet, where the British left them alone for the most part. Thus, the area around Caraquet becoming known as the center of the Acadians.

The pride here is tangible, with the Acadian flag ubiquitous in the area.

It was a good day and I was happy to be on the coastline. Tomorrow’s plans are for going out to the Miscou lighthouse and then probably heading south towards Nova Scotia.

Into Canada

I’d found a nicely renovated small motel just outside Camden, Maine, the owners having lived in Garland, Texas for many years, a suburb near my home. The rains had come during the night and it was a great excuse to take a day off. I holed up from the gray, cold rain in the room and caught up on the ride report. I have to remind myself at times to stop and just take a day off here and there. Since leaving Dallas, I haven't been doing marathon mileage days, however they have been fairly long and after seven days straight it was time.

The next day dawned clear and my goal for the day was to get into Canada, and it couldn't have been a better day for riding. It was sunny and crisp, about 55°, when I got on Highway 1 going north. The little motel in Rockport and the town of Camden were just what I’d needed. I grabbed a bagel and coffee at a little café in downtown Camden, where the previous morning I had met another adventure rider named Phil, who lived in the area and rode a BMW R1200GS similar to mine.

If you're needing to make time through Maine, Highway 1 is not your answer. It wanders through many small towns and communities with stoplights, traffic and slow speed limits. It's not the equivalent of The Pacific Coast Highway, however the little towns along the way are charming.

I exited from Highway 1 and headed for Acadia National Park and the town of Bar Harbor as my first destination for the day. The Loop Road through the park takes you through a substantial amount of forest before reaching the classic Atlantic coastline, replete with rocky cliffs and green forest along the water. There were plenty of tourists and hikers since the weather was so beautiful, and it was apparent older travelers take advantage of the slower season in September.

After running through the park, I rode through the town of Bar Harbor just to say I'd been there. It featured plenty of tourist shops and brightly painted buildings, along with tourists on the sidewalks and waiting for whale watching boats.

I continued my way north, stopping in the little town of Milbridge for a sandwich, where even the locals were discussing what a gorgeous day it was. It truly was, but my mind wandered as to which direction I would head the next day, knowing that the tropical storm that used to be hurricane Dorian was a day or two behind me. One part of me said to go see my friends south of Québec and then loop up the Trans Labrador highway, while the other said just to grab a hotel for a couple of days until the rain passed, then continue through Nova Scotia to Newfoundland.

As the sun dropped lower in the sky, I passed a sign for the town of Lubec, proudly stating that it was the easternmost town in the United States. Lubec was my goal, but first I wanted to see the West Quoddy Head lighthouse a few miles away. From the road to the lighhouse, I could see across the inlet to islands on the Canadian side.

There were only a few tourists at the old lighthouse, painted in red and white stripes. I wondered if this was the easternmost point in the United States and received the answer with a large slab of marble stating just such a thing. The view of the bay and inlets were really great, and when I went inside the visitor center I got engaged in conversation about Newfoundland with two of the volunteers. They warned me that the folks in Newfoundland were friendly and love beer!

From the lighthouse, the town of Lubec was only a few minutes away and shortly I found myself at the base of the bridge crossing over to the island of Campobello in Canada. I’d considered staying in Lubec, however there was plenty of sunlight left in the day. I pulled off the road briefly and dug my passport out of my case, putting it into my pocket and taking a deep breath before rolling over the bridge to the Canadian Border Agency. I've crossed the borders of many countries many times, but I always get a bit nervous since you never know what can happen. There was one car ahead of me and the agent was stern but nice, just asking a few questions.

There is a park on Campobello Island named after Franklin Delano Roosevelt, who apparently had a history of vacationing on the island.

After a few moments on the road, I spotted the small sign for the ferry over to Deer Island. This particular ferry is privately run and delivers travelers between Campobello and Deer Island, where another Canadian government ferry carries travelers to the mainland of New Brunswick.

