Together Is the Best Place to Be, Day 12: Cabot Trail

Nova Scotia 2007
Day 12: Wednesday June 27
Copyright(c) 2007, Jim Beachy

Early this morning, the sky is clear. By breakfast time, clouds have moved in and Kitty is wandering if we should put on rain gear. “These soft, fuzzy fog clouds bring no rain,” I say with confidence. Of course, I’ve said this with confidence before and found myself 20 minutes later doing the Dance of the Wet Rainsuit while getting soaked in 10% chance of precipitation. “This is not a day for despondency when you see dark clouds!”


“Unless we’re riding through pouring rain,” Kitty mutters. “Then can I be despondent?” Apparently she remembers one or two of those Dances of the Wet Rainsuit.


But today I am right, and before long the fog-clouds have burned away and revealed behind them is yet another spectacular Nova Scotia day featuring pleasant leather-jacket-without-liner temperatures.


We slowly ride the Cabot Trail northward through Neil’s Harbor and marvel as rugged seacoast vistas slide by on our right. It seems we stop every several kilometers to take more pictures and absorb more of the spectacular views of white surf crashing into the base of cliffs while the road winds up over the hills and then down again to the sea.


The harbors are empty on this gorgeous crisp morning, which makes for less interesting photography than harbors filled with boats. On the other hand, we see dozens of lobster boats on the sea hauling up their traps. Lobster season on Cape Breton Island is in full swing. The Nova Scotia lobster season rotates throughout the year depending on geography: Thus, as we learned from talking to lobstermen in the southern part of the province, the season there is from November to May. Here on Cape Breton Island, the season runs from May 15 through July 15. In this way, fresh lobsters are available all year long, and it helps prevent over-fishing by thousands of lobster-fisherman, each with up to 275 lobster traps.


Having run as far north as it can, the Cabot Trail reluctantly turns inland and westward, and we make our way toward the west side of Cape Breton Island across Cape Breton National Park, for which we had purchased a pass yesterday. It’s late morning and a massive cloud bank covers the tops of the Cape Breton Highlands hills. “I still think those are just fog clouds and it will not rain,” I say, but with less confidence than before.


At Cape North, we depart from the Cabot Trail and ride the steep and winding road to Capstick, passing more spectacular jagged cliffs, each with its base outlined in white foam from the sea’s constant bombardment. There are few places to stop a big bike for photography, but we get a few shots when we can. The seascape is fantastic.


And so to Capstick and on toward Meat Cove. Now, on our last trip to Nova Scotia, I had taken our two-up Wing back that dirt road to Meat Cove. The scenery on that stretch is the most stunning and spectacular in all of Nova Scotia, but the dirt road was soft and so steep at places that my rear wheel was sliding and squiggling on the downhill slopes and spinning on the uphill. That was without a trailer. I’d promised Kitty I wouldn’t try that this year with the trailer.

But today, as I stop the bike, get off, and take a picture of the bike with Kitty sitting on it alongside the sign that says “Meat Cove 8 — Pavement Ends,” it’s hard to accept that the best scenery of the island is only a few kilometers distant and we’re not seeing it. Several cars go by and I think we should have rented a car. Couldn’t we just try it on the Wing? My promise to Kitty hangs ever-so-precariously in the balance for a long, trembling moment, like a droplet of water on a leaf shaken by the morning breeze, holding on for just a little longer than it really deserves. But then it falls. So better judgment finally prevails, so I turn the bike and trailer around, reluctantly heading southward toward a safer and more certain ride. Kitty is serene, apparently not sensing the jeopardy that has just passed her way.

We rejoin the Cabot Trail and navigate the heart-stopping descent off North Mountain, where the highway is so steep I have to wonder how in the world a tour bus gets up or down that hill. I always prefer uphill curves, but these downhill twisties have their own challenge.

