Outdoor Adventures

I Know I Am in Montana; The Question Is Where? … The 10,000-Mile Bike Trek

/ Curt Mekemson / 54 Comments
They call it Big Sky Country for a reason. The heavens seem to stretch on forever. But the enormity of the sky is matched by the state's mountains and rivers and valleys. Even this single tree has a statement to make.

They call it Big Sky Country for a reason. The heavens seem to stretch on forever. But the enormity of the sky is matched by the state’s mountains and rivers and valleys. Even this single tree has a statement to make.

I don’t really know if you can make a wrong turn in Montana. Almost everywhere you go the skies are big, the mountains high, the rivers clear, and the views forever. With that said, I am not 100% sure about my bike route through the state. For most of my 10,000-mile journey I had maps, or my journal, or letters, or even just logic to retrace my route of 27 years ago. Many of the roads I traveled down were the only roads available or at least the only roads I could use and get where I wanted to go without a major detour.

And often there were significant events that reminded me where I traveled. Many of the views I saw in Montana could have played this role— except those views were just about everywhere. The two events I do recall happened on my first day. One, I bicycled 120 miles with the elusive tailwind I had hoped for in North Dakota. Two, I found a restaurant that offered a free pancake to anyone who could eat the whole thing. It was a yard across, two inches deep and took the whole griddle to cook. I passed. But I watched a giant consume one and go on to eat a second. I thought he deserved a standing ovation, but hesitated with the thought that he might not like standing ovations. I try not to irritate mountains.

But my memory aids were unavailable for Montana. Still, I know most of my route. About 250 miles are in contention, which in Montana isn’t a big deal. Now if I were talking Rhode Island or Delaware… Anyway, if you are a map fiend, I either traveled from Malta on Highway 2 to White Sulphur Springs, or from Havre on Highway 2 to White Sulphur Springs. Both seem logical choices. Since the former route came first, Peggy and I drove it. Sections seemed quite familiar. Others not so much. One of these days, I will go back and start from Havre. Anyway, here are some views Peggy and I saw along the way.

Another perspective on Big Sky Country. This one along US Highway 2 as it makes its way through northern Montana.

Another perspective on Big Sky Country. This one along US Highway 2 as it makes its way through northern Montana.

Fence showing Montana cattle brands at Culbertson, Montana museum.

If ever there was a modern catch phrase in the writing, art, and business world, it is “branding.” Over and over we hear about how important it is that we establish our own unique voice or product. Well, there was a time when the concept of branding was a lot simpler. 🙂 We found this fence at a small museum in Culbertson, Montana. These are cattle brands from the region.

Cow weathervane found at museum in Culbertson, Montana.

We also found this fun weather vane at the Culbertson Museum. Somehow, it reminds me of the recent election. (grin)

Old beauty parlor hair curlers on display at Culbertson, Montana, Museum.

Another photo from the Culbertson museum and another bit of post-election humor: After the election, Mrs. B decided to head for the beauty parlor to have her hair done— and her brain rearranged. (Move on Curt.)

Whoa! Another roadside attraction.

Whoa! Another roadside attraction. Dinner? We came on this unlikely pair along with another  20 acres of other such creatures along Highway 2. There was no sign to tell us why they were there.

Sign for the Malta, Montana museum.

Here’s a cowboy with high hopes, “high in the sky apple pie hopes.” The Native American is saying, “Go get him guy. I’m behind you all the way.”

Peggy and I came across this derelict old house with its life-affirming message along Highway 2. It's a great message for these troubled times from a poem by Sam Walter Floss: "Let me live in a house beside the road/ Where the race of men go by/ The men who are good and the men who are bad/ As good and bad as I/ I would not sit in the scorner’s seat/ Nor hurl the cynic’s ban/ Let me live in a house by the side of the road/ And be a friend to man."

Peggy and I came across this old house with its life-affirming message along Highway 2. It’s a great message for these troubled times from a poem by Sam Walter Floss: “Let me live in a house beside the road/ Where the race of men go by/ The men who are good and the men who are bad/ As good and bad as I/ I would not sit in the scorner’s seat/ Nor hurl the cynic’s ban/ Let me live in a house by the side of the road/ And be a friend to man.”

Petroglyph from Sleeping Buffalo Rock along Highway 2 in Montana.

Another Highway 2 site featured the Sleeping Buffalo Rock covered with carved petroglyphs. This symbol is usually interpreted to represent a badger.

US Highway 191 in Montana

In Malta, Peggy and I picked up US Highway 191, which runs from the Canadian Border to Mexico. Unlike most of America’s historic north-south/east-west blue highways, 191 is a combination of many north-south roads that were put together in the 80s.

Another view of Montana countryside along Highway 191

Another view of Montana countryside along Highway 191.

A Montana stream found along US Highway 191.

A calm stream…

The Missouri River in Montana along US Highway 191

And the mighty Missouri River— Montana style.

Cattle roundup in Montana.

This is Montana! Cowboys and cattle. Two cowboys rode horses, and one is using an ATV.

Tempting! A trout contemplates a lure in a Lewiston, Montana mural.

Tempting! A trout contemplates a fly in a Lewiston, Montana mural.

I found this town fun. The high school looms in the background. The vote for the 2015 commencement speaker was unanimous. Dakota Jolliff asked her uncle to give the address. She was the only senior. The principal lives across the road from the school. First thing in the morning during winter storms, she looks out her window. If she can't see the school, classes are canceled. The school is also haunted. Lights are turned on at night and locked doors opened.

I found this town fun. The high school looms in the background. The vote for the 2015 commencement speaker was unanimous. Dakota Jolliff asked her uncle to give the address. She was the only senior. The principal lives across the road from the school. First thing in the morning during winter storms, she looks out her window. If she can’t see the school, classes are canceled. The school is also haunted. Lights are turned on at night and locked doors opened.

You may have noted the windmills in the Judith Gap sign. Check out the cattle at their base. There are 90 of the 40 story high monsters. They proved electricity to the 80 homes in Judith Gap plus another 360,000.

You may have noted the windmills in the Judith Gap sign. Check out the cattle at their base. (Tiny dots at the fence line right center— they may be antelope.) There are 90 of these 40-story high structures. They provided electricity to the 80 homes in Judith Gap plus another 360,000.

The Rocky Mountains viewed from Highway 191 in Montana.

When it comes to mountains, Montana is not shy. These are the Rocky Mountains.

Rocky Mountains in Montana.

Another view.

Rocky Mountains behind lake in Montana.

And another…

View of Rock Mountains in Montana.

And another.

Wood cutouts of wild animals in Sulphur Springs, Montana.

Peggy and I stayed at an RV campground in White Sulphur Springs that featured wild animal cut outs. I really liked this moose family with its reflection.

Peggy fed this one. Don't do this at home kids, Don't ever stick your hand in the mouse of an elk! :)

Peggy fed this one. Don’t do this at home kids. Don’t ever stick your hand in the mouth of an elk! 🙂

Here is my mandatory old barn photo for this blog with its dramatic backdrop of the Rocky Mountains. I didn't feel that this barn was simply falling down. It looked like it was melting!

Here is my mandatory old barn photo for this blog with its dramatic backdrop of the Rocky Mountains. I didn’t feel that this barn was simply falling down. It looked like it was melting!

Mountain men played a key role in the westward movement, first as trappers and later as guides.

Mountain men played a key role in the westward movement, first as trappers and later as guides.

Did this guy just hear the election results? (Kidding) We watched this guy and another jump into the Yellowstone River— and come out alive. They had carefully waited for a policeman to pass.

Did this guy just hear the election results? (Kidding) We watched this guy and another jump into the Yellowstone River— and come out alive. They had carefully waited for a policeman to pass. I am reminded of a statement by Joseph Campbell. “When you find yourself falling, dive.”

The Yellowstone River in Montana.

The Yellowstone River

A final view for today's post. This one is near Bozeman, Montana. In my next post I will head south from Bozeman and into Idaho, another beautiful state.

A final view for today’s post. This one is near Bozeman, Montana. In my next post I will head south from Bozeman and into Idaho, another beautiful state.

 

 

North Dakota and the Sneakiest Dog in America… The 10,000-Mile Bike Trek

/ Curt Mekemson / 25 Comments
Peggy and I discovered this pair of Canadian Geese in their idyllic setting near Minot, South Dakota.

Peggy and I discovered this pair of Canadian Geese in their idyllic setting near Minot, South Dakota.

 

I’m back in the saddle again/Out where a friend is a friend/Where the longhorn cattle feed — On the lowly gypsum weed/I’m back in the saddle again. –Old cowboy song by Gene Autry

My brother-in-law John wanted to know when it might be safe to come back to my blog. I really like John: he’s bright, is a talented writer, has a wonderful sense of humor, and is great to travel with, not to mention he has a really neat wife.  But we avoid talking politics. So this one’s for you, John. I am back in the saddle again. (grin)

I only needed one hand to count the number of people I met traveling through the US and Canada who were on long distance bike treks. So when I saw a fellow bicyclist loaded down with gear coming out of North Dakota on Highway 2, I flagged him down.

“The state is relatively flat,” he informed me, “and it should have been easy peddling. But I fought a strong head wind the whole way. It was tough.” I couldn’t help smiling. I appreciated his difficulty; I’d certainly dealt with my share of nasty headwinds. A strong headwind for him, however, would mean a strong tailwind for me. I would fly across North Dakota.

“One more thing,” the cyclist had cautioned, “there is a really nasty dog about five miles up the road. Be careful.”

I’d shared my experiences of bicycling through Minnesota and we had chatted for a while longer. We then parted company with him cycling east and me west.