I turned onto the gravel road which led down to the water, and three or four cars were already parked and waiting. I stood in the gravel at the water’s edge and watched with a couple of others until the ferry made its slow turn and came quickly to the shore. The ferry operators were highly efficient, depositing the cars onto the land and quickly loading us. While the government ferry is free, this ferry was private and charged a small fee. I hadn’t seen an ATM on Campobello to get any Canadian money, but luckily they accepted the $12 fee in US dollars.

I talked a bit with the driver of a pickup parked next to me, and before I knew it the boat was approaching the shore of an island. I geared up and got on the bike, ready to exit, when they dropped the ramp on the gravel shoreline and an SUV pulling a cargo trailer exited off onto the island, driving through the grassy field up to a house. No other cars moved, and the ramp came quickly up. We pulled away and continued our journey. I remained on the bike, since I’d assumed we were landing and had geared up completely. Apparently the ferry made a special run to private islands just for the owners.

Eventually we reached Deer Island, where they very quickly and efficiently offloaded us and I caught the loop road to the north end of the island, where the Canadian government ferry sat unloading. This particular ferry takes you from Deer Island to the mainland of New Brunswick near St. George, and is free.

It was late in the day by the time I was off the ferry and my plan to make it to St. John's was set aside for local accommodations in St. George.

It had been a long day, and the fatigue caught up to me, but I was glad to have made the Canadian border and broken out of the USA for a new horizon.

Maine!

Starting my seventh straight day of riding, I was beginning to feel a little bit of the fatigue. I found in my previous long-term trips that three or four days of riding followed by a day off seemed to be the best combination. Getting to the coast of Maine has been my mental starting point, since the coastal Maritime region has been my goal. My plan is to travel a bit more slowly the coastline and try to enjoy myself a bit more.

From Brattleboro, Vermont, Kennebunkport, Maine was a little over 100 miles away but the GPS said it was three hours of ride time. That proved to be true, since the highways transitioned to smaller roads with many small town stoplights. Though I couldn't see the Atlantic ocean, I could smell the salty air occasionally between the puffs of diesel and automotive exhaust in the stop and go traffic, and my excitement rose.

Rolling into the picturesque town of Kennebunk, I was met with a wave of tourists and the little town seemed to show no signs that the summer season had ended. I parked the bike downtown and wandered around a bit before buying a small box of fried clam strips for a snack during my tushie break. There was no shortage of tourists, most of them still in clad in shorts and flip-flops, standing in line at the window of the nearby shack ordering seafood.

But after a break and an expensive lunch snack, my desire was to keep moving. I had considered staying in Kennebunkport for a day off, but the tourist crowds were not something I wanted to be around. After people-watching a bit, I fired up the bike and headed out to Walker's Point to check out the Bush family compound. Needless to say, the homes on the coastline were picturesque and beautiful, where the wealthy elite live their idyllic lives.

Stopping briefly, I snapped a pic of the Bush compound and counted the black Secret Service Suburbans parked side by side near the entrance gate.

I continued my ride up the coast line on Highway 1, passing through small towns and a lot of stop-and-go traffic. I'd briefly checked in on ADVrider.com while snacking and saw @Brett737cap recommendation for Days Seafood in Yarmouth, which was on my way.

When I pulled into the gravel lot to park, two men approached me and begin speaking to me about the GS. They were from Germany and both had GS's back home in their home country. At the moment they were in rental cars taking their wives on a tour of New England. It was fun talking to them and they warned me they had eaten all the lobster so there was no point in trying to get any in the restaurant, chuckling as they walked away.

I ordered my first lobster roll at the walk-up window, waiting a few minutes before it came out and then enjoying the pleasant view from the picnic tables out back.

The sun had dropped lower in the sky and I knew it was time to move on up the coast. I decided to check out the Owl's Head Lighthouse near Rockland, before trying to find a place for the evening. The sun was pretty low by the time I arrived, and I had a nice conversation with an Australian girl in the parking lot before walking out to see the lighthouse.

