Together is the Best Place to Be, Day 9: Footprints on the Ocean Floor

Nova Scotia 2007

Day 9: Sunday June 24

Copyright(c) 2007, Jim Beachy

Well, posting yesterday’s report has been quite an adventure. First of all, it has the wrong title, “Day 7”. It’s actually “Day 8.” But who’s counting? Secondly, I discovered something about the 800-number dial-up service offered by my high-speed Internet provider: It does not support out-of-USA 800 calls. I’ve been using it in the USA when high-speed service is not available at a hotel or motel, which was the case last night at the Shipwright Inn. So this morning after breakfast I got Stephanie to help hook up my laptop to the phone line she uses for her laptop, and I could not complete the call. So yesterday’s report didn’t get posted until today from Port Hawkesbury on Cape Breton Island, where high-speed Internet is available.

After today, I have no idea if, in the next four days of travel, I’ll be able to post any reports. Some of you are probably hoping I can’t find Internet service.

The price for the night’s lodging at the Shipwright Inn includes a full breakfast from the menu, so we enjoy a leisurely breakfast of scrambled eggs and homemade wheat toast along with some fruit and yogurt. I still find it strange that I am so fixated on breakfast, because for all my adult life until about 18 months ago, I hardly ever ate breakfast. But then Kitty and I embarked on an attempt to live a healthier lifestyle, and since then I’ve lost 40 pounds and she’s lost 50. Hence our attempt to maintain almost-daily walks or some kind of exercise regimen. I miss the weight-lifting that I normally do three times a week but most of the places where we’ve stayed have no exercise rooms. Eating a complete breakfast has been an important part of that lifestyle change.
At breakfast, Kitty notices a sign in the dining room that haunts me throughout the day: “Together is the best place to be.” I think of our trip, and how we are together literally 24 hours a day for nearly three weeks. One of Kitty’s co-workers commented that she couldn’t stand being with her husband that long. Well, I don’t know how Kitty can stand it, but for me, it’s the highlight of my year. I feel like a MasterCard commercial: Motorcycle, $20,000. Trailer, $3,500. Rain gear for two, $300. A night in Nova Scotia, $129. Being together, sharing these sights and these moments, making memories that will sustain us while our minds are intact — Priceless! Nothing could be better than these days and these times together!

As we leave the Shipwright Inn, the owner, Doris, bids us farewell and I give Stephanie a hug. This has been a unique and special experience for us, one that we will treasure. “Don’t judge a book by its cover,” Kitty said last night as we were shown to our unique under-the-eaves room.

When the temperature is reported as 12 degrees Celsius, I really don’t understand that. But when I walk outside I realize that 12 C is pretty chilly! Rain has moved through during the night but this morning we have a mix of sun and clouds with small patches of blue sky appearing amidst the layer of gray.

The first order of business is to refuel. The next fuel along our scheduled itinerary is about an hour, they tell us, so I decide to backtrack 8 km and fuel up at an Irving station along the road we traveled yesterday. Having accomplished this, we set off for our half-day ride along the Bay of Fundy, or more specifically, the Minas Basin, and then on to the Canso Causeway area, the gateway to Cape Breton Island.

The Minas Basin at Burncoat Head features the highest tides ever recorded in the world, at 53.6 feet. We have only a half-day to explore the area, but we remember from previous trips that a harbor at high tide looks completely normal, and six hours or so later, at low tide, ocean-going vessels are sitting on the ocean floor, 40 or 50 feet lower than high tide. “Next trip,” I tell Kitty in the headset, “We’ll make a point to re-explore the Evangeline Trail and the Bay of Fundy.”

The road surface along Rt. 215 at times leaves quite a bit to be desired, but I put myself in slow-down mode and navigate gently through the turns until we reach Burntcoat Park, the actual site of the world’s highest tides. We turn off onto the gravel road and gingerly navigate our way to the graveled parking lot. I’d come close to promising Kitty I wouldn’t traverse any gravel roads, but this one is Ok and following the night’s rains isn’t kicking up any dust.

After visiting the minimalist visitor center, we embark on a little journey to do something we’ve never done before: Leave our footprints on the ocean floor. The tide today is only about 35 feet and now it’s halfway to slack tide, having crested about three hours earlier this morning. Still, there are large expanses of exposed ocean floor to navigate, and so we put our boot prints together in the coppery-red sand, take a picture, and walk away. “A permanent record of our being here,” I say. Permanent, that is, for the next three hours. Interesting, isn’t it, that what we see in life as permanent is frequently so fleeting? The tyranny of the urgent so often keeps us from doing the important things and tricks us into leaving marks we think are permanent, only to be swept away by the tide of the Important. Before we can blink, the three-year old kid we didn’t spend enough time with is 30 years old and has a kid of his own. What have we done with the Important things during that time?