Fifteen minutes later, I discovered the headwind— going in the wrong direction. That’s the thing about headwinds in North Dakota. They are close to legendary among bicyclists. You are always bicycling into the wind; it doesn’t matter which direction you are peddling. I hadn’t traveled for more than 15 minutes when I felt the first puff on my face. It hassled me all the way to the Montana border.

No large, drooling dogs came charging out to eat me, however. So I felt like I had dodged at least one bullet. I was thinking happy thoughts when I felt an irritation on my right heel with each rotation of the pedal. Curious, I glanced back. “What the…” went bouncing around my skull! A large, drooling dog that looked suspiciously like a pit bull was running silently beside me trying to grab my right foot each time it came close to his snapping teeth. I had met the sneakiest dog in America! My reaction was instinctual. I grabbed my bike pump and swung it backwards with a fair amount of force— and was rewarded with a solid thump and a surprised yip! I had caught the miscreant on his nose. Problem solved. The last I saw of him, he was low-tailing it home. Maybe he would think twice before hassling another bicyclist. Or bite harder…

Besides the large dogs and headwinds, two other things struck me about North Dakota. The first was sunflowers, millions of them, all pointing the same direction. I found them beautiful. North Dakota has more of them that anywhere else in the US. When they are young, they practice heliotropism. And no, that isn’t some weird sexual practice. Their necks are flexible and they track the sun. Early in the morning they are looking east. By late afternoon they are facing west.

When Peggy and I travelled through North Dakota in early June, it must have been too early for the sunflowers. So I recruited one from our yard that was hanging out a few months ago.

When Peggy and I travelled through North Dakota in early June, it must have been too early for the sunflowers. So I recruited one from our yard that was hanging out a few months ago.

The importance of agriculture to North Dakota could be seen everywhere, as with these distant storage elevators. I also like this photo because it provides a perspective on how flat certain portions of the state are.

The importance of agriculture to North Dakota could be seen everywhere, as with these distant grain elevators. I also like this photo because it provides a perspective on how flat the terrain in North Dakota can be.

It was obvious that people had been farming in the state for a long time!

It was obvious that people had been farming in the state for a long time!

Large farming equipment could be found everywhere.

Large farming equipment was found for sale in most towns.

And some of it I really would not like to meet on a dark night.

Including some that I wouldn’t like to meet on a dark night..

As I travelled west, ranching became more prevalent. Windmills are symbols of the West.

As I travelled west, ranching became more prevalent. Windmills are symbols of the West.

Cow now have strong competition from oil wells out in western North Dakota. Peggy and I saw oil operations everywhere. This wasn't the case when I biked through in 1989. Fracking seems to be the prime way for getting oil out of the ground. Can earthquakes be far behind?

Cows now have strong competition from oil wells out in western North Dakota. Peggy and I saw oil operations everywhere. This wasn’t the case when I biked through in 1989. Fracking seems to be the primary way for getting oil out of the ground. Can earthquakes be far behind?

The second thing I remember was a massive storm that caught up with me in the western part of the state near Williston. I’d been watching the clouds gather all afternoon and they had morphed into towering cumulus clouds that threatened one hell of a downpour and possibly a massive hailstorm. It was nothing I had wanted to be caught out in, and nothing I wanted to face in my tent. The higher the clouds had climbed the faster I had pedaled. I’d whipped into the first motel I had come to on the eastern edge of Williston and begged sanctuary.

“Sorry,” the clerk had told me, “We’re booked up.” Some type of event was going on and all of the motels in town were apparently full. Owners were calling around looking for space. “I just talked to a motel across town with three spaces left. Would you like me to call?” I had quickly answered yes. “You are in luck,” the clerk smiled, hanging up the phone. “You have the last space but you need to hurry.” People in Williston who looked out their windows must have thought that the Tour de France had made a wrong turn.

I pulled up in front of the motel office and opened the door halfway. “We are booked up,” the owner had growled. The pit bull had seemed much friendlier and probably was. “Ah, but I have a reservation,” I had responded, sounding cheerful, giving my name, and explaining about the motel across town. He had sourly looked down at a note he had made.

“You can stay,” he said. “But I don’t like bicyclists.” Whoa, I had thought, welcome to Williston. I wondered if a bicyclist had trashed one of his rooms forever condemning all bicyclists to hell. “You have to leave your bicycle outside. If you take it into your room, I am kicking you out, regardless of the weather.” I saw him staring out the window of the office, watching as I locked up my bike outside. Shortly afterwards the storm hit: drenching rain, high winds and hail. It was a nasty night in a cheap motel that had long since seen its glory days. Around 10 p.m., I went outside and retrieved my bike, carried it inside and put it down on newspapers. I was up and out by six the next morning. The sun was shining.

Some more memories of North Dakota…

This is the pond with the geese in it that I featured at the top of the blog.

This is the pond with the geese in it that I featured at the top of the blog.

A one room school house along Highway 2.

A one room school-house along Highway 2. Modern wind mills can be seen off to the right in the distance. There is a lot of wind in North Dakota.

I discovered the geographical center of North America when I road through Rugby, North Dakota. It was still there when Peggy and I drove through. (grin)

I discovered the geographical center of North America when I rode through Rugby, North Dakota. It was still there when Peggy and I drove through. (grin)

Another small lake we found along Highway 2.

Another small lake along Highway 2. I really liked the tree border.

It was skies like these that sent me scurrying for Williston. (The town has now become a city due to the oil boom, but it has been having tough times since Oil prices dropped.)

It was skies like these that sent me scurrying for Williston. (The town has now become a city due to the oil boom, but it has been having tough times since oil prices dropped.)

A North Dakota stream in the western part of the state. Note the hills!

A North Dakota stream in the western part of the state. Note the hills!

I'll conclude with this tree that lives out west.

I’ll conclude with this tree that we found out west. It was outlined by the sun, which had broken through the clouds.

NEXT BLOG: It’s off to Montana and Big Sky Country!

I Meet a Babe in Minnesota… The 10,000-Mile Bike Trek

/ Curt Mekemson / 30 Comments

 

This beautiful cove is found along Minnesota's scenic Highway 61 on the north coast of Lake Superior.

This beautiful cove is found along Minnesota’s scenic Highway 61 on the north coast of Lake Superior.

The Canadian Border guard glanced at my California driver’s license, smiled, and waved me through. How threatening could a guy on a bicycle be? It was a simpler time— a peaceful interval between America’s seemingly endless wars, before the onslaught of real and imagined terrorism, and before two good neighbors required passports to enter and leave.

The American Custom’s inspector was a bit more suspicious. They usually are. Maybe I was a pot-smoking hippie, an escapee to Canada from wars past. Middle-aged men were supposed to be busy working 40-hour weeks, knee-deep in kids and nose-deep in debt while supporting the American economy, not running away on six-month bicycle adventures. He had questions to ask. How long had I been in Canada, where had I traveled, what was my reason for being in the country, where had I stayed? I didn’t tell him about sleeping out along the highway or taking a bath in two cups of water. It might have been pushed him over the edge. Eventually he sent me on my way, grumpy that he hadn’t found a reason to declare me Un-American. I was just glad he didn’t make me empty my panniers. He would have discovered my very dangerous dirty socks.

I was sad to leave Canada. It had been an important part of my bicycle journey. I remembered the friendly people, the beauty of Nova Scotia, my first stumbling attempts at long forgotten French in New Brunswick, and the endless miles and wilderness of northern Quebec and Ontario. But further adventures waited. First up was a 114-mile ride along Minnesota Highway 61, a scenic road that parallels the north shore of Lake Superior from Canada to Duluth and is renowned for its beauty, a beauty that includes the lake, islands, quiet coves, crashing waterfalls, and one of the world’s most photographed lighthouses.

Overlook on Minnesota Highway 61 that provides a view of Islands in Lake Superior.

An overlook provided a view of islands in Lake Superior.

Old cabin on Minnesota's scenic Highway 61 along the north Shore of Lake Superior.

This old cabin was once someone’s beach front property on Lake Superior.

Lake Superior provided a storm-free days for me with small lapping waves, not the monsters that are known to roll across the lake in November.

Lake Superior provided storm-free days for me with small lapping waves, not the monsters that are known to roll across the lake in November.

A beach on the North Shore of Lake Superior.

Another example. The red rocks caught my eye.

The Cross River on the north shore of Lake Superior along Minnesota's scenic Highway 61.

Foaming falls on the Cross River just before it flows into Lake Superior.

The Cross River of Michigan just before it flows into Lake Superior.

The Cross River below the falls.

A view of Minnesota Highway 61, a great road for bicycling.

A view of Minnesota Highway 61, a great road for bicycling.

The photogenic Split Rock Light house poised on a ledge above a foggy Lake Superior.

The photogenic Split Rock Lighthouse poised on a ledge above a foggy Lake Superior.

Split Rock Lighthouse on the North Shore of Lake Superior in Minnesota.

And in the distance.

Lake Superior is indeed a superior lake. It contains 10% of the world’s fresh water, which is enough to flood all of North and South America to one foot in-depth. Surface-wise, it is the largest lake on earth. The states of Vermont, Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Connecticut, and New Hampshire could easily be plopped down on top of it. Had I ridden my bike around the lake, I would have traveled some 1300 miles, an equivalent to 13% of my whole journey.

