Dino's blog for mini adventures and endurance challenges
Header

Shuffle into Cape Breton Highlands

August 28th, 2013 | Posted by Dino in Canada | Uncategorized - (0 Comments)

Day 67: Cheticamp Island to Corney Brook (26km)

I’m scared.

I’m scared because the land around me pitches up into the sky. I haven’t seen anything this steep since the Rockies. The road curves around the voluptuous folds of earth. Tomorrow I must cycle.

I’m scared because I’m not sure that I will make it. But I need to, have to. I am alone here and there is nobody to pick me up. If I can’t cycle up French Mountain then I will walk it.

This is what I wrote the night I camped at Corney Brook, a basic campground nestled between the gulf of the St Lawrence and the looming French Mountain. It was supposed to be a rest day but I decided that, rather than fret all day on Cheticamp Island about the looming ride ahead, I would shuffle forward 26km to make the ride along the Cabot Trail less epic.

I still managed to fit in some of the fixtures of a rest day. I did my laundry in the worst manner possible. I realised once I had trekked all the way over to the laundrette that I had forgot my camp soap. Oh well, I guess this normal soap will do, I thought, breaking off a few lumps with my fingers and smearing them on my tshirt. It was only when the clothes were hanging on my self-made washing line that I noticed the lumps of normal soap were exactly where I had smeared them. The tissue I had left in my short pocket was now in tiny flecks of white scattered over everything. If I’d had time I would have washed it again. But I didn’t. And since it actually smelt nice and clean, the soap smears and tissue fluff remain.

Another fixture of a good rest day is to have a good campfire and a beer. The problem with that was that the basic campground I was shuffling to did not sell firewood. I had purchased firewood on Cheticamp island but, as per usual, not burnt half of it. It seemed a waste to leave it behind so i set about strapping in together with an ingenious set of knots and affixing it onto Monty. It weighed an absolute ton but I was quite chuffed with myself.

Monty becomes firewood mule

Monty becomes firewood mule

On route to the campground I passed through Cheticamp village and picked up a beer which I would late leave to chill hidden under a rock in the brook. I was all set for a lovely afternoon.

Blimey the hills. No sooner had I rounded the corner out of the village, over the rocky river and into the national park when the contours started to riot like the noise visualisation on a booming stereo system. It’s not called the Cape Breton Highlands for nothing. The road swept and twisted like a rollercoaster over the hills and plonked me down at the campground at the very bottom of French Mountain.

image

image

After a small afternoon snooze and exploration of the pebbled shore, I opened my beer and began cooking my beans and spider dogs on the campfire. I noticed a family had arrived and was setting up their gigantic tent in the pitch next door. The daughter was looking for firewood but finding none. I had just finished my last spider dog when the the Mom and daughter came over.

“We’ve made too much food and wondered if you’d like to have some?”

Second Dinner!? Yes, please. I wandered over and was given a healthy portion of spaghetti with fresh mussels and shrimps.

“I’ve never eaten mussels before,” I commented. And Dad gave me a quick tutorial in how to eat them.

It turned out that it was the daughter’s thirteenth birthday. So she had got to pick what they had for dinner. They wanted to have a fire but didn’t have enough wood.

“I saw your firewood,” Dad said, “so figured they must sell it here because you wouldn’t carry firewood on a bike. Especially here, up those hills.”

Oh, but I did.

I invited them over to “mine” for a campfire dessert and rushed home to tidy up my fireplace so that there was a clean space for them to sit. Thankfully I had ample ingredients for s’mores so I was very pleased to be able to share them with the birthday girl. She didn’t get a cake but she did get to toast some s’mores. And a few marshmallows caught fire so she had blow them out like a candle. What a great birthday.

, , , ,

To Cheticamp Island

August 26th, 2013 | Posted by Dino in Canada | Uncategorized - (0 Comments)

Day 66: Port Hood to Cheticamp Island (95.5km)

Is 11am on a Sunday morning too early to drink whisky?

After yesterday I think I needed it.

Canada does not stop amazing me. And you would have thought that after cycling across the Rocky Mountains, the prairies and the Canadian Shield then there would be no terrain left that I couldn’t pedal like the garden path. Think again.

Cape Breton is not the garden path. This terrain manages to combine the steepness of the Rockies with the relentless undulating mounds of the Canadian Shield and, as it showed yesterday, it can throw in a headwind reminiscent of the prairies. It’s a very good thing I’ve done 7,000 kilometres of training because this is Tough. There is not an inch of flat ground on this island.

I woke up this morning in my cosy little hut. Even before I’d shed my cocoon a flex of my leg told me that I would be in trouble today. My quads, hamstrings, piriformis all felt like they’d been through a mangler. You know that feeling when you hobble around the office the day after you’ve exerted yourself on something like a 10 mile run? You laugh merrily about what a fun weekend you had while all the time being extremely grateful that you get to spend the day sitting in a chair. My legs were not laughing merrily. You want me to cycle 100km today? They laughed, but it was in disbelief.

I was on the road by 8:45am. The road was empty save for a single exhausted cyclists with legs laughing in disbelief. The sky was empty save for a scrap of white cloud that looked like someone had pulled a comb through icing sugar. Since it was Sunday, the birds and butterflies were having a lie in and they did not stir from the wild flowers or flap from the bush as I pedalled past. The wind was tranquil. It was so quiet I could hear my own breath as I rasped up another steep incline. My legs burned with each upward pedal stroke.

Each five minutes of tormenting climb would be rewarded by one minute of fast descent. It seemed an unfair trade for my legs. My thighs dreamt of soaking in a hot bath and falling asleep in fresh sheets. But I know, when I am next bathing in Radox bubbles, I will dream of cycling in Nova Scotia again.

I stopped for supplies in a small town. The grocery store had decorated its foyer with a large stuffed moose head which peered over shoppers’ heads as they nipped in to get milk. I decided I needed to have at least one more campfire. So I purchased all the makings of a great Canadian campfire feast: baked beans in maple syrup (yes, that’s real), spider dogs, and s’more ingredients (chocolate, marshmallows, graham crackers).

After a further burst of cycling I pulled off at the entrance for the Glenora Distillery. This distillery, a cluster of white washed buildings festooned with the brightest ruby red flowers, produces the only single malt whisky in North America. Nova Scotia isn’t called Nova Scotia for nothing. Approximately 20% of the people claim Scottish heritage although that proportion is higher in areas like this. The distillery tour finished with a wee dram. I would have liked to have bought a bottle in the gift shop but I feared the extra weight on my panniers.

image

The day continued to offer a blend of challenging hills, sunshine and, thankfully, calmer winds. As the road bent towards the coast I joined the Cabot Trail proper. I passed a number of small villages, their painted wooden houses facing the sea. Fishing boats bobbed in the harbour. A tangled turquoise pile of lobster pots stood for sale. Rocky, sloping headlands protruded into the surf.

image

My destination for the evening was a sandy campground hidden in the corner of Cheticamp island. Cheticamp island isn’t an island any more. It was over a hundred years ago that the sand bar moved. Now a pile of rocks has turned the sand bar into a causeway connecting this sandy comma of island it to the rest of Cape Breton.

What a beautiful evening. I have waited 3 months for this evening: it is dark and I am still awake. The sky is clear but the moon is hidden. I am far enough away from anywhere that the land is dark. The bugs are in bed and I have a campfire to keep me warm. I lie on