These thoughts occupy my mind as we catch the Trans-Canada Highway, Rt. 104, near Truro and head toward the Canso Causeway area, about 170 km or 108 miles east. It occurs to me that, except for 10 minutes when we were checking information on Acadia National Park in Maine, we haven’t used our radio or played tapes or CDs for this entire trip. About 20 minutes into the trip after leaving Dad’s gazebo party a week ago, I had asked Kitty if she wanted some music. “No,” she responded. “I’m not ready for that yet.” I figure she’ll let me know when she’s ready. She hasn’t said she’s ready, for over a week. It’s odd how this “together” thing works. We have headsets and we can talk for hours if we choose, and sometimes we do, but other times we travel long distances without saying a word, just sharing the time and the sights together. “Together is the best place to be” has never been truer than for Kitty and me.

Running east into Port Hastings, we hit the first rain of the day, the trailing edge of a huge dark storm that we’ve been chasing for several hours. We don’t need rain gear and I tuck my digital camera, which I’ve been carrying around my neck for the day, inside my leather jacket to keep it dry. We stop at the Canso Causeway visitor center, pick up a few brochures, check out potential opportunities to catch a ceilidh (hey — use your Google powers!), and have the tourist service make reservations for a hotel in Port Hawkesbury. High-speed Internet is a requirement, as I’ve now learned that I can’t use my “emergency” dial-up service from outside the USA. A downpour starts in earnest just as we pull into the hotel parking lot, so we hastily cover the bike’s cloth seat with the form-fitted seat cover, leaving the bike and trailer sitting in the pounding rain, and wait to unload until the squall passes. Later, Kitty says she’s going to look for the exercise room and when I haven’t seen her for 20 minutes I investigate, to find her working away on a treadmill! During an interlude in the rain, we manage to get in a 40-minute power walk along the Hawkesbury waterfront. Before the next downpour I clean and cover the bike and trailer while Kitty showers, then I follow suite and head to the hotel’s restaurant for dinner.

“Together is the best place to be.” Words to treasure and to help build a life. Words to guide this trip for Kitty and me. Together. Together in Nova Scotia, at the gateway to Cape Breton Island. What could be better?

Together Is the Best Place to Be, Day 8: Peggy's Cove

Nova Scotia 2007

Day 8: Saturday June 23

Copyright(c) 2007, Jim Beachy

The alarm on my new watch is set for 7:00 AM. Apparently it doesn’t sound. Apparently I haven’t developed the proper technology to manage my new watch. Apparently I accidentally turned off the alarm sound.

Nevertheless, we’re up and ready to go in good time, but another rain squall is passing through Bridgewater, so we hang out for a while waiting for the weather to improve. By 9:30, the rain has ended and the road appears mostly dry, but we do the Dance of Rainsuit just in case. And as is normal for me, I leave my keys in my jeans pocket until after the suit is all zipped and flapped; then I have to unzip it, dig out my keys, and do the dance all over again. It’s a ritual that I’ve honed to perfection over the years.

We get back on Rt. 3, the Lighthouse Route, the slow road to Lunenberg and Mahone Bay. It’s a lovely winding ride along the La Have River through Riverport, with the wide expanse of the river off to our right. At Riverport is a ferry should you choose to cross the river there instead of riding the 20 miles or so to Bridgewater and back to that same point.

We see a number of loons this morning as we wind slowly along the river, and we see a large gull struggling with what I’m sure must be an eel. The loons remind me of the Canadian monetary system, which has two-dollar coins called “toonies” and one-dollar coins nicknamed “loonies,” presumably because they have an imprint of a loon. They both look like quarters to me, so I always have to look carefully at what I’m giving or receiving in cash transactions. And thinking of money reminds me that one of the best ways to get Canadian money is not to go a bank teller, but simply use an ATM card in any bank machine. It will give the requested amount of Canadian funds and charge your bank account at home the proper amount based on the best daily rate of exchange for that day. Most of our transactions are done with credit card, but it’s always good to have some cash and we procured some in Yarmouth after clearing customs.

After a stretch on the “big road”, Rt. 103, where our rainsuits, waterproof boots, and gloves get thoroughly tested, we exit to Peggy’s Cove. Nearing the coast, the weather improves and blue sky once more dominates the seaward views. Behind us, inland, dark clouds still fill the horizon.

This is our third visit to Peggy’s Cove, and I’ll be anxious to compare some of my photographs to those I took in 1986 or 1998. Peggy’s Cove has the only Canadian post office in a lighthouse. It is the quintessential harbor village and is featured in many pictorial atlases and on innumerable postcards dpicting harbors. I shoot about 50 digital shots, so I hope several of those might turn out to be photo-quality compositions.

We watch the Harbour Mist (a red fishing boat you may have seen depicted on many postcards) unloading mackerel to be used for bait. Six families originally settled Peggy’s Cove in the early 1800’s, and now 50 people make their permanent home there. It is still a working fishing and lobstering village in spite of the fame it has garnered thanks to its picturesque setting. We visit the Peggy’s Cove lighthouse and mail some postcards, and then take lunch in the dining room. After some more photographs and climbing around on the rocks, we’ve whiled away three hours and it’s time to head for the tiny village of Summerville, on the other side of the land mass along the Bay of Fundy, where I’ve made reservations in a little inn.

Directly in our line of transit is the dark heart of the storm we’ve been watching from the coast at Peggy’s Cove, where the weather has been cool but beautiful. British Emily Version 1.40 guides us flawlessly through the storm and the very complicated country routes toward Summerville. “I’d never try this without the GPS,” I remark to Kitty.