Running through Pleasant Bay we consider catching a whale watching tour, but I think Kitty has had enough of boats this trip and perhaps we’ll do it next time. I think she is the beneficiary of my remorseful feelings about how close I came to taking us back to Meat Cove. Again. We climb the heights of MacKenzie Mountain, featuring more exhilarating uphill curves. As the Cabot Trail runs along the relatively flat top of the highlands, we see some cars stopped ahead, and an oncoming Gold Wing gives us the “slow down” signal. I try to key up the CB on Channel 1 and 7, the typical CB channels in Nova Scotia, but get no response. We discover the source of the commotion: A cow moose is standing off to the right, calmly gazing at the curious onlookers, showing no hint of interest in the humans.

On the descent from MacKenzie Mountain we stop at the Lone Sheiling, a simple stone hut erected in tribute to the Scottish sheepherder’s lifestyle. And once again into the uphill twisties for the final mountain of the day, French Mountain.

On the downslope of French Mountain is a scene so perfect that it appears on nearly every postcard or advertisement for Cape Breton travel. Surely you have seen it. From a vantage point high on the mountain, you can see the road below as a silver ribbon winding over the top of a cliff, then down to the ocean and back up again, curving over the next several hills before disappearing into the green Breton foothills in the distance. We get off the bike to take some pictures and stand together without removing our helmets, just trying to absorb so much beauty. Suddenly, from somewhere deep within, tears spring from my eyes, roll down my cheeks, and soak the cheek pads of my helmet. No words are spoken. This is just so impossibly perfect. After a long time, still without speaking, we get on the bike. This time, for one of the few times in our riding history, when I hear the tiny click as Kitty connects her headset, she says... nothing. Just... nothing. It’s a moment that words could not improve.

We ride slowly off the mountain and find a little picnic area to eat our lunch. As we’re nearly ready to pull out, a woman comes barreling into the area and disappears around the corner. A few minutes later she returns and walks over to us carrying something in her hand. “Dessert” she announces. “We locals know where the wild strawberries grow. I just picked some back there,” motioning behind her. She plunks down a napkin filled with a handful of what looks like miniature strawberries, hardly bigger than capers or small peas. We each try a few and they are delicious! Maybe a little more tart than domesticated strawberries but a very nice treat. We look around for them and find some growing literally under our feet. We’d smashed some of them as we walked to the picnic table.

We ride on to Baddeck and find a room in the Silver Dart Lodge, featuring a lovely view of Bras d’Or Lake. We walk to Baddeck Lobster Suppers for dinner and talk to a few Gold Wing riders from Georgia. “Well,” I say, “I have a sense of impending doom for several lobsters. It’s time to eat.” We each have a “lobster supper,” which in Nova Scotia is similar to what’s called a “shore dinner” in New England. This meal features a 1 1/2 pound lobster plus all-you-can-eat steamed mussels, seafood chowder, cole slaw, and rolls. Fantastic!

We walk back to the motel and sit in the lounge for a while listening to a local singer and his guitar. He’s singing the haunting and beautiful Stan Rogers ballad “Forty Five Years”:

After twenty-three years you’d think I could find a way to let you know somehow
That I want to see your smiling face forty-five years from now

Kitty gently puts her hand on mine and says “I want to see your smiling face forty-five years from now. It might not be in Nova Scotia.” And then we both say almost in unison, “But we’ll be smiling because of the memories.” “Because we did this,” I add. Well, 45 years might be a bit of a stretch. I’d be 102. Nevertheless, some of the best memories are made on slow-down days like this one when we’ve traveled just over 150 miles or about 245 km.

We are 500 miles north of home and nearly 900 miles east. (That’s as far to the east as Kansas City or Houston are west of Washington, DC). We are far enough to the north that it’s still daylight at 9:00 PM in this early summer season. Not all the cars have their lights on.

Now, at nearly 9:30 PM, I’m sitting with my laptop on our balcony overlooking the serene waters of Bras d’Or Lake. The daytime birds have retired and the night birds haven’t begun their assigned period of activity. A calm and profound silence has settled over Baddeck while daylight grudgingly yields to a night filled with the mysterious glow of the nearly full moon sitting just over the lake. By tomorrow night we will have bade a fond farewell to Nova Scotia and plan to be on Prince Edward Island.