It’s so big that 40-foot high waves have been recorded rushing across its surface, sinking ships unfortunate enough to be out on the lake during major storms. Some 6,000 ships have gone down in the Great Lakes altogether, causing upward to 30,000 deaths— and the numbers may be much higher. Gordon Lightfoot memorialized one of the shipwrecks in his 1976 ballad, The Wreck of the Edmond Fitzgerald. On November 10, 1975, the ship had encountered a massive storm with 35 foot waves on Lake Superior and been sunk, taking all 29 of her crewmen to a watery grave.

Fortunately the weather was beautiful for my bike trip. November gales were still months away. I had futzed along, taking a couple of days to enjoy the beauty and give my body a break from the 80-100 mile days I had spent peddling through Quebec and Ontario. I stopped a lot.

So did Peggy and I on our revisit in June. We admired the views and took photos. The picture taking was a bit iffy, however. My Canon Power Shot 100 had died in Ontario. “Use my camera,” Peggy had urged. But her Canon EOS Rebel was sick as well. It kept giving us an Error-99 message. We looked it up on the Internet. The problem was referred to as “the dreaded Error-99 message.” Apparently the camera gave it to any issue its software couldn’t diagnose. I babied the camera along, changing its battery, cleaning its terminals, and saying nice things to it, hoping it would last until we got it to Duluth. “We’ll get you fixed, sweetheart,” I promised, and she kept snapping pictures. (It was not to be.)

The camera made it (just barely) to Duluth. The city is actually a seaport for ocean-going ships that make the 2300-mile journey to and from the Atlantic Ocean via the Great Lakes Waterway and the St. Lawrence Seaway. It has had its ups downs, historically speaking, from boom to bust, but now it seems quite healthy. We passed some lovely old buildings including a snazzy high school in our search for a camera shop. I had found an Internet recommendation for one on the outskirts.

Central High School in Duluth, Minnesota.

I found it hard to believe that this beautiful structure was built originally as a high school in Duluth. They certainly didn’t build high schools like this in California. I’m thinking Harry Potter and Hogwarts!

The owner of the camera shop, a really nice guy who was being driven out of business by the same Internet that recommend his store, looked at our camera and said, “Uh-oh. You have the dreaded Error-99 message.” We laughed. What else was there to do? He took the camera apart, did what he could, put it back together, and snapped a shot out his window. Error-99 popped up on the screen.

I bought a new Canon G7X for the road. Peggy’s new camera is waiting for Christmas.

US Route 2 took me out of Duluth all the way to Grand Forks on the border of North Dakota. Cycling was relatively easy; the weather sunny. The highlights of my ride included throwing a rock across the Mississippi River and meeting a babe— a big blue babe about 15 feet tall with four legs and a tail. A sculpture of the legendary lumberjack, Paul Bunion, and his giant Blue Ox, Babe, is located in the town of Bemidji, Minnesota. Babe was so big, folklore tells us, that Paul used her to straighten out crooked logging roads by hooking her up to one end of the road and having her pull. When she had to scratch an itch on a tree, the tree would fall down and beg for mercy. Once she was pulling a water cart that sprang a leak. It created the Mississippi River! Statues of Paul and Babe are actually found in several locations in the US. (Peggy and I drove by one last week in the Redwoods of Northern California.)

A view of the Mississippi River as it looks in Northern Minnesota.

A view of the Mississippi River as it looks in Northern Minnesota.

A side view of the Visalia-Natchez Bridge across the Mississippi River with a barge passing under it.

The Visalia-Natchez Bridge I had used to cross the Mississippi River earlier in my trip when I had left Louisiana and entered Mississippi. Maybe Paul Bunion could throw a rock across it.

Another view of the Mississippi in Minnesota.

Another view of the Mississippi in Minnesota. Even I could throw a rock across this one.

Paul Bunion and his Blue Ox Babe in Minnesota. Peggy is standing next to Pau's leg to prove a perspective on size.

Paul Bunion and his Blue Ox Babe in Bemidji, Minnesota prove that Canada isn’t alone in creating large, humorous statues. Peggy is the tiny person standing next to Paul’s leg to provide a perspective on size.

Minnesota Highway 2 leads me into North Dakota, more stormy weather, and the sneakiest dog in 10,000 miles.

Next Blog: Minnesota Highway 2 leads me into North Dakota, more stormy weather, and the sneakiest dog in 10,000 miles.

 

From Flying Saucers to a Monster Moose: Bicycling across Ontario… The 10,000 Mike Bike Trek

/ Curt Mekemson / 32 Comments
Large moose culture found in Hearst, Ontario Canada.

Large sculptures are often found in Canadian towns. They serve as tourist attractions but also give the town a unique character. We found this large moose that Peggy is snuggling up to in Hearst, Ontario.

Quebec and Ontario shared a unique status on my Bike Trek: They were huge— two to three times the size of Texas. Each took over a week to bicycle across and each had a lot of no-where miles, long distances between towns. Northern Quebec won the prize, however, for being the most remote. As I bicycled south and picked up Quebec Route 117, larger towns reappeared at more frequent intervals. Val-d’Or and Rouyn-Noranda were close to being small cities.

Crossing into Ontario, smaller communities were the rule. Ten thousand people constituted a major metropolis. Larder Lake, the first community I biked through in Ontario, had a population of around 1000 in 1989. It had dropped to 700 when Peggy and I drove through in May. I was reminded of West Texas, where most of the towns seemed to be losing population. Once upon a time, Larder Lake was considered to have a golden future. A mining investment company ran an ad in the 1907 Ottawa Citizen claiming:

“The Larder Lake district is believed to be the richest gold country ever known, and it is just now being opened up. Soon will commence the most tremendous outpouring of gold known to civilization.”

If you could get past the English, how could you not invest? The person who wrote the ad copy likely had a great future as a time-share salesman. Eventually a little gold was found, but it was more like a trickle than a “tremendous outpouring.” Today, the town is better known for fish. Peggy and I found a large one beside the road. It was leaping out of the ‘water.’

Lake Trout Sculpture in Larder Lake, Ontario Canada.

A large Lake Trout leaping out of the water served to let travelers know that Larder Lake was a great place to go fishing, and, I might add, enjoy the outdoors in general.

I am in love with the large, often outlandish sculptures, that so many Canadian towns adopt to encourage tourism, or maybe because the residents have a warped sense of humor. Peggy and I first became aware of the phenomena when we were driving into British Columbia in 1999 on Highway 97 out of Washington and came upon the “World’s Largest Golf Ball” and the “World’s Largest Beehive.” Here are some that we found as we made our way across Ontario on Trans-Canada Highway 11.

Flying saucer sculpture in Moonbeam, Ontario Canada.

If your town is named Moonbeam, why not have a flying saucer sculpture in front of the Information Center? Quivera, our van, can be seen peeking out from behind the saucer.

Aliens peak out window of flying saucer in front of information center in Moonbeam, Ontario Canada.

Curious aliens were staring out the windows of the flying saucer.

Alien points out brochures in Information Bureau in Moonbeam, Ontario Canada.

A helpful alien points out brochures inside of Moonbeam’s Information Center.

This young woman staffed the Information Center. She spoke fluent English but confessed her first love was French. She also told us there were great hiking trails in the region but that she avoided them because of bears.

This young woman staffed the Information Center. She spoke fluent English but confessed her first love was French. She also told us there were great hiking trails in the region but that she avoided them because of bears.

Large black bear sculpture found in Kapuskasing, Ontario Canada

Shortly afterwards we found this huge black bear statue at Kapuskasing. I’d be staying off the trails, too.

Giant moose and wolf sculptures in Hearst, Ontario Canada.

Here is another shot of the moose I featured at the top of the post— not looking so friendly as he stares down a pair of wolves.

Wolf sculpture in Hearst, Ontario Canada.

A view of the wolf looking like he might belong in the movie, Twilight. “Jacob, is that you in there?”

The 'World's Largest Snowman' in Beardmore, Ontario Canada.

Beardmore proudly boasts the World’s Largest Snowman as its claim to fame.

My bicycle trip across Ontario in 1989 was something of a blur. One thing I do remember was a gradual change from French to English. It wasn’t like I arrived at the border and the language changed. Local loyalties seemed to depend on culture rather than the provincial boundary. I was reminded of my experience in West Africa where loyalty was to the family first, the tribe second, and the country third. Peggy and I still noticed remnants of these emotions in Ontario 26 years later. A house might be painted in tri-color French, warning off potential Anglophiles. Or British lions would be proudly displayed as lawn ornaments, prepared to pounce on someone who spoke French.

Towns became more frequent, which meant there were more excuses to stop. I could start with breakfast and eat my way through the day. I had given up on cooking for myself by now, unless I was desperate. There was mid-morning snack, lunch, mid-afternoon snack and dinner to look forward to, not to mention coffee breaks. My hundred-mile a day bicycling body demanded constant fueling. Plus I liked the companionship. Bicycling by myself for 8-10 hours was lonely business. On occasion, I would even stay at a motel, just so I could turn the TV on and hear people talk. The downside of this was that I ran through my trip budget more quickly than I had planned. When I arrived in Thunder Bay, I called my brother-in-law and had him transfer some money he owed me into my account so I could finish off my journey in the style I had become accustomed to!

The terrain in Ontario wasn’t much different that I had been peddling over in Quebec, more or less flat with rolling hills. I worked my way through forests and farmlands, continuing to pass by numerous lakes and occasional rivers. As I neared Thunder Bay on Lake Superior, however, more mountainous country came into view, and with that more serious uphills and downhills. Following are several photos that Peggy and I took of the countryside.

Trans-Canada Highway 11 works its way across Ontario— in this particular instance forested, flat and straight.

Trans-Canada Highway 11 works its way across Ontario— in this particular instance forested, flat and straight. Can’t say much for the gravelly shoulder.