As we near the Fundy side of Nova Scotia, the rain clears a bit and we see that the tree-covered landscape has given way to farmland, much of which seems to be devoted to dairy farming. Our meandering route crosses a number of rivers with mud banks 15 or 20 feet high, and we know from prior visits that this is a result of the monster tides of the Bay of Fundy, which at Burntcoat Head has the highest recorded tides in the world at over 53 feet. At high tide, those mud banks are completely immersed! We hope to explore more of the Fundy coast tomorrow. Here’s something for you to think about: The amount of water that goes into and out of the Bay of Fundy approximately every 13 hours is estimated to be the equivalent of all the fresh water in every river, every lake, and every stream on Planet Earth!

As Emily gives the 850-meter announcement to our destination, I remark to Kitty, “For being half a mile from town, there’s remarkably little evidence that there is a town in our near future.” But sure enough there is, and we find the Shipwright Inn where I’ve made reservations.

It’s a post office, a hardware store, an “emporium”, a bed and breakfast, and it features a restaurant rated as one of the top restaurants in the province. There’s a bit of confusion about our reservation, and the young lady who greets us calls her mother, the owner, to find out which room she’s booked for us. We notice she is speaking German, which is Kitty’s and my native language, so we perk up right away. It turns out they are Swiss immigrants and run this place in this tiny town in Nova Scotia. The mother is out sick, but three daughters Stephanie, Yolanda, and Corinne, plus one employee, Natasha, are taking care of things this weekend. Except that Corinne seems to be on a camping trip and is nowhere to be found. The young ladies are doing just fine, and Stephanie immediately offers us coffee and a fresh cinnamon roll.

Yolanda takes us up the cleverly winding stairs to the Captain Armstrong room with its Jacuzzi tucked neatly into the eaves of the building. “Baby, you did good!” Kitty exclaims as the light dances in her eyes. It’s a fantastic room.

After I clean and cover the bike, we wander through the hardware store and into the restaurant, where we are in store for another fantastic treat! There appears to be no regular menu; they seem to fix whatever they have available, or, I think, whatever they feel like fixing. But you can’t go wrong. The food is fantastic, the dining room is tiny, the kitchen is in full view of the patrons, and the whole family atmosphere invites a comfortable, social setting. This turns out to be one of most unusual and extraordinary off-the-beaten-path places we’ve ever encountered. There's a web site, www.avonemporium.com. Bring your GPS!

I find out that, about 10 clicks back, we passed the only gas station for the next 80 clicks. To be safe, I will backtrack tomorrow morning and refuel. When you're a Boy Scout it's fine to wonder as you wander. But when it comes to fueling my Gold Wing along the remote Fundy coast, I don’t want to wonder as I wander. We double-check with Stephanie to make sure the station will be open on Sunday morning. Today we have traveled 270 km. You can convert that to miles using the same formula you found for yesterday’s mileage.

The Shipwright Inn has only one phone with dial-up Internet access, and Stephanie told me she’d be up until about 10:00 PM. It’s now almost 10:30 and my guess would be that this report will need to be posted in the morning.

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!

Together is the Best Place to Be, Day 6: The CAT!

Nova Scotia 2007

Day 6: Thursday, June 21

Copyright(c) 2007, Jim Beachy

It’s the Day of The CAT, the wave-piercing, tri-hulled catamaran ship that has cut the ferry time between Bar Harbor Maine and Yarmouth Nova Scotia from 6 hours to 2.5 hours. That’s how they spell it: The CAT. My Treo alarm sounds and vibrates at 5:00 AM. My watch alarm beeps at 5:00 AM. My backup wakeup call comes in at 5:30 AM as scheduled. Well, that’s the first hurdle. We’re awake. And a special thanks to all those who sent me helpful e-mails after yesterday’s post to wake me up this morning!

After fighting with a recalcitrant banana (which seems to take significant exception to having its skin removed) and other assorted fruits for breakfast, we uncover the bike and trailer and we’re ready to roll at 6:30. I’d booked this motel, the Acadia Inn, because of its location just several hundred yards from the ferry terminal. We arrive some time before 7:00, present our reservation papers, collect our tickets, and get in line as instructed with the other bikes making the crossing.

They load the 18 bikes (two with trailers including us) near the end of the loading process. This ferry business always seems a little tricky to me. The ramps are always wet, the floor of the ship is always wet and oily, and in addition there are tie-down points on the floor with little “domes” that could cause a bike tire to slip if you drive over it. Not to mention that with the trailer, my rig is longer than a minivan. And, because the bike is just inching along and the rider’s feet are pretty much off the pegs for balance, only the front brake can be used to stop or slow down. Not a good combination for an extremely slick floor. It’s a time for extreme gentleness and great conservatism. No sudden movements! We wear our helmets even for this 200-yard ride so we can talk to each other and also, unsaid, for protection in case I drop the bike.