When I stopped briefly at the bottom of the steps leading to the lighthouse, a couple walked up and asked if I had been to all the places exhibited on my bike. This led to a long conversation between the man, who was from Buenos Aires and anxious to hear about the towns I'd been to while in Argentina, and the woman, who had lived in Maine, Nova Scotia and Newfoundland. She said that September was one of the best times to travel to Newfoundland because there was much less fog than in the summer months.

Above, a young couple had just finished their wedding ceremony at the base of the lighthouse so I watched as the photographer posed them in various places, congratulating them and smiling at their happiness as they walked past.

I spent some time alone at the lighthouse, listening to the wind and looking out over the bay and the horizon, colored lobster pot floats sprinkled in the blue water.

From Owls Head, I slowly rode north through Rockland, circling down to the Coast Guard docks before finding a small motel outside Camden in Rockport for the night.

Vermont Rain

So Hurricane Dorian has decided to head north and it would be just my luck to ride 4000 miles to Newfoundland just to be in a dying hurricane... when I headed for South America, I had to wait out a hurricane in South Texas and then stay away from the Mexican, Guatemalan and Honduran coastlines for other hurricanes, so I guess I should’ve expected it :D

Didn't sleep well last night and ended up getting up at 5:30 again. There were thunderstorms all night and it was raining pretty heavily when I got up. I wasn't too thrilled at the prospect of riding in the rain all day, which was forecast for all of my northern-ish destinations. The skies were threatening and sprinkling, and about 30 minutes in on the freeway I got hit with such a deluge I had to exit the freeway and find shelter under an overhang for a few minutes. I used the time to put my Pinlock anti-fog insert in the helmet, which I’d forgotten to do upon leaving.

The rain came and went in heavy downpours and sprinkling's for the next several hours. Occasionally the clouds would lighten and patches of blue would be seen. The temps were in the low 60’s and my Klim jacket did it's job well in terms of keeping rain out. The bike is running good and functioning like the big battleship it is. About the only excitement was when I stopped to get gas and a cup of coffee and somehow managed turn the GPS completely off and put it in a deep sleep state. For those with a BMW NAV V and others I'm sure, if the unit gets turned off, it takes about a fifteen second long press to get it to turn on again. I'm in the habit of bringing the unit inside for reprogramming destinations and such when I take a break, and somehow I accidentally turned it completely off. Apparently I wasn't holding the button long enough and the unit still wouldn't fire up when placed in the cradle, so I assumed the unit had bricked itself. A few hours later at the next gas stop, I held the button down long enough for it to start and was pleasantly surprised that wasn't dead. More first world problems lol.

And speaking of first world problems, I failed to mention that I managed to find a pair of running shoes at a Marshall’s in Gettysburg, so the whale blubber and fish skins are safe - though I may make some sandals. The unfortunate aspect of the story is that Marshall's only had one size 13 pair to choose from... which were some sort of day-glo yellow and pale blue. Not exactly my style, but the upside is I can use them as traffic safety cones in case I break down on the highway. And most importantly they were cheap. (Just remember, I told you to keep your expectations of this ride report low and everything would be fine)

McDonald's and a one dollar cup of coffee have once again become my home-away-from-home it seems. The weather and rain actually made me stop and warm-up with a cup today. Since my X-Lite X-551 helmet is in the picture, I'll use that as an excuse to talk about it for filler material.

This was my helmet previous to buying the Shuberth E1 Guardian I used for my 16 month trek. Schuberth was the only company producing a flip-face helmet with an adventure peak at the time. I really liked being able to pop the face open at border crossings or to take a drink or have a conversation. It wasn't long before the shortcomings became apparent. The peak vibrated badly, at least for me and with my particular motorcycle windscreen. I lived with it, but was disappointed. Recently, on a couple of rides in Texas, the peak vibration was so bad it literally blurred my vision and made me nauseous. And yes, the peak can be removed for highway use but neither my Arai or X-Lite have those issues. So as I've mentioned before, I brought the X-Lite for this trip and I am finding myself far less fatigued at the end of the day. I'm neither recommending the X-Lite, or recommending against the Schuberth. I miss the ability to open the face, however the X-551 is lightweight and flows through the air with almost zero vibration or head torque.