Bear Lake in Ontario Canada along Trans-Canada Highway 11.

Many lakes are found along the highway in Ontario. Bear Lake was one of the first I came across. In line with its name, bear-proof trash containers were provided at the wayside. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

The Kapuskasing River provides hydro-electric power for the town of Kapuskasing.

The Kapuskasing River provides hydro-electric power for the town of Kapuskasing. Peggy and I also saw extensive use of solar power along Highway 11.

This abandoned church caught my attention...

This abandoned church caught my attention…

It's feeling of ages past led me to render it in black and white.

It’s feeling of ages past led me to render it in black and white.

Wild Goose Campground near Long Lake provided some scenic views...

Wild Goose Campground near Long Lake provided some scenic views…

Reedy lake at Wild Goose Campground in Ontario.

Plus this one of reeds.

As I approached Thunder Bay, Mountains provided both beauty and a more challenging ride.

As I approached Thunder Bay, mountains provided both beauty and a more challenging ride.

Peggy and I stopped to photograph this cliff.

Peggy and I stopped to photograph this cliff.

And its small waterfall.

And its small waterfall.

Nipigon River Bridge in Ontario Canada

This bridge across the Nipigon River near Thunder Bay has only been opened for a short while. It was closed briefly in January this year because it became detached from the approach. Given that it provides the only way across the river for Canada’s major East-West highways, you can imagine the resources that were devoted to fixing it! Peggy and I headed across the bridge, stopped in Thunder Bay for lunch, and then drove into Minnesota — returning to the US as I had on my bike.

NEXT BLOG: I cross Minnesota, throw a rock across the Mississippi River, and visit with a babe (as in Babe the Blue Ox).

The Road Less Traveled: Into the Far North of Quebec… The 10,000-Mile Bike Trek

/ Curt Mekemson / 37 Comments
When you choose to depart from familiar well-known roads, whether you are on an external or internal journey, it helps to have some idea of what you might be facing, and be prepared. I loved this 'fill in the blank' sign I found in Northern Quebec.

When you choose to depart from familiar well-known roads, it helps to have some idea of what you might be facing, and be prepared. I loved this ‘fill in the blank’ sign I found in Northern Quebec.

Peggy and I stopped at the Information Center in Saguenay with a specific purpose in mind. We wanted to find out about the road conditions for our trip into Northern Quebec following Route 167. Was there still snow? Would the dirt sections of the highway be knee-deep in mud? What services existed along the road?

“The road is fine,” the young woman at the Information Center assured us, looking at me like I was a nervous-Nellie city slicker who rarely made it beyond the confines of his city and would freak out if he couldn’t find a ‘ within ten miles.

A sign not usually seen by your everyday city dweller in the US. It is the third watch out for moose sign I've shown. The first featured a moose, the second a moose and a car. This one in northern Quebec was a bit more graphic.

A sign not usually seen by your everyday city dweller in the US. It is the third ‘watch out for moose’ sign I’ve shown in this series. The first featured a moose, the second a moose and a car. This one on Route 167 in northern Quebec was a bit more graphic.

“My boyfriend lives in Chibougamau (the farthest north we would travel) and drives down to see me every week.” As if that was supposed to convince me. Love does strange things to us. Something in my look must have caught her attention. She changed her tack.

“Well the road may be much rougher than you are used to in the US,” she said solicitously in her best Information Center voice. She didn’t want a couple of grumpy tourists complaining that they had been misled. I laughed. It was a ploy I had used many times on the nine-day, 100-mile backpack treks I had led. Inexperienced backpackers invariably wanted to know how tough their day was going to be. It was always best to error on the side of difficulty. Otherwise, they blamed me if their day was harder than expected.

So maybe the road was paved, but how often do you see SOS signs along paved roads. 167 had several pointing to lone phone booths. I don't remember any when I bike the road.

So maybe the road was paved, but how often do you see SOS signs along paved roads. Peggy and I saw several on 167 pointing toward lone phone booths. I don’t remember any when I biked the road.

An SOS phone booth along Route 167 in Northern Quebec.

An S.O.S. phone booth along the road.

But Peggy and I understood rough roads. We had already been over some rough roads in Canada, and rougher ones in the States. Plus Peggy and I had driven Quivera the Van and her predecessor Xanadu for over 200,000 miles on back roads in North America, including two trips to Alaska. It was unlikely that we were going to find something more difficult that we had already experienced.

We eventually got the information we wanted. There would be no deep mud; the whole road was paved. No snowstorms were predicted. Services were limited the first 100 miles (160 k), but after that, more frequent. Our only precaution: We should start with a full tank of gas.

The bottom line: It was not the road I remembered from 1989. Improvements had been made.

I left Lac Saint Jean with more concern than I normally felt. I had been over lonely roads, some with extremely limited services. But they were roads I knew something about. Naturally I had asked locals about what to expect on Quebec Routes 167 and 113. People had told me the area was isolated with few services. I should carry extra food and be prepared to handle any bike problems on my own. Bad weather was expected. The road was not skinny-tire friendly; portions were unpaved. And, oh, by the way, there were lots of logging trucks, really big logging trucks!

This sign along Route 167 suggested that the logging trucks were big. It was small in comparison to what I would experience.

This sign along Route 167 suggested that the logging trucks were big. It was small in comparison to what I would experience.

I pictured myself riding through a horrendous rainstorm over a dirt road as logging trucks blasted by me at 100 kilometers per hour, burying me in mud.

None of the above happened on my first day. There was extreme isolation, yes. I rode miles without seeing a car, and the dark green forest of skinny trees went on and on. But the road was paved and there wasn’t any rain. The day was actually hot. Sweat kept trickling into my eyes. Thirst drove me to stop at slow streams twice to refill my water bottles. I was careful to use my water filter. Nasty things like giardia might be lurking in the dark water. The heat took its toll. After 90 miles, I called it a day and disappeared into the forest to set up camp. Why I didn’t select a creek or lake to camp next to, who knows. There were plenty about. But I chose a dry camp and that meant my water had to be rationed.

There were numerous lakes and streams along the road. Had I camped next to them, my bath would have been much more thorough.

There were numerous lakes and streams along the road I could have camped next to.

That wasn’t a problem; I had two liters, which were plenty to cook with and drink. My challenge was I also wanted a bath. I had skipped one the night before at Lac Saint Jean and then biked through 90 miles of heat. I really didn’t want to sleep with me. Careful calculations suggested I had two cups of water for bathing: one for washing and one for rinsing. So that’s what I did. It was sponge on and then sponge off, quickly, trying to cover all 3, 168 square inches of my body with 16 ounces. Blood sucking mosquitoes guaranteed speed. Whether I smelled better and was cleaner really didn’t matter, I went to bed happier.

I found the rain, dirt roads, and speeding logging trucks the next day. But first I had found a service station and had done a happy dance. After a hundred miles of nothing, four gas pumps and a squat building seemed like the Taj Mahal. I’m pretty sure it was Nirvana, but it didn’t last. Shortly after leaving the gas station, the rain and the dirt road arrived as a one-two punch— a sort of karma for celebrating too much. Bicycling through 2-3 inches of mud on skinny tires in a deluge isn’t much fun.

But it’s more fun that bicycling through mud and rain with speeding logging trucks. I heard something humongous coming up behind me, fast. My head whipped around like Linda Blair’s. It was an ‘Oh shit!’ moment. I didn’t see your normal everyday large logging truck; I saw a freight train, a monster pulling three trailers barreling down on me. And the driver didn’t slow down. He blasted by me with all 30 tires throwing up mud. I became an instant mud man. Totally blind, I applied wet brakes to wet tires and stumbled off my bike. Standing there, cursing, wiping off mud from my glasses and face, I had fond thoughts of my office in Sacramento.

Sometimes I am a slow learner, or make that stubborn. Not this time. When I heard a logging truck coming, I would jump off my bike and make a mad dash through the mud for the side of the road. Then I would happily wave at the logger as he went by. I doubt they ever noticed my slightly extended middle finger. I only waved it at the guys doing at least a 100 kph.

Of course the section of dirt road ended. It couldn’t have been more than 20 or 30 miles long. And the majority of truck drivers slowed down, probably because they were amazed to see a bike tourist on their road. Anyway, you can see why I wanted a clear view of what Peggy and I might expect on my second trip over the road. The following photos relate our experience.

The road through the wilderness went on and on, for some 300 miles.

The road through the wilderness went on and on, for some 300 miles. The first hundred miles was as empty as this photo suggests, but Peggy and I did find the SOS phone booths and an emergency medical station that hadn’t been there during my trip.

Numerous lakes, streams and rivers are found along the road. The first half seemed heavier on lakes, the second half on rivers.

Numerous lakes, streams and rivers are found along the road. The first half seemed to have more lakes, the second half more rivers.

I took full advantage to capture reflection shots. This one seemed dark and brooding.

I took full advantage to capture reflection shots. This one seemed dark and foreboding.

And this one more cheerful.

And this one more cheerful.

The small lake next to the emergency station provided this shot.

The small lake next to the emergency station provided this shot.

Quebec Route 167 ends its northern journey at Chibougamau, 8 miles from where Route 113 heads south. I skipped the extra 16 miles and cut south, but Peggy and I stayed at the town's hotel.

Quebec Route 167 ends its northern journey at Chibougamau, 8 miles from where Route 113 heads south. I skipped the extra 16 mile round trip and cut south, but Peggy and I stayed at the town’s hotel. Today, a motel is found at the cutoff. I can almost guarantee I would have been there taking a real shower instead of bathing in two cups of water had it been there in 1989!

may have been at the end of the road, but it had a McDs...