We make it without incident across the heavily-slanted wet ramps and into the maw of the ship. No sooner are we in the hold than I see the Wing behind us on its side, lying on the floor. Ed and Sandy, whose bike we saw yesterday at Thunder Hole and who happened into line behind us, are having a really bad day. I talk to him later and he says neither they nor the bike were hurt. He explains that he was wearing sunglasses in the bright outside light and when he got into the hold it was so dark that he couldn’t see. In a moment of near panic he tried to remove the glasses with one hand while still moving and just lost perspective of the horizon. And every time that happens... Well, fall down, go boom! There is just no room for error in this environment.

The vehicle handlers herd all the bikes into very tight quarters, very close to each other, and instruct each of us to leave our bike on the side stand, put it in gear, and secure it with one tie-down across the middle. These instructions are definitely NOT what I had in mind! I had planned to take soft ties around both sides of the triple tree and secure a second set of tie-downs to the passenger grab rails. But the location of the tie-down points on the floor of the ship leaves me no choice. I put my single tie-down across the middle of bike, fit the strap into the space in front of the seat and onto the frame, and for good measure I secure the left-side passenger grab rail as well. Then, for extra good measure, I take the tail end of one of the tie-downs and wrap it several times around the brake/handlebar to keep the brake applied during transit. I hope it works. Actually, I feel pretty good about my work. I’m more worried about the work of all those other riders parked two feet on either side of my bike!

The CAT is a fantastic ship! I learn that there are four 9,500 engines, and instead of propellers it uses a jet propulsion system that displaces the volume of water in an Olympic-sized swimming pool EVERY THREE SECONDS! I walk out to the fantail and am instantly covered by a froth of spray that shoots up behind the ship from two massively excellent, raging-foam monster rooster tails that leave a trailing mist for at least half a mile. Its wave-piercing catamaran design makes for a smooth ride on the open sea at 56 miles per hour. It holds the world record for the shortest transit time between Australia, where it is made, and the US coast. You can find out more at

www.catferry.com. Any of you hopeless gearheads will find it fascinating.

In what seems like a short time, the announcement is made for drivers to return to their vehicles, so we all troop down the stairs to the lower deck. Well, it appears all the bikes made it standing up! We untie our vehicles, mount up, and await our handler’s instructions. The Harleys are really, really loud in the confined space of the hold, and perhaps that contributes to one rider’s confusion, but he accidentally pops the clutch on his Harley while we’re still in these very tight quarters. The bike immediately to my right lurches forward and in panic he kills the engine using the hand brake, but then his plant foot slips on the slick floor and I think he’s going to drop his big bike — right on my leg! I watch this unfold in slow motion, as it were, just two feet to my right. He finally recovers and my heart rate returns to normal, but I’m struck with how little it would take to write the story a whole lot differently. Had he dropped his bike, it would have fallen on my leg, most certainly broken it, and in turn would have thrown us over, which would have begun a domino effect that could have affected many bikes. And probably ended our trip as we know it.

But thankfully we emerge unscathed into the fog that shrouds Yarmouth today. We ordered US passports over four months ago but due to the now-highly-publicized US passport backlog, they have not arrived. Fortunately we have certified birth certificates as backup, and that, along with a photo ID, is all that’s currently required to enter Canada from the USA by land, rail, or sea. After taking off our helmets and presenting our identification, we clear Canadian Customs without a problem. Will they let us back into the USA with this same documentation? We’ll find out in about 10 days or so. The time zone change has moved our time up one hour, so it’s nearly 2:00 PM local time.

We park at the Visitor Center parking lot just up from Customs to check out a few things and find out where the nearest bank is located, when we see a trim and smallish man wearing a ball cap walking purposefully toward us. “He looks like he wants something with us,” I tell Kitty.

“Jim and Kitty!” says the guy. “I saw your post on WOTI, knew you’d be on The CAT today, and figured a black Wing with a trailer couldn’t be too hard to spot.” It’s Larry Surette, a Yarmouth local and WOTI contributor. As has happened many times before on our rides, the Internet once again makes for a small world. We chat for a few minutes before we part ways. It’s always good to put a face to a person we “know”.

We sign the guest book in the Visitor Center, pick up a few things, and wander off to the now-unused Cape Forchu lighthouse a few miles out of town. “Are we on vacation yet?” I ask Kitty. “Yes, we are!” she says. I’ve found that it is always good to check on these things from time to time. I give a contented little sigh that I’m sure she hears in the headset. I’m glad the ferry ride is over.

We spend a couple lazy hours at the lighthouse just hanging out, climbing over the rocks, having a coffee and muffin atop the cliffs, watching the relatively calm sea, and marveling as great banks of fog drift in and out while the sun struggles to maintain visibility behind the gray veil. As a bonus, we see The CAT leaving Yarmouth harbor on its return trip for the day to Bar Harbor, Maine. It passes right by the Cape Forchu lighthouse, which guards the entrance to the harbor. What a magnificent vessel!