But despite the rain today, the landscape through Pennsylvania was beautiful, as was New York, and certainly Vermont, which was my final destination. The northeastern US is absolutely a beautiful place and I really enjoyed getting to see it again. Yesterday and today were the first days when I felt like I was getting back in the groove again, the familiar comfort and feelings of long-distance travel.

I ended the day in Brattleboro, VT, a really beautiful town, sucking down a hot coffee in a downtown café and watching the rain come and go as it has all day.

Tomorrow should find me somewhere on the coast of Maine... Lobstah!

Pennsylvania

So I made Charleston, West Virginia last night, staying at the Budget Host motel. It was cheap, which is about the best thing I can say about it other than the fact that it had a good view of the Kanawha river directly behind.

I've been enjoying riding through both the landscape and the towns as I'm traveling east. Aside from the beauty of the hills and forests, it's interesting to see the older towns and buildings reflecting the history of our country. I lived and worked in Manhattan for a while and had a chance to explore some of the northeastern states, but it's been a very long time and it's refreshing to see the cultural differences again. In my mind, aside from a few town like Fredericksburg, Texas seems to be primarily a mix of modern cities and metal building strip towns along the roads. Of course that's a generalization, but it's nice to see something different and mindful of our country’s rich history.

I wanted to see something different besides the inside of my eyelids, so I woke up early about 5:30 in the morning and was on the bike looking for gasoline, breakfast and coffee by 6-ish. All I could find was a local Hardee's, eating a breakfast sandwich and sipping my coffee while I listened to a group of retired guys talk about their time in the army. Stories of drill instructors and Russian soldiers wanting to trade cigarettes across the German border.

We all acknowledged each other with nods as I headed out and got on the bike. The temperature was in the low 60s and felt great, but I had to zip up all the vents on my Klim jacket. This is the first time I've used this jacket on a trip, and had wanted to take my warranty replacement Firstgear Kilimanjaro, however its shipment was delayed. I'll spare you the story, but my Kilimanjaro was the perfect jacket in Alaska, then failed miserably in Central America when the sleeves began to leak. Firstgear still honored the warranty three years later but in the meantime I picked up an older Klim Latitude jacket. The light weight and simplicity of the jacket appealed to me but it's not been tested in heavy rain or cold temperatures, whereas the Kilimanjaro was perfect in those temperatures. The Klim fits well and I feel sleek and aerodynamic in it. Think of a silvery, carbon fiber snake that swallowed a bowling ball and you'll get a visual. I need to lose 30 pounds in the next four days so that I can have room to layer for warmth in Nova Scotia and Newfoundland. I think it's doable.

The early Sunday morning highways were almost empty and the crisp air felt great. Fog and clouds covered parts of the highway with shafts of sunlight breaking through here and there. At times I had the highway and the beautiful views all to myself.

I made the decision to head east through Cumberland, MD rather than north, as my older sister had lived and worked on a museum project there in the 80s and I’d never gotten a chance to visit. I swung through the downtown section and shot a picture to text to my sister.

From Cumberland I continued on to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, grabbing a late lunch before touring the battlefield. Civil War battlefields have always mesmerized me and I could've spent the entire day staring across the fields and trying to imagine the scenes. I was tempted to stay an extra day to do just such a thing, however the town was packed with tourists, so I continued on to Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, where the long day finally caught up to me.

I had a chuckle that evening in the hotel room when I checked the photography website for Deals Gap. Here and there along the route there are photographers who shoot images and post them online to immortalize your ride - for a fee of course. I managed to find a couple of pics of me on the road, needless to say rare since I travel alone…

Through the Cumberland Gap

The plan for today was to get from Knoxville to Charleston, West Virginia at the minimum, by way of the Cumberland Gap which happened to fortuitously be nearby and directly in the path I was heading. Exactly why I wanted to say I have been through the Cumberland Gap I'm not sure, other than faint remembrances of it from my childhood elementary school lessons. It too, was one of those places like the Strait of Magellan that somehow seemed important in the scheme of things in the past. So, having crossed the Strait of Magellan it seemed fitting to go through the Cumberland Gap...