Chibougamau may have been at the end of the road, but it had a McDs. And, judging from the size of the truck, they drank a lot of Budweiser.

The logging trucks apparently weren't out and about yet. At least Peggy and I didn't see any. But this pile of logs suggests the amount of timber harvesting in the area. Large swaths had been clear cut, leaving ugly scars.

The logging trucks apparently weren’t out and about yet. At least Peggy and I didn’t see any. But this pile of logs suggests the amount of timber harvesting done in the area. Large swaths had been clear-cut, leaving ugly scars.

We watched a huge claw pick up dozens of the skinny logs at a time.

We watched a huge claw pick up dozens of the skinny logs at a time. The logs that come out of the forests near our house in Southern Oregon are easily 3-4 times bigger in diameter.

Rivers captured our admiration as we drove south on Route 113.

Rivers captured our admiration as we drove south on Route 113.

And they reminded us how much Quebec depends upon hydro-electric power. We crossed under high power lines several times coming down from the north several times.

And they reminded us how much Quebec depends upon hydro-electric power. We crossed under high power lines several times.

Another example.

Another example.

Rapids suggested this river might be fun to raft.

Rapids suggested this river might be fun to raft.

A close up of the same river.

A close up of the same river. Looking at how shallow the water appears to be. I had second thoughts about rafting.

A lone bike tourist made his way south on Route 113. He was the only one we saw on the route. Apparently biking into Northern Quebec has yet to take off and become popular!

A lone bike tourist made his way south on Route 113. He was the only one we saw on the route. Apparently biking into northern Quebec has yet to take off and become popular!

Rain reminded me of my bike trip.

A storm was waiting for him and reminded me of my own adventure. (Railroad tracks can be seen crossing the road mid-photo.)

NEXT BLOG: I return to civilization and bicycle across Ontario on my way to Minnesota.

Quebec Independence plus a Dark and Stormy Night… The 10,000 Mile Bike Trek

/ Curt Mekemson / 27 Comments
As I climbed out of toward beautiful rivers such as the kept me company.

As I climbed out of Sainte-Simeon toward Lac Saint-Jean, beautiful rivers such the Little Saguenay kept me company.

I had ridden 110 miles when I arrived at Parc national de la Pointe-Taillon on Lac Saint-Jean in Quebec. The rain was coming down in buckets and I was exhausted. It was a perfect night for hypothermia and all I could think of was setting up my tent and crawling into my warm goose-down sleeping bag. I was pounding in my last tent stake when a woman came over and asked if I would like something hot to eat. I almost fell in love.

I’ve long since lost and forgotten her name, but what I remember was that she was a PhD candidate doing her thesis on some type of plant growing in the region. We’d had a brief conversation when I arrived with water dripping off my nose. She had wanted to know where I had biked from. “California,” had been my reply. Apparently my answer had impressed her, or maybe she was just nice person concerned about a guy who didn’t have enough sense to get out of the rain.

In addition to hot food, she had a large, dry van. I wasn’t the only one lusting after it. Three 20-something men from Montreal who were car camping soon joined us with a case of Labatt Beer, a Canadian brew out of Ontario. All I had to contribute to the party were tales of the open road, but apparently they were enough. I felt a bit like a troubadour who was singing for his dinner and drink.

It was another dark and stormy night on the road— but cozy. As the rain pounded down on the roof, our conversation had ranged far and wide. And, I might add, long, since it was close to 1:00 a.m. when we downed the last beer, wished each other good night, and stumbled off in the rain.

The topic that had interested me the most was the issue of Quebec independence from the rest of Canada. It turned out that the three young men were separatists and believed that Quebec would be better off going it alone. The dispute over independence was buried deep in past. Quebec, of course, was predominantly French in culture, while the rest of Canada was primarily English. French Canadians had long worried that their culture and language would be buried under an avalanche of English language and customs. In the late 60s and early 70s this concern had turned to violence. In 1980 a referendum had been held to determine whether Quebec should pursue independence. Sixty percent had voted no, but nine-years later the issue was still simmering.

Given that our group was made up of three French Canadians, one British Canadian, and one American, our discussion on Quebec independence had been quite animated, but surprisingly amicable.  It’s amazing what a rainy night, a dry van, and a case of beer can accomplish for international relations. We laughed a lot and as parted friends.

My photos today trace my journey from the St. Lawrence River ferry at Sainte-Simeon to Lac Saint-Jean. I followed Quebec Routes 170 and 372 up to Saguenay and then Routes 172 and 169 to Parc national de la Pointe-Taillon on the north side of the lake. (Peggy and I followed 170 up to 169 and went around the south side of the lake.) The ride included substantial climbs, rugged terrain, beautiful rivers and small to mid-sized communities. As I/we approached Lac Saint-Jean and climbed onto the Laurentian Plateau, the land flattened out considerably.

Landing at the ferry dock at St. Simeon.

Landing at the ferry dock at St. Simeon. The ship was maneuvering around to drop its ramp on the exit way.

This one time lighthouse at St. Simeon had become a souvenir shop and ticket booth.

This one time lighthouse at St. Simeon had become a souvenir shop and ticket booth.

Quebec 170 out of St. Simeon had proven to be quite a climb.

Quebec Route 170 out of St. Simeon had proven to be quite a climb.

There was a lot of up and over...

There was a lot of up and over…

The Palisades on top were impressive. The signs suggested I make a left turn.

The Palisades on top were impressive. The signs suggested I make a left turn.

A close up...

A close up…

Small towns along the way were neat and orderly. I think this is Sagard.

Small towns along the way were neat and orderly. I think this is Sagard.

A river ran through it...

A river ran through it…

Spring time flows guaranteed rapids when Peggy and I re-drove the route.

Spring time flows guaranteed rapids when Peggy and I re-drove the route.

Jesus welcomed Peggy and I with open arms— not surprising in Quebec.

Jesus welcomed Peggy and me with open arms— not surprising in the Catholic province of Quebec.

The land flattened out as we neared Lac Saint Jean, providing scenes kill this one.

The land flattened out as we neared Lac Saint Jean, providing scenes like this one.

The gentler terrain supported large farms...

The gentler terrain supported large farms…

And wide open country.

With wide open country.

I took this photo with its tell-tale Catholic Church next to Lac Saint Jean.

I took this photo with its tell-tale Catholic Church next to Lac Saint Jean. The clouds were gorgeous.

Looking out toward Lac Saint Jean.

Looking out toward the large Lac Saint Jean. The campground where I spent my rainy night is on the opposite shore.

NEXT BLOG: I continue my journey into the far north riding over muddy dirt roads, dodging three trailer logging trucks, and taking a bath with eight ounces of water.

New Brunswick, the Gaspé Peninsula, and the St. Lawrence River… The 10,000-Mile Bike Trek

/ Curt Mekemson / 21 Comments
Like so many other rivers I followed on my bike trek, the Matapedia River on the Gaspe Peninsula provided a convenient route for road builders over terrain that might have been close to impassable.

Like so many other rivers I followed on my bike trek, the Matapedia River on the Gaspe Peninsula provided a convenient route for road builders over terrain that might have been close to impassable otherwise.

The road kept rolling on as I cut across the northern part of New Brunswick. I picked up New Brunswick Route 15 in Elgin and followed it west to Shediac where I followed NB-11 and NB-8 to Bathurst, passing through a number of small villages such as Boutouche, Richibucto and the larger community of Miramichi. It wasn’t a particularly scenic route; the roads had been constructed to get people from point a to point b, not dazzle them with natural wonders. Still, there were things to admire: forests, farmlands, towns, and occasional rivers opening out onto bays on the Gulf of St. Lawrence.

Watch out for moose signs take on a more urgency along roads that are built for speed. The New Brunswick highway department wanted to make sure that drivers got the point that a moose is a big animal you do not want to run into!

Watch out for moose signs take on more urgency along roads that are built for speed. The New Brunswick highway department wanted to make sure that drivers got the point that a moose is a big animal you do not want to run into!

Although I selected the first part of my route across New Brunswick for speed (speed being relative at 10-15 miles per hour) instead of scenic beauty, there were

Although I selected the first part of my route across northern New Brunswick for speed (speed being relative at 10-15 miles per hour), I still found much that was scenic.

The nature of my bike trek changed when I left New Brunswick. I had upped the ante. Where I had been bicycling from 60-80 miles per day, I would now be traveling 80-100. Routes would be more direct. Layover days would become few and far between, and journal entries rare. It was time to get serious.

I decided in Bathurst that I needed to experience at least a part of the New Brunswick coast so I picked up NB-134 and followed it most of the way west to the beginning of the Gaspé Peninsula and Quebec. The road runs along the edge of Chaleur Bay and serves as the main street of several small villages with very French names. The first town I came across, however, was Nigadoo, which is a First Nation Mi’kmaq name that means place to hide. Whatever reason the Mi’kmaq had for choosing the name, it worked equally well for the French Acadians.

As elsewhere in the Atlantic Provinces, the Acadians of the region had been deported during England’s mid-18th Century wars with France. Immediately after the Revolutionary War, New Brunswick had become a re-settlement area for Royalists/Tories who had remained loyal to the British Crown. During the late 1700s, the Acadians began to slip back into the country. The isolated north coast where they could live with minimum interference was one of their preferred locations. One might say that they were ‘hiding out.’