I decide to switch the GPS to metric units. It will take me a while to learn metric distances, but the GPS will always display my current metric speed and so I will not need to convert or try to look at those tiny blue “kilometer” numbers on the speedometer. Several days ago when traveling on Vermont Rt. 100, poor Jill nearly went beside herself giving incessant instructions related to the “Forty-Third Infantry Division Memorial Highway” which she repeated at least 20 times during the course of the day. I think American Jill deserves a rest, so I select British Emily Version 1.40 as my new GPS voice. The GPS reboots with a whole new persona. It’s just weird but really kind of cool to hear my GPS sound so unfamiliar. Emily’s voice is lower than Jill’s and a little husky, and Kitty likes it, saying it fits with the metric units of measurement. Ok, so I guess we’ll go with Emily for a while. Personally, though, I’m kind of enamored with Australian Karen, who I think sounds really exotic.

After checking in at our motel, we go for our almost-daily walk along the Yarmouth waterfront. We have been trying to do a two-mile exercise walk most days on this vacation. As we power-walk back to the motel, who should pass by on his black Wing but Larry Surette. He recognizes us, stops, and considerately gives us his cell phone number in case we need anything.
Soon I’ve cleaned and covered the bike, we’ve showered, and we are walking to dinner. We end up at Captain Kelley’s restaurant and lounge a block from the motel. Kelley’s turns out to be a cool place with a really good local cover band playing in the lounge. I usually get tired of a band in, oh, say, two or three minutes because, being in bands myself, I tend to be so critical. But these guys are really good, covering such diversified artists as Jerry Lee Lewis, Simon and Garfunkel, Johnny Cash, Elton John, Steve Miller, Eric Clapton, Alabama, and even quite a few French and Cajun hits. Now, I’d have to say that although Cajuns were originally French, first lived in Nova Scotia (Acadia), were expelled by the British when they refused to bow to the British crown, and ended up in Louisiana, apparently you can’t go home again. Because even with a good band, “Jambalaya” just doesn’t sound the same in Nova Scotia as it does in New Orleans! Still, Kitty and I linger quite a while after dinner enjoying the band.

Today we have ridden a whopping 51 km... er, 31 miles. Tomorrow we will set out along the Lighthouse Trail, taking the slow road to nowhere along the Atlantic coast.

Together is the Best Place to Be, Day 5: Acadia National Park

Nova Scotia 2007
Day 5: Wednesday June 20
Copyright(c) 2007, Jim Beachy

It’s scheduled to be a lazy day to Bar Harbor, Maine, only 132 miles plus whatever riding we might do around Acadia National Park. So we decide to sleep in but somehow we are on the road before 9:00 AM even after a walking trip to Wal-Mart across the parking lot to pick up some ponchos and some lunch food. Typically we’ve been carrying along a bit of lunch, usually packed in ice in the trailer’s cooler, and we eat it at a rest stop or picnic area. Some years ago Kitty came up with the ingenious technique of packing stuff in ice overnight at the motel; by morning, the ice is melted but the food or water is ice-cold. She then repacks it in ice, puts it in the trailer’s cooler, and we have cold food and ice-cold water all day, even in extreme heat.


My plan today is simple and entirely consistent with the T-shirt I’m wearing: “I live in my own little world but it’s Ok — they know me here.” It’s a shirt Kitty found in the Whitehorse Press catalog and is one of my favorites. Funny, isn’t it, how a little thing like the choice of T-shirt or your favorite jeans can make your day a little brighter?


So in keeping with my simple plan, we simply follow US Rt. 1 from Brunswick to Bar Harbor. On prior rides, we’ve spent some time in the Bath shipyards where they build US Navy destroyers, and we’ve prowled around the little harbors of Wiscasset and Rockland and Bucksport, so we opt to just ride to Bar Harbor, get there early, ride around a bit, and check in to our motel. It’s laundry night.

The morning starts out with light cloud cover and the threat of rain, pregnant with a heavy feeling of moisture. Our magical umbrella of clear blue sky has disappeared, but we opt to start out without rain gear in 65-degree temperatures.

US Rt. 1 in this corridor is almost entirely built up and there is scarcely a mile that doesn’t contain a house, a building, or a New England inn. It takes a special frame of mind to actually enjoy this road that’s so different from Route 100 or the Kancamagus Highway. But because I live in my own little world, I’m able to adjust, and Kitty and I have an enjoyable slow-down ride to Bar Harbor, where we arrive shortly before 1:00 PM after checking in at the visitor center. The temperature near the ocean has dropped 10 degrees and it’s about 55 F. Kitty has put on her balaclava, which is a silk hooded thing that covers her head and back of the neck to help keep wind out off the neck and out of the back of the jacket. The passenger always gets more wind than the rider. It makes her look like a monk until she puts on her helmet. Then she looks normal.

Cadillac Mountain is socked in with fog, we learn at the visitor center, so there’s no point in riding up there. We do ride the 35-mph Park Loop Road, all of which is enjoyable but is most scenic on the one-way route on the northwest side of the Mount Desert Island, where surf crashes into the formidable granite rocks that form the seacoast here. All the while the sky threatens and rain occasionally spits on our Tulsa windshield. We check out Thunder Hole where the incoming tide often creates spectacular thundering sprays of foam, but today it is just Gurgle Hole.