I was up earlier than usual, having slept surprisingly okay considering I had a battle with a giant cockroach on top of the bed before it succumbed to my BMW boot strike a few times. (More first world problems for your reading pleasure)

After stuffing myself with a syrup soaked make-your-own-waffle-from-the-beeping-flip-over-machine waffle, I loaded the bike in the early morning sun and temperatures in the low 60s. The temperature rose and fell like the road as I made my way East through fog filled valleys, the green forested hilltops protruding above.

When I reached the historic little village of Cumberland Gap, the little collection of buildings and houses seemed asleep, with the sunlight just beginning to stream here and there on the dew-covered grass. A lone man sat on a bench in the tiny downtown section and acknowledged my wave with a nod of his head. As I looped through, I spotted an old house containing a small café and coffee shop.

Coffee was what I needed, almost as badly as the underwear adjustment I managed to make surreptitiously upon sliding off the bike. The girl inside made a fresh pot of coffee and delivered a big steaming mug to me at the little table outside. Each of the tables had a fresh flower and the sound of a babbling brook nearby was my companion for the morning refreshment.

Today's ride took me from Tennessee through the edge of Virginia and apparently some of Kentucky before finally settling in to West Virginia. I struggled with wanting to take my time and explore many of the twisting back roads I could see, as is always the case, but I keep reminding myself that I must get to Newfoundland as fast as I reasonably can. I was rewarded with wide highways that allowed maintaining speed with very little traffic, and in addition wound their way through absolutely beautiful country. The terrain had started off very picturesque near Knoxville and continued to improve as I got further east, the hills getting higher and higher.

I saw quite a few Harleys heading the opposite direction throughout the day, enough to make me wonder if they were heading to rally somewhere behind me. As the bike hummed along for hours, I noticed that a large number of people were having yard sales on the beautiful sunny day. The region also seemed to have many flea markets, which were already surrounded by cars.

Pikeville, Kentucky was a designated butt break, and I looped through the old town apparently famous for its Hatfield vs McCoy background. Sadly, there were no reenactments of gunfights in the downtown section as per places like Tombstone, Arizona. No toothless barefoot men wearing only coveralls, a double barrel shotgun, a Hillbilly hat and a moonshine jug shouting at another across the street "I don't like you Mr. Hatfield!" then firing a couple of 12 gauge blanks. Darn.

I took a break at a local convenience store, leaning against the bike while drinking my "Two for $.99" bottles of water. I watched the leathery skinned clerk lady tossing bags of ice into the outdoor cooler, pausing only for a deep drag on her cigarette, her eyes squinting and flickering from the pull while she stared silently at me. To my right, the convenience store door opened and a 30 something year old dad dragged his little boy outside saying "Boy I'm going to whop your butt if you don't behave". Nods of acknowledgment from men about the bike as they walk into the store. Brief conversations with old couples moving slowly to their car. Scenes from America, repeated everywhere I travel in this great country.

Deals Gap

I Cha-Cha-Cha'd outta Cha-Cha-Chattanooga about 9 after some parking lot conversations with a couple of Harley riders on their way southward for a rally. The temperature was in the high 60s and felt fantastic after so much summer sweat in Texas.

The road took me towards Tellico Plains and eventually Deals Gap where I hoped to say hello to my travel bud Ward before riding the Dragon northward. The night before, I realized I’d left my cold weather gloves in Dallas, as well as my off-bike shoes. Suddenly I could hear the slow swishing sound of a giant Karmaic hammer coming my way for giving Ward crap about wearing plastic bags, because I'll probably be wearing plastic shopping bags over my gloves when it gets cold and wet... and potentially a plastic rain suit made entirely of roadside litter and duct tape...