If Nigadoo didn’t quite fit my list of towns with French names, Petit-Rocher-Sud, Petit-Rocher, Petit-Rocher-Nord, Pointe Verte, and Belledune certainly did. I quickly discovered that the towns were true to their names. English names dropped off signs. Shopkeepers and others I met tended to speak French first and English as something they preferred not to. I even had an opportunity to try out my rudimentary high school French: “Où est la salle de bain?” Where is the bathroom? My efforts were appreciated, however, and I suspect that they produced a few chuckles when I left.

A number of Acadian towns were located along New Brunswick's north coast that borders on the Gulf of St. Lawrence and

A number of Acadian towns were located along New Brunswick’s north coast that borders on the Gulf of St. Lawrence and Chaleur Bay where gentle waves lap at the relatively flat coast line.

A close up of the three inch high waves. I am sure that storms bring in more serious waves.

A close up of the three-inch high waves looking a lot like their larger cousins.

The wavelets were large enough to cover these rocks and bring out their colors.

The wavelets were large enough to cover these rocks and bring out their colors.

I found these shells much higher on the same beach. They spoke to more serious waves and stormy seas.

I found these shells much higher on the same beach. They spoke to more serious waves and stormy seas.

You won't find many photos of industrial plants on my blogs, but I thought this plume was scenic enough to make the cut.

You won’t find many photos of industrial plants on my blogs, but I put my thoughts of air pollution aside long enough to snap this smokestack I found on the coast along NB-134.

I considered my use of French in New Brunswick as practice for Quebec, which I could see looming in the distance across the Chaleur Bay in the form of the Gaspé Peninsula. It looked suspiciously like another climb — and my suspicions were soon confirmed. As I reached the upper end of the bay, the Chic-Chocs (a Mi’kmaq word for craggy mountains) changed from ‘looming in the distance’ to up close and personal. Once again, I was faced with the Appalachian Mountains, which I had first encountered in my challenging climb up and over the Great Smokies. Would they never end?

Looking across Chaleur Bay at the Chic Choc Mountains on the Gaspe Peninsula, I could see a climb in my future.

Looking across Chaleur Bay at the Chic Choc Mountains on the Gaspe Peninsula, I could see a climb in my future.

Another view along New Brunswick 134.

Another view along New Brunswick 134.

Back on New Brunswick 11, I left behind the flatlands of the coast and entered the province's more mountainous northwest.

Back on New Brunswick 11, I left behind the flatlands of the coast and entered the province’s more mountainous northwest.

The mountainous terrain!

The mountainous terrain!

Fortunately, I was granted a reprieve. The Matapedia River had cut a valley through the mountains and my next road, Quebec Route 132, followed the valley and provided a relatively gentle uphill where I could gawk at the scenery instead of peddling my ass off. (It was pretty much gone anyway.) I said goodbye to New Brunswick, crossed the Restigouche River, entered Quebec, and started my climb.

The Restigouche River widening out before it flows into Chaleur Bay.

The Restigouche River widening out before it flows into Chaleur Bay.

A sign welcomed me to Quebec. I would have many miles of cycling before I left the province.

A sign welcomed me to Quebec. I would have many miles of cycling before I left the province.

A few miles later, I came to where the Matapedia River flows into the Restigouche. The small town of Matapedia, located just across the river, included a rather impressive Catholic Church for its size, which was another clear sign that I had entered French Canada. Over 80 percent of French Canadians are Catholic, at least in name, and I can pretty much guarantee that there are enough large churches in the province to accommodate everyone. Looking at my map of the region, I was amused to find another reflection of Catholic influence: the majority of the small communities incorporated a saint in their names. I wondered if they ever ran out of saints or fought over which one they were going to get.

The Catholic Church in Matapedia, Quebec was quite large for the small community it served.

The Catholic Church in Matapedia, Quebec was quite large for the small community it served.

The canyon and the river proved to be quite scenic. I dawdled a bit, stopping to check out river overlooks. Eventually, I reached the top and the country opened up. I rode through the town of Amqui, biked around the very large Lake Matapedia, and began my descent toward Mont Joli and the St. Lawrence River. I then continued to follow Quebec-132 south to Rivière-du-Loup where I intended to catch a ferry. (I could have ridden all the way to New York State on the highway.)

A scenic overlook provided this view of birch trees and the Matapedia River.

A scenic overlook provided this view of birch trees and the Matapedia River. In addition to its beauty, the river is known for its salmon fishing.

Quebec Highway 132 provided a relatively easy and quite scenic route over the Gaspe Peninsula.

Quebec Highway 132 provided a relatively easy and quite scenic route over the Gaspe Peninsula.

I found large farms, small cities and big churches along the St. Lawrence River. I was curious about how one of the communities, Trois-Pistoles, got its name. Pistole, I learned, is a gold Spanish coin, not a pistol. According to legend, an early explorer lost a silver cup at the location that was worth three of them. In terms of the value, Mr. Cotton’s parrot in Pirates of the Caribbean would say, “12 pieces of eight. Awk! 12 pieces of eight.” Now you know.

The small farms of the Atlantic Provinces gave way to more industrial size farms in Quebec.

The small farms of the Atlantic Provinces gave way to more industrial sized farms in Quebec.

Old barns spoke of simpler times.

Old barns spoke of simpler times.

13-catholic-church on St. Lawrence River in Quebec

Large Catholic Churches continued to dominate the skyline of communities along the St. Lawrence River in Quebec. Two more follow…

catholic-church along St. Lawrence River

I liked the backdrop provided by the dark clouds with the churches cross caught in the sunlight.

I liked the backdrop provided by the dark clouds with the church’s cross outlined by sun-lit clouds.

Scenic views along the way included open fields...

Scenic views along the St. Lawrence River included open fields…

And views of the river as seen on the other side of this mud flat.

And glimpses of the river as seen across this mud flat.

Peggy and I found this unique menagerie on our way to the ferry in

Peggy and I found this menagerie on our way to the ferry in Riviere-du-Loup.

And this somewhat strange sculpture of a First Nation native.

And this somewhat unique sculpture of a First Nation native.

The ferry at Rivière-du-Loup carried me across the St. Lawrence River to Saint-Siméon where I will begin my next post, heading in to the remote wilderness of Northern Quebec. The first night finds me drinking beer while sitting in a van and discussing Quebec separatist politics with three young men and a woman PhD candidate while a storm raged outside.

Ferry wake stretching across the broad St. Lawrence River.

Ferry wake stretching across the broad St. Lawrence River.

A Detour to Prince Edward Island… The 10,000-Mike Bike Trek

/ Curt Mekemson / 52 Comments
Grey skies detracted from the "picture postcard" look this lighthouse in Victoria, Prince Edward Island is supposed to have, but provided a powerful backdrop for the tree that seems to lean toward it.

Grey skies detracted from the “picture postcard” look this lighthouse in Victoria, Prince Edward Island is supposed to have, but provided a powerful backdrop for the tree that seems to lean toward it. A crow sits on the railing, looking down toward us.

I bicycled past Prince Edward Island (PEI) on my 5000-mile marathon bike ride home— and had regretted it ever since. It was a bucket list item for me, and I was ever so close, merely a ferryboat ride away. But the clock was ticking.

They have built an 8-mile (12.9 k) bridge between New Brunswick and PEI since, and proudly point out that it is the longest bridge in the world— over ice— an interesting clarification that suggests cold and snowy winters. Peggy and I decided we could zip across the bridge, spend a day, and check out what I had missed. Fortunately, it was neither cold nor snowy and the ice had melted, but it was windy and rainy.

A stormy day limited our visibility when we crossed the 8-mile Confederation Bridge to PEI from New Brunswick.

A stormy day limited our visibility when we crossed the 8-mile Confederation Bridge to PEI from New Brunswick. I was ever so glad I wasn’t on my bicycle.

High winds greeted us on the way back. Adjust your speed indeed. To a bicyclist this would be equally worrisome if not more so than the rainy day. I learned that bicyclists and walkers are required to take a shuttle across the bridge— regardless of the weather.

High winds greeted us on the way back. Adjust your speed indeed! To a bicyclist this would be equally worrisome if not more so than the rainy day. I learned, however, that bicyclists and walkers are required to take a shuttle across the bridge— regardless of the weather.

PEI is named after Prince Edward (1767-1820), the Duke of Kent and Strathearn, son of King George III, and the father of Queen Victoria, which is quite a legacy. The French initially named the island Île Saint-Jean and the English followed suit, calling it St. John’s Island. There were too many other St. John’s floating around the Atlantic Provinces, however. Thus Edward got his chance. I don’t have anything against the Prince, or the long-dead Saint for that matter, but I prefer the First Nation, Mi’kmaq name, Abegweit, which translates into land cradled in the waves. It is so much more poetic.

I often find that First Nation or Native American names for places have more magic and power than the current names we have given them. Mt. Denali, the highest mountain in North America, is another example. Originally named Mt. McKinley, after a little-remembered American President, the name has recently been changed back to its Athabascan name, Denali, which means the high one. (See my post on the train trip from Anchorage to Fairbanks, Alaska that Peggy and I made this past spring.)

The names for Prince Edward Island reflect its history, which is quite similar to its neighboring Atlantic Provinces, moving from First Nation to Acadian French to English and finally, expelled Scots. The Gaelic for PEI, by the way, is Eilean a’ Phrionns: the Island of the Prince.

The day we had allowed for our visit led us to focus on one place. We chose the small, south-coast town of Victoria. We couldn’t resist the description by Stephen Kimber, “The Trans-Canada Highway bypassed Victoria. So did the shopping centers and tourist amusement parks. And that— along with its independent-minded citizens— is what makes Victoria the enchanting, picture post card place it is today.” It sounded like our kind of town.