We get back to the hotel early, before 4:00 PM and before the rain starts in earnest. The rain never materializes except for a few drops on the windshield. The Dance of the Rainsuit will not be needed this day. But later, when we walk to Jack Russell’s Steakhouse near the hotel for a fantastic steak dinner, the rain is coming down in slanting sheets. By this time my Wing is under the portico of the hotel where the desk clerk suggested I park (I didn’t even ask to park it there), safely cleaned and covered as it is every night. We’ve ridden only 166 miles today. Getting to this spot could have been scripted in 735 miles. Instead, we’ve ridden just under 1,400 miles. And we are the richer for it!

Here we sit waiting for the laundry to be finished. Kitty is reading and I’m writing. Seems rather normal, now that I think about it.

Tomorrow is a “hard point” to the trip. It’s the day we take The CAT ferry from Bar Harbor to Nova Scotia. It leaves at 8:00 AM. We need to be at the terminal at 7:00 AM. I’m terrified we’ll oversleep. If we do, that’s a trip breaker, as it’s the last ferry of the week from Bar Harbor. We would probably need to reverse our trip through Nova Scotia, riding through Maine and New Brunswick into Nova Scotia, and then take The CAT back into the USA from Yarmouth, NS. It would mess up all my reservations and all the trip-sketching I’ve done. My friend and colleague Nichole, a former Navy helicopter pilot, might say at this point, “The helicopter didn’t crash and nobody died. It’s been a good day.” Still, it would mess things up quite a bit. I do not want to miss that ferry, so we set two alarms and ask for a last-ditch wake-up call at 5:30 AM.

I’ll feel better when I’m on that ship with the bike securely tied down in the motorcycle area. Tomorrow, Lord willing, we’ll be in Nova Scotia.

Together is the Best Place to Be, Day 4: Cooks!

Nova Scotia 2007

Tuesday June 18, Cook’s!
Copyright(c) 2007, Jim Beachy

Contrary to popular belief and, in common with Columbus, we did not fall off the edge of the world last night. The Swiss Inn features a full breakfast as part of the package, and I am lamenting to the hostess about my connectivity problems. “We have a cable modem by the bar,” she says. “I’ll dig it out.” Then, on second thought, “Are you set up for Wi-Fi?” It turns out they have Wi-Fi in the lobby and so I’m able to connect and after a fashion upload yesterday’s trip report. Who knew?

Yesterday Kitty and I had talked about two possible routes for our travels today. Our destination is Brunswick, Maine, and within that destination lies yet another: Cook’s Lobster House. It’s an automatic itinerary entry whenever we travel to New England. We’ve eaten lobster there at least a dozen times over the years, dating from the time before it was made famous by a Visa commercial, when a pound-and-a-quarter lobster cost $3.45 (extra lobster: $2.75). So today we want to arrive early enough to make it to the restaurant at a decent time. “Do you want the eight-hour version or the six-and-a-half-hour version?” I ask Kitty in the headset as we turn left out of the hilly driveway to the inn. “You have 1.4 miles to make up your mind.”

“I’ll have the eight-hour route,” she says just as we reach the cutoff point. And thus we turn northward on Vermont Rt. 100, which is one of the scenic elements I’d hoped to incorporate into our wayward wanderings through New England en route to Nova Scotia. Rt. 100 through Vermont is indeed a road worthy of seeking out. It runs north-and-south through the heart of the Green Mountains, and since it roughly parallels the mountain ranges, it’s an easy and diverse ride. Once more we are blessed with a cloudless sky and a crisp mountain morning. I’m not in a screaming-through-the-twisties kind of mood today, and so we ease rather gently around the curves and enjoy the steep green mountainsides, the few little villages, and the occasional farmland to either side. The best of the route is between Londonderry and US 4 at Killington, as the route north of the Killington ski area features some fairly dubious road surfaces. But all in all, it’s a great slow-down morning ride.


I love to take pictures of old buildings, or more properly, dead buildings. What stories they could tell! This morning there are plenty of photo opportunities but I pass them up one after the other. As we ride onward and I wonder why I do this, a new term comes into existence. My affliction could be called Destinational Tyranny. I really, really want to stop and look at stuff, take a few pictures, listen to an old house tell its sad, sweet stories, but my destination for the day looms large and I don’t want to delay my arrival. It is Destinational Tyranny. Today, the destination involves eating lobsters; I have a serious case of Destinational Tyranny and haven’t found the cure.



We hold Rt. 100 until we hit I-83, then Jill, the owner of my friendly GPS voice, flawlessly leads us via 62, 302, and 112 into New Hampshire and finally to Woodstock. Woodstock is the western terminus of the Kancamagus Highway, the last of the three scenic elements that more or less dictated this route from Dad’s house to Cook’s Lobster House. (http://www.byways.org/explore/byways/2458/) It’s a 37-mile road (Rt. 112) that runs between Woodstock and Conway as it crosses the White Mountains in New Hampshire. It features long graceful curves and one second-gear hairpin curve as it makes its way up along Kancamagus peak. There are a number of 4,000-foot-plus peaks along the route, and the road itself reaches an elevation of nearly 2,800 feet. Mountain peaks rear their grizzled and worn heads far above us, their slopes impossibly steep, massive granite scars betraying their existence as veterans of the fiercest weather patterns on the North American continent.