If I don't find a Ross or DSW on the way north, I'll probably have to make a set of shoes out of leftover whale blubber and fish skin when I get to Newfoundland, since I'm sure it'll be all over the island and free for the taking. But enough of that.


The day was beautiful and in short order I overtook a sportbike with its racing-leathers-clad rider, slowly following a KLR with its rider in a hoodie and jeans, waving as I passed. They exited behind me and caught up at a stop sign where the Klar rider shouted and asked where I was headed. He gave a thumbs up upon my answer and we all took off together. Immediately the sport bike rider screamed the engine and shot past me before grabbing the brakes hard and falling back into line behind his partner. I chuckled at the display.

They soon disappeared behind me as I made my way to the little town of Tellico Plains and onto the Cherohala Skyway. It was a pretty and placid ride alongside a river before winding its way higher and higher. It was a good motorcycle road and I missed a couple of overlooks from being focused on riding hard and fast-ish, enjoying the ride after a summer of Dallas highways.

I detoured slightly to Robbinsville, NC for a butt break and coffee, and to see if Ward had responded on WhatsApp confirming he'd arrived in Deals Gap. There was no answer from him but I assumed he had no cell service there in the mountains.

A loose conglomeration of riders were gathered at the combination gas station/McDonald's, with bikes ranging from Goldwings to Ducati Monsters. Riders sipped coffee or scarfed down burgers before heading off towards the Dragon. I followed suit and enjoyed the scenery to my destination, the Deals Gap Motorcycle Resort, a few miles away.

Deals Gap Motorcycle Resort south of Knoxville, Tennessee

The Deals Gap store / motel had a bunch of bikes there, but not as slammed as I expected. I parked the bike and wandered towards the camp area where I spotted Ward about to don his helmet. He and a couple of buddies were about to head out for the day. We chatted a bit and had a couple of laughs before they took off on their KTM supermotos. Ward's F800GS is still in South America, having gone through several subsequent adventure riders since his leaving.

Ward aka "Paisamed" on advrider.com

The weather was spectacular and I sat and watched the bikes come and go, conversing with some other riders. A girl in her late twenties with her boyfriend wandered over to my bike. I overheard them discussing whether the Patagonia stickers were because the rider had actually ridden there or if they were just decoration. The girl said she suspected whoever owned the bike probably had ridden there, otherwise he'd look like an idiot... So, like an idiot I piped up that they were indeed souvenirs, which opened up an hour long conversation between the girl and I. She was from Alaska, and had recently ridden her Harley to Newfoundland a few months back. After that experience she decided she needed a different bike and had just purchased a BMW F650GS twin. She had a lot of questions about long-term travel and heading for South America, so it was a fun conversation.

Wearing my older Nolan X-Lite X-551 hemmet this trip - and glad I did. Light, aerodynamic and zero peak vibration.

Starting to look like a hobo with all my gear on the GSA

After building up an appetite purchasing a couple of stickers, a 1/4 lb hot dog hit the spot (I told you this report would be 1st world boring)

The tree of shame - luckily I added nothing to it

The beautiful day and the relaxing atmosphere caused me to hang a bit longer than planned. I wanted to at least make Knoxville that night, so I finally took off and rode the Dragon's Tail. The road was a lot of fun and it's easy to understand its popularity, being somewhat similar to the roads off highway 101 on the Pacific coast and the Mil Cumbres or Espinosa Del Diablo in Mexico.

There were a couple of state troopers parked along the roadside to keep speeds down, but I passed a couple of sport bikes and several Harleys, whose riders were substantially older than me. It felt good to feel like a squid. It was an enjoyable ride and ended a little too soon, but I continued on northward to Knoxville for the evening.

It was a good day, with spectacular weather and a chance to meet up with a friend. As well, I've now got a Dragon sticker for my cases, which after all is the most important thing right? Tomorrow is Kentucky, and I'm bummed to see that most of the distilleries are back to the west now that I detoured to Deals Gap. Oh well, onwards.