We arrived under dark clouds that were threatening a deluge but somehow held off for our visit. Given the bad weather and the fact that we had arrived before the summer crowds, it appeared that we were the only people in town. Most shops were closed and the “enchanting, picture post card” look was dampened somewhat by the lack of sunshine. Still, Peggy and I found much of interest.

"Where's the chocolate?" Peggy seems to be asking.

“Where’s the chocolate?” Peggy seems to be asking the locked door. Her taste buds had been prepped for it. “Brain food,” she always declares. Fortunately, we were able to find some equally delicious and sinful lobster. Otherwise, it could have been a long night.

Victoria had once been a bustling seaport doing trade with Europe, the West Indies, and the East Coast of the US. Peggy and I walked through the village of precisely laid out streets and Victorian homes that spoke to the earlier times. We were admiring the town’s lighthouse when a man came hurrying out of one of the homes and crossed the road to greet us.

Colorful homes greeted our walk around the town.

Colorful homes punctuated our walk around the town.

I found these old barn loft doors intriguing.

I found these old barn loft doors intriguing…

And I admired the imagination of the person who had added red trim to this building of by-gone days.

And I admired the imagination of the person who had added red trim to this building of by-gone days.

Appropriate to Victoria's seagoing past, we found and admired this retired fishing boat.

Appropriate to Victoria’s seagoing past, we found and admired this retired fishing boat. (Fishing, BTW, is still carried on out of Victoria’s small port. That’s where our lobster came from.)

A sign proclaimed that this was the largest tree on Prince Edward Island.

A sign proclaimed that this was the largest tree on Prince Edward Island.

Ben Smith

Ben Smith the “town greeter” of Victoria came bursting out the door of his house and made a beeline for us.

“Would you like to go in the lighthouse?” he asked in a voice that almost demanded we say yes. Naturally we agreed. Of course we wanted to see the lighthouse. He introduced himself as Ben Smith. He was apparently the town greeter, unofficial mayor, and a candle maker— a virtual one-man chamber of commerce, not to mention crow-master. They seemed to be following him.

“Ah yes,” he allowed, “I feed them. Sometimes they go for walks with me, hopping along behind.” We pictured this strange parade walking/hopping down the streets of Victoria and laughed. As Ben hurried off to get the keys, the crows stayed with us, making sure we didn’t slip away.

We were checking out the lighthouse when a man came hurrying across the street and asked if we would like to see in side it.

While Ben went to retrieve the lighthouse key, a crow stood guard on the railing.

Ben turned out to be as knowledgeable as he was nice. We got the A+ Tour, which included climbing into the top of the lighthouse up narrow, steep stairs to check out the light and then butt-scoot around a precipice to go outside for a view of the small town and its harbor. Ben took our photo and provided an ongoing lecture on the area’s history. After all of this, we insisted on seeing his candle shop and bought one as a thank you. We also sat in his ‘lucky chair.’

The light that warned and guided sailors approaching Victoria.

The light that warned and guided sailors approaching Victoria.

Peggy and I standing on the lighthouse look out.

Peggy and I standing on the lighthouse lookout. (Photo by Ben Smith.)

Entering Ben's candle shop...

Entering Ben’s candle shop. Note the horse shoe over the door for luck.

And sitting on the 'lucky chair.'

Peggy sits in the ‘lucky chair.’ Some of Ben’s candles are resting on the table beyond her.

“The man who made this chair and gave it to me was struck by lightning on three different occasions and survived,” he explained. Peggy and I took turns sitting in the chair, just in case. Ben walked us back to our van and insisted we buy a lobster roll from the Lobster Barn restaurant on the dock. It was delicious.

Leaving Victoria, we made our way over to the New Glasgow Highlands Campground in the center of the island, which proved to be quite lovely. Along the way, we got something of a feel for the rural nature of PEI and more of a sense of the island’s beauty. But we knew we were missing a lot. One day is far too short of a time to visit the island. We’ll be back.

Prince Edward Island thrives off of its small farms where crops such as potatoes are raised. The island is noted for its red soils.

Prince Edward Island thrives off of its small farms where crops such as potatoes are raised. The island is noted for its red soils. Wind breaks surround most farms.

This river reflected the rain the island was receiving. Interestingly, drinking water is primarily ground water pumped up from wells.

This river was brimming with the rain the island was receiving. Interestingly, drinking water is primarily ground water pumped up from wells.

A small bit of sunlight broke through the clouds and illuminated these birch trees.

A small bit of sunlight broke through the clouds and illuminated these birch trees at the campground.

The dark, stormy skies were back the next morning. I liked the drama they created in this photo of a church.

The dark, stormy skies were back the next morning. I liked the drama they created in this photo of a church.

Check this out. Note how similar the church looks to the one above. The other church I photographed was laid out in the same way. I believe the churches were different denominations. Was a common architect involved?

Check this out. Note how similar this church looks to the one above. I believe the churches were different denominations. Was a common architect involved? Does PEI have an agreement on how churches are supposed to look? (Kidding, I think.)

Peggy and I really fell for the charm of the houses we found on PEI.

Peggy and I really fell for the charm of the houses we found on PEI.

Another...

Another…

And a final one.

And a final house, the last photo for this post.

NEXT POST: I am back on my bike route crossing New Brunswick, entering Quebec, climbing up and over the Gaspe Peninsula, and crossing the St. Lawrence Seaway.

 

Beautiful Canada: Cape Breton and the Cabot Trail… The 10,000 Mile Bike Trek

/ Curt Mekemson / 31 Comments

 

Rocky shores touched by the Atlantic Ocean are a key element in the scenic beauty of the Cape Breton Highlands along the Cabot Trail.

Rocky shores touched by the Atlantic Ocean are a key element in the scenic beauty of the Cape Breton Highlands along the Cabot Trail.

Cape Breton is a big island: the 77th largest in the world and the 18th in Canada if you are a detail-oriented type of person. Once upon a very long time ago, before the continents got divorced and started drifting away from each other, it was snuggled up to Scotland and Norway on the ancient continent of Pangaea. I feel a certain amount of affinity since my ancient ancestors drifted away from Norway and Scotland, some 300 million years later.

It’s an island of superlatives and you will be hearing a fair number on this post. The tourist bureau should hire me. I’m not alone in my praise. The pretty-picture travel magazine Condé Nast considers Cape Breton to be one “of the best island destinations in the world.” Numerous other magazine and newspaper articles agree.

The Cape Breton Highlands on the northern part of the island are the primary reason for the acclaim. Considered a northern extension of the Appalachian Mountains, the Highlands are noted for their steep ups and downs. I agree; they provided me with some of the most challenging bicycling on my 10,000-mile trip. I was amused when doing research for this post to find a Cape Breton website recommending to motorists, “You may want to check your brakes.” Indeed.

The road around the Highlands is known as the Cabot Trail. It was named after the 15th Century explorer John Cabot who was searching for a way to China on behalf of King Henry VII. (Rumor has it that the King was seeking a new place to send his many wives. Just kidding— the reality is that he wanted to spice up his life, and Asia was the place to go for spices.) Cabot may or may not have landed on the island, but locals are eager to claim him. Most experts believe his landing site was more likely Newfoundland.

There is much more to Cape Breton Island than the Cabot Trail, but the scenic highway is the primary reason that visitors flock to the island.

There is much more to Cape Breton than the Cabot Trail, but the scenic highway is the primary reason that visitors flock to the island. This post and my next one will focus on views along the Trail.

A view form the beginning of the Cabot Trail looking not toward the Cape breton Highlands.

A view from the beginning of the Cabot Trail looking out toward the Cape Breton Highlands.

The Cabot Trail is world-famous. The sign says so. The highway is what I remember most about Nova Scotia. After crossing over the Canso Causeway, I, and my two bicycle-travelling companions, Jean and Lindell, had made a beeline for it. Peggy and I did as well, following the Trans-Canada Highway 105. Since the 185-mile scenic byway travels in a circle (more or less), we had a choice of whether to travel clockwise or counter-clockwise. The travel guides recommend clockwise since going in the opposite direction puts travelers on the outside of the road as it winds along towering cliffs with scary drop-offs. The theory is that most people prefer safety to death-defying edges. But what’s the fun in that? We chose the outside with its dramatic views of the Atlantic Ocean on the east side of the Highlands and Gulf of St. Lawrence on the west. (Besides, I am a veteran of Highway 1 on the California coast, which is much scarier.)

In addition to natural beauty, Cape Breton features both its Celtic and Acadian heritages. Some 50,000 Highland Scots migrated to the area between 1800 and 1850 as a result of the Highland Clearances where small farmers in Scotland were replaced by sheep, i.e. the hereditary aristocratic owners of the land found a better way to make money. Colaisde na Gàidhlig, the Gaelic College, was founded to promote and preserve the Scotch-Irish Gaelic Culture in Nova Scotia. Located on the Cabot Trail shortly after it leaves the Trans-Canada Highway, the college offers courses in Gaelic language, crafts, music, dance and history. Visitors are invited to stop by and see a ceilidh, a traditional Scottish dance, or even buy a kilt.

Scottish sheep photo by Curtis Mekemson.

Furry fellow. An ancestor of the sheep that replaced the Highland farmers. We were happily lost on a remote Scotland road when this guy greeted us. (Photo by Peggy Mekemson.)

The Gaelic College located along the Cabot Trail on Cape Breton Island.

The craft shop of the Gaelic College where everything Gaelic is promoted including the language.