My Garmin StreetPilot 2720 GPS has four independent mileage logs. I check the active log that I’ve labeled “NS2007”, which logs the total mileage for this trip: 1,040. Here, then, lies the true heart of the motorcyclist. Could anyone else understand the reasons I would ride 1,040 miles just to experience a 37-mile stretch of highway? Kitty and I joke in the headsets that it’s probably not normal. “Well,” she says gently, “It’s normal for you.”


The route is not particularly challenging, but it’s a fun ride. Until we reach the unexpected construction somewhere on the downhill side heading to Conway. “Pavement Ends,” the sign reads. “Bikers use extreme caution.” Well, that will certainly get your attention if you are riding a two-up Gold Wing towing a trailer! I can hear Kitty sigh in the headset, undoubtedly remembering, as do I, a stretch of deep mud and gravel near Fishing Bridge running eastward out of Yellowstone National Park, eight miles of absolutely the worst riding conditions I’ve ever encountered. I should have listened to Gibby when he warned me the day before!


“How far is it?” I ask the flagman. I don’t need to specify what “it” is. “About half a mile,” he says. I breathe a sigh of relief and when the flagman signals, we head off into the gravel. It turns out to be fairly easy as the dirt road surface is well graded and packed pretty well.

We cross into Maine and follow Rt. 113 and 25 to I-95 and soon arrive at the hotel in Brunswick, Maine in good time to shower and then ride the 14 miles on Rt. 24 to Cook’s Lobster House on Bailey Island. Connecting Bailey Island to a series of other islands is a unique cribstone bridge, the only one of its kind in the world. It’s a series of giant granite blocks stacked like a kid’s “block-house,” leaving space for the ebb and flow of the tide. Check out http://www.cookslobster.com/ and click on “About”.


“We rode our motorcycle 1,200 miles to be right here, right now, eating your lobsters,” I tell the host. Ah, lobster! Kitty and I each have two one-and-a-half-pound lobsters. I am convinced that there is no better food in the world than lobster. None! We savor each morsel as we sit by the window watching the sun set behind a golden Atlantic Ocean while a seal plays among the lobster boats anchored in the harbor.



Today we’ve ridden 316 miles including the ride to Cook’s from the hotel. And so a simple 650-mile trip to Cook’s has turned into a complicated 1,200-mile version. On a bike, the ride trumps the destination nearly every day. We’ve incorporated my three scenic elements into the ride, each one different and enjoyable: US Rt. 6 through Pennsylvania; Vermont Rt. 100 through the Green Mountains; and the Kancamagus Highway in New Hampshire. We’ve been in eight US states so far on this trip.



Out of many shining moments in my life with Kitty, today’s adventures stand out in harmonious near-perfection. Slow-down riding at its best under cloudless skies with the person I love to ride with, topped off by a perfect lobster feast in a perfect setting. God, You know I don’t deserve such a perfect gift. But thank You!

Together is the Best Place to Be, Day 3: Heading for 100

Nova Scotia 2007
Day 3: Monday June 18
Copyright(c) 2007, Jim Beachy

“I’d like to get started a little earlier tomorrow,” I’d told Kitty last night. A normal Interstate travel day for us when we travel together is 500 or 600 miles, and about 300 miles on two-lane travel days. On poke-around days, all bets are off and we’ve had some of our best days riding under 100 miles. But today we have nearly 400 miles to cover, much of that on two-lane roads, hence my goal to get a good start in the morning.

Kitty is the early-morning person; I’m the late-morning person, so it’s always mystified me that Kitty needs to get up 90 minutes before departure. But she values her quiet time in the morning and the space to enjoy it, so she gets up at whatever time is necessary to make the agreed-upon departure time. However it happens, we’re ready for breakfast by 8:00 AM; unfortunately, the entire region is socked in by heavy fog. So while we wait for the fog to burn off until it’s safe to ride, I spend some time reminiscing about our past experiences. We’ve been in hailstorms; we’ve ridden through Tornado Alley in May, dodging nasty storm cells along with my Alamo Run friends; we’ve been in torrential downpours; and we have navigated our way carefully through fog so thick that it dripped off the bike mirrors. And once, we’ve ridden in snow that, while not sticking to the road, stuck to the windshield and created some interesting visibility problems. This trip has started out in the middle of a large high-pressure system that has brought crystal clear skies and cool temperatures to the entire US Northeast, although the temperatures are rising a bit. So that’s a great start to any trip.

And while we wait for the fog to diminish, how about a word regarding these little trip reports? They are being sent to quite a diverse group in addition to the WOTI list, and in deference to my biker friends and the WOTI list I will not take the time to describe the inner workings and hidden mechanisms of a motorcycle trip that we bikers take for granted. So for the rest of you, if you hear terms you don’t understand, well, just muddle through as best you can, ping me off line, or see me when I get home, and we’ll figure it all out.

By 9:00 AM the fog has burned off enough to see the surrounding mountains and for us to realize we’ve inherited another pristine, crystal-blue sky, so we’re out of here, headed eastward on US 6 through Pennsylvania. This route is a fantastic alternative to the Interstate because it offers a constantly-varying ride and great scenery while still enabling a relatively lively pace. The 80 miles between Mansfield and Scranton are a continuation of what we saw yesterday. It’s a sure bet that, when the road climbs a steep and winding hill, it is veering from the Susquehanna River that eventually feeds the Chesapeake Bay, and when it swoops down again to lower elevations and higher temperatures, you can be assured of finding the river on your right if you’re traveling eastward.

