Together Is the Best Place to Be, Day 7: Lighthouse Route

Nova Scotia 2007
Day 7: Friday June 22
Copyright(c) 2007, Jim Beachy

Last night I set the alarm on my watch for 7:00 AM. This morning we awake at 8:00. The watch is dead and we’re an hour late. So by the time we pack, eat breakfast at Captain Kelley’s, find another watch (the battery tests Ok), and pick up a few items at a new Wal-Mart a couple miles from the motel, it’s two hours later than I’d planned to set out. But it’s Ok, because I’ve found another one of my favorite T-shirts. It has a large sign across the front that reads “Temporarily out of Service.” It’s perfect for our late-start day.

Apparently it’s been foggy around Yarmouth for quite some time, but today is beautiful, clear and chilly, with temperatures in the upper 50’s as we roll out of Yarmouth on the Lighthouse Trail, Rt. 3. This is the slow road that pretty much hugs the southern coast of Nova Scotia. Its companion road, 103, is a much faster route which, while having just two lanes in most places, is often a controlled-access route with interchanges. Rt. 3 turns a 127-mile trip into 212 miles because of the way it follows the coastal indentations. And so we follow Rt. 3 into all the little towns and harbors along the way.

As we roll sedately through West Pubnico and Lower East Pubnico we see a “windmill farm” to our right across the bay, probably 20 of the giant electricity-producing windmills seen first in California but now springing up all across the US and Canada. This area is still heavily populated with Acadians speaking the French Acadian language, which I’ve heard is fairly unintelligible to those outside the community. After a protracted territorial dispute between France and Britain that terminated with France ceding Nova Scotia to Britain, in 1755 the Acadians were expelled by the British. Many of the French inhabitants went back to France, and some migrated to Louisiana, where these Acadians became known as Cajuns. Some, however, refused to leave and refused to recognize the British Crown. The modern-day Acadians in this area are descendants of those proud people who refused to give up their heritage.

We ride slowly into a small harbor south of Argyle and find a couple guys loading a heavy life raft onto one of the lobster boats. “I’m Ed,” the older one says by way of introduction. The younger one says, “I’m a lobsterman and I work for him during the off-season.” No name-dropper here! I ask about lobster-fishing and about the boats in the harbor. “The season on this part of the island is from November 31 to May 31,” Ed says. “During the off months, like now, I repair lobster boats and rigging.” The season has nothing to do with lobsters, but has all to do with the government’s attempt at conservation and to prevent over-harvesting. They explain that if an official catches someone hauling in lobsters out of season, the fine is $100 per lobster and possible loss of lobster-fishing license.

But Ed points in disgust to a lobster boat in the harbor where a guy is hauling up lobster pots filled with lobsters. It’s a government program where the lobsters are trapped, then inspected for size and condition. The guy simply dumps them back into the water when he’s done inspecting them. Ed has a real problem with this program. “That should never happen!” he says, stabbing his finger angrily toward the lobster boat. “I guarantee that if you walk to the end of this pier, you’ll find illegal hidden lines with lobster pots attached. Those lobsters will go into those cages, and people will haul them out illegally and eat them. Those lobsters should be dumped at the same place they were caught.” I can tell this is a really sore spot with Ed.

In Shag Harbour we stop at a museum and climb an observation tower under the tutelage of two young ladies, one of which is an aforementioned Acadian. When we’re finished, I ask if they have a restroom. They don’t. “Where can we find one?” I ask. They look at each other and shrug. “Well, there’s a general store down around the corner.” I hadn’t noticed anything that looked like a store when we rode through the tiny village.

We had parked in a church parking lot adjacent to the museum, which in fact had been a church in its own right until 1978. Most of the churches here seem to be of the United Baptist denomination, and most of the buildings have a typical architecture that features a tower-like structure (not a steeple) at the front of the church, making them look a little like a steamship with a smokestack.

I have an idea. “I’ll bet that church has a restroom,” I say. “No, we can’t do that! We can’t just go into a church and use the restroom!” says Kitty, horrified at the thought. “It’s probably not even open.” I check the door, and in fact it is open. By this time, nature’s call is strong, and I am emboldened by an Old Testament story about David, the shepherd boy who became the second and greatest king of Israel. Once, when he was being pursued by an enemy, he broke into the temple and ate the holy bread for sustenance. This is a little different, granted, but I wonder if the same principles wouldn’t apply. What better use of a church facility than to relieve the sufferings of humanity?

I step into the sanctuary and call out “Hello!” No answer. Kitty stands in the doorway not quite believing that we are actually contemplating using the restroom in a church. But eventually need prevails over decorum and we find the restrooms. No other human appears. I suppose no-one (except those reading this) will ever know the service provided by that church building today.

And so we continue to follow the coast, ducking off the route occasionally to catch a lighthouse or two. I was hoping for a ride where we could see more of the seacoast, and there such vistas, and the tiny villages and harbors are fascinating, but in large part we run among forested areas that obscure the view. Eventually, having gotten a late start, we decide to pick up Rt. 103 and head straight to Bridgewater. Since the moment we headed east from Yarmouth, I’ve been watching a massive cloud bank. I presume it is heading east as we are, but we are probably gaining on it. And so we are. After we pass Shelburne and stop for fuel near the tiny village of Sable River, the guy in the service station asks if we’ve had any rain. “No,” I answer. “We’ve had great weather all day.” He says that a monster storm passed through the area some hours ago with hail and violent winds. He says it should already be past Bridgewater but I don’t think so, judging by the cloud formations ahead. Before long, raindrops splatter on the Tulsa windshield and we decide it is time, after nearly seven full days of perfect weather, to do the Dance of the Rainsuit. We both have waterproof Cruiserworks boots and SealSkinz gloves, so after we don the rain gear we’re ready for anything.

Several miles later I notice some white patches in yards and in the ditches along the highway. “That looks like snow,” Kitty says. I am perplexed, and then suddenly realize it’s the remnants of the hailstorm, patches of hail in some places two or three inches deep. Wow, I’m glad we were on the slow road today! And for the first time all day, rather glad we got a late start!

And so to Bridgewater, Nova Scotia, where another thunderstorm rolls through the area just after Kitty and I finish our walk. But I’ve already cleaned and covered the bike and trailer after today’s ride in the rain, and it’s sitting underneath the entryway portico where the clerk instructed me to park. Today we’ve traveled 319 km, guided mostly by British Emily in her metric mode. I’ll let you figure out how many miles that represents. It’s a big Internet — get out there and Google!