St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church, located several miles beyond the Gaelic College, reminded me of my own Scotch-Irish (Ulster Scot) family’s heritage— and our journey to the New World in the 1750s. We were Lowland Scots as opposed to the Highland Scots. The Mekemsons had been serious Presbyterians all the way back to the 1600s when Scottish Presbyterians had declared that God and not the King of England was their ruler. This had upset the King considerably. One of my ancestors, John Brown, was even a martyr to the cause. Peggy and I visited his gravesite in Scotland and I did a blog on him. Our family had remained Presbyterians right up until my father had become an Episcopalian (the American equivalent of the Anglican Church), a move that undoubtedly sent generations of our Presbyterian ancestors rolling over in their graves.

St. Andrews Presbyterian Church.

St. Andrews Presbyterian Church.

A close up of the grave of John Brown, the Scottish Martyr shot down in fron of his family in the late 1600s.

The lonely grave of John Brown, the Scottish Martyr shot down in front of his family in the late 1600s.

This shot of Peggy captures the isolation of John Brown's Grave, the white speck on the upper left of the photo.

This shot of Peggy captures the isolation of John Brown’s Grave, the white speck on the upper left of the photo.

Anyway, a series of religious, political, and economic factors had sent my ancestors first to Northern Ireland and then on to Pennsylvania and Maryland.

One third of the Cabot Trail runs through the Cape Breton Highlands National Park, which captures the ocean and highland scenery of the area as well as protects the wildlife and plants that call it home. Moose signs along the highway warn motorists of potential automobile-moose confrontations, which are not good for either man or moose. While Peggy and I are always aware of the potential danger, mainly we think of the signs as suggestions we may get to see a moose, always a plus. But that is a story for my next blog, along with the second toughest climb of my 10,000-mile trek and a visit to the Acadian side of the island. Following are several photos I took on the first half of the Cabot Trail.

St. Andrews Provincial Park in the Cape Breton Highlands.

Regional parks, such as St. Ann’s, demanded that we stop and admire them.

Looking the other direction at St. Ann's Provincial Park along the Cabot Trail.

Looking the other direction at St. Ann’s Provincial Park along the Cabot Trail.

Once again Peggy and I found ourselves looking at scenery that sported an early spring look.

Once again Peggy and I found ourselves looking at scenery that sported an early spring look.

Our day along the Cabot Trail varied between sunshine and threatening skies.

Our day along the Cabot Trail varied between sunshine and threatening skies.

We found these boats near the small town of Ingonish.

We found these fishing boats near the small town of Ingonish. Lobster traps are located on the pier.

I liked this lonely structure, which looks like a great place for a picnic.

I liked this lonely structure, which looks like a great place for a picnic.

And these quiet waters.

And these quiet waters.

Climbing up into the Highlands provides scenic views of the Atlantic coast.

Climbing up into the Highlands provides scenic views of the Atlantic coast.

A close-up.

A close-up.

Blue skies color the Atlantic Ocean blue.

Blue skies color the Atlantic Ocean blue.

The Cabot Trail moves between the Highlands and Coast. Give a choice between long sandy beaches and rocky coasts I will always prefer the rocky coasts, unless I happen to be on a tropical island.

The Cabot Trail moves between the highlands and coast. Given a choice between long sandy beaches and rocky coasts, I will always prefer the rocky coasts, unless, of course, I happen to be on a tropical island.

Another view.

Another view.

The cool, windy day fluffs Peggy's hair

The cool, windy day fluffs Peggy’s hair

The road leading down to Cape North, which will be the farthest point east I reach on my bike trip.

The road leading down to Cape North, the farthest east I would travel.

This church at North Bay marked my turning point. After this, I would be heading home.

This church at Cape North marked the turning point in my 10,000 mile trek. After this, I would be heading home.

Shortly after we left the church, Peggy and I came on these two bicycle tourists. How appropriate, I thought. The dark cliffs looming in the background would provide the second hardest climb in my whole trip, but that's a story for my next blog.

Shortly after we left the church, Peggy and I came on these two bicycle tourists. The dark cliffs looming in the background would provide the second hardest climb in my whole trip, but that’s a story for my next blog.

The Quiet Beauty of Nova Scotia… The 10,000-Mile Bike Trek

/ Curt Mekemson / 37 Comments
Cove on East Coast of Nova Scotia

Nova Scotia has a quiet beauty that grows on you. I took this photo along the East Coast’s Marine Drive.

 

This is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks. From Evangeline by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The beauty of Nova Scotia isn’t tied to towering mountains or vast open spaces. It makes a quieter statement— a combination of water and coves and forests and highlands and valleys and villages that grows on you until you realize that you have arrived somewhere that is very special. Long after I had completed my 10,000-mile journey around North America, Nova Scotia continued to exist in my mind as one of the highlights. Our recent drive around the province as Peggy and I retraced my bike trek route reinforced this original impression.

Nova Scotia is Latin for New Scotland, which seems appropriate to me in that I find the beauty of the two areas similar in nature. Before it became Nova Scotia, however, it was known first as Mi’kma’ki reflecting the First Nation people who lived there, the Mi’kmaq. Afterwards the French settled the area and called it Acadia. In 1755, the British expelled most of the French as a consequence of their ongoing wars with France. Longfellow’s poem, Evangeline, is based on that expulsion. Many of the people who were deported eventually ended up in Louisiana where they became known as Cajuns (Cajun derives from Cadia).

After the Acadians were expelled, numerous Scots arrived from New England to help repopulate the area. They also came from Scotland where British policies were driving them out of the Highlands. Gaelic became a common language. Following the Revolutionary War, a number of people who had remained loyal to England during the conflict resettled in Nova Scotia. Included among them was a small population of blacks who had joined Britain’s cause as a way out of slavery. What all of this means is that Nova Scotia has several distinct cultures, which, it seems to me, coexist side by side in relative harmony.

Other than a day of bicycling in Death Valley, Nova Scotia was the only place on my bike trip where I had travelling companions. Jean Snuggs and Lindell Wilken had both gone to college together in Illinois before moving out to California. I met Jean on one of the 100-mile backpack trips I led in the Sierra Nevada Mountains of California. We had become good friends and eventually lived together. That arrangement had ended but we remained good friends. Both Jean and Lyndell were college track coaches and in excellent shape. If I recall correctly, they had also just finished bicycling the Oregon Coast. I was extremely glad I had a few thousand miles of bicycling behind me! Otherwise, it could have been a long and humbling seven days.

We didn’t linger in Halifax, which was too bad since it is a lovely city. But the open road called. We crossed over the Angus L. Macdonald Bridge, picked up Highway 7 and followed it up the East Coast to Liscomb, a distance of 100 plus miles. Highway 7 is known as the Marine Highway in tourist promotions for good reasons. It closely follows the Atlantic Ocean. Inlets, coves, small rivers and towns provide an endless kaleidoscope of scenery.

The Angus

The Angus L. MacDonald Bridge in Halifax.

Crossing the Angus L. MacDonald Bridge in Halifax, Nova Scotia.

Crossing the bridge. Note the screens on the side. There is no jumping off of the bridge!

Looking back at Halifax through the screened fence on the bridge.

Looking back at Halifax through the screened fence.

Numerous islands, such as this, are scattered along Nova Scotia's East Coast.

Numerous islands, such as this, are scattered along Nova Scotia’s East Coast.

Flats like this one added another element of variety.

Flats like this one added another element of variety along the coast.

Numerous islands fill the coves along Marine Drive.

Winter storms along the Atlantic Ocean must change this incredibly calm water along Marine Drive.

We passed over several river on the East Coast ranging form calm...

We passed over several river on the East Coast ranging from calm…

Riffled river on East Coast of Nova Scotia

To slightly riffled…

To roaring. The West River flows into Sheet Harbor.

To roaring. The West River flows into Sheet Harbor. Sheet Harbor, BTW, was one of the areas that Loyalist refugees from America’s Revolutionary War settled in Nova Scotia.

We found what appeared to be a large derelict along the coast.

We found what appeared to be a large derelict stranded along the coast.

At Liscomb, Highway 7 took us inland across the peninsula to Antigonish. I have only a vague memory of Antigonish on my bike trip, which may mean that the lure of the renowned Cape Breton pulled us on past it. Peggy and I stopped, however, and the town with its St. Francis Xavier University was definitely worth the visit, as university towns often are. From Antigonish we picked up Highway 4 to Auld and the Canso Causeway. The Causeway, a 4500 foot engineering achievement that took some 10 million tons of rock to build, connects mainland Nova Scotia with the island of Cape Breton. It is where I will end today’s post. Next up: the fabulous Cape Breton and the Cabot Trail into Cape Breton Highlands’ National Park.

A road shot of Highway 7

A road shot of Highway 7 between Liscomb and Antigonish.

This guy provided some color, and class.

This guy added both class and color to the road.

St. Francis Xavier University in Antigonish is recognized as one of Canada's top colleges.

St. Francis Xavier University in Antigonish is recognized as one of Canada’s top colleges.

Antigonish is an attractive town with a number of eating establishments.

Antigonish is an attractive town with a number of eating establishments. Peggy and I had a tasty lunch here.

A number of murals decorated the downtown. This was my favorite.

A number of murals decorated the downtown. This was my favorite, given that I always like weird animals.

The mural also included this girl flying a kite.

The mural also included this girl flying kites.

Bricked in windows across the road also featured fun murals.

Bricked in windows across the road also featured fun murals such as this baker.

This cat looking out of a window also caught my attention.

And a cat looking out the window..

This sign is located at the end of the Canco

This sign was featured at the end of the Canso Causeway. I’ll use it as an introduction to my next two blogs on Cape Breton, a world-class tourist destination.