I have a confession to make: Regardless of my best attempts at planning slow-down trips, I always cram as much as I can into every trip. Given this, it seems that into every trip a little Interstate must appear. What I want to see compared to the time I have available always seems to require doing the Interstate Dance some time during the trip. And so it is today. Finishing out the 80-mile stretch of US 6 near Scranton, Pennsylvania, we follow a complicated GPS-generated route that takes us onto I-476, I-380, I-81, and eventually to I-84 eastbound, from where we will catch the New York Thruway (I-87) to Albany, then NY 7 and eventually VT 100, which is the next scheduled scenic leg of the trip. I remark to Kitty in the headset that Jill (one of a number of female GPS voices I can choose from) has provided impeccable instructions in this very complicated route around Scranton, perfectly announcing the next exits and positioning us in the proper lane for the next turn. “Flawless!” is Kitty’s comment. I’ve been a GPS aficionado since 2001 when Ray Smith and I rode from San Diego to Jacksonville in just over 48 hours, (during that trip I had a GPS unit drop-shipped from Kansas to our hotel in San Diego), but I’m still amazed at the technology and how fantastic it is. I’m a little embarrassed to say that I often don’t even know the routes I’m taking, I just follow Jill’s calm instructions in my headset and before I know it, I’m exactly where I planned to be.

Kitty has three cardinal rules for every one of our trips. Kitty’s Kardinal Rules. In order of importance, the first stands alone and is immeasurably More Important Than All the Rest: No Snakes. Any trip that involves a snake in any capacity, dead or alive, cannot by any standard be considered a complete success. Next to Kardinal Rule #1, all other Rules pale in comparison. But nevertheless, of great importance still are the remaining two Rules: No Cities, No Traffic.

I tell Kitty, “I think we’ve come close to violating two of your rules today.” I’m thinking of construction traffic along I-84, which came ever-so-close to violating the No Traffic rule. And now we’re near Albany, which comes ever-so-close to violating both the No Traffic and No City rules. The conglomeration of high-rise buildings and complicated streets off to my left as we juke around I-287 looks suspiciously like a city, although I don’t mention this to Kitty. “Well,” she sighs through the headset, “If you get us through this safely, you’re exonerated.” I do, and I hope I am.

Turning north on Vermont Rt. 100, we find a road that, for those of you who have ridden the Ozarks in Arkansas, reminds me for all the world of Rt. 7. It’s not quite as curve-filled but has a number of challenging downhill curves (which are always harder for me) as you run northward, and several right-angle curves that are heart-stopping if you haven’t put your big bike in the correct track. And thus to the tiny town of Londonderry, VT, where we arrive just before 6:00 PM.

When Kitty travels with me, I usually make reservations prior to the trip or at least by afternoon of the day we need the room. This morning, I had said “I haven’t made any reservations. The GPS says there are some motels and inns in Londonderry, but it’s a risk. Are we willing to take the risk that there’s nothing there or that everything is all booked up and be prepared to ride somewhere else to find a room?” She agreed and now, when the moment is upon us, I wonder how we’ll do. When I’m by myself, I don’t care: I’ll ride until midnight and if there’s nothing available, it’s Ok because I’ll just ride another two hours or until I do find a place to sleep. And there’s always the Iron Butt Motel, sleeping on a picnic bench or on the grass at a rest stop, with which I have considerable personal experience. But I’m more than a little uncomfortable with today’s arrangement, because I feel very protective of Kitty when we ride together and always want to find the perfect place for her.

We select the Oakmount Motel from the GPS list of accommodations, 0.9 miles west of the intersection of Rt. 100 and Rt. 11. “In 0.3 miles, turn right, then arrive at Oakmount Motel on left,” says Jill in my headset. I make the turn and look left for the motel, to find... only a bare field. “Well, that worked out really well!” I mutter into the headset. “I guess we’ll try something else.” It’s probably the mailing address for the Oakmount Motel, wherever it may actually be.

So we select the Swiss Inn, 1.2 miles farther on, and indeed there’s an inn with a few rooms and even fewer patrons. Kitty and I appear to be the only customers this night. The restaurant isn’t open at this time of year, but the rooms are nice enough and we decide to stay here. It’s less than a 2-mile ride back to the intersection where lies a shopping center with a restaurant. We have a nice dinner, ride back to the Swiss Inn and together clean the bike and trailer and cover it for the night. It is downright chilly here in the Green Mountains at over 2,000 feet above sea level. So my slightly risky plan pays off and all is well.

Except for the Internet thing. If you receive this message from the edge of the world — oh, no, wait, it’s only Vermont — it will be a testimony to the triumph of ingenuity over technology! There is no cell phone service, at least for Verizon. Apparently one of the Nextel executives lives in the next town and there’s wall-to-wall Nextel coverage, but nothing else. I’m quite sure there is no hi-speed Internet access. I will try to finagle the phone line but who knows how it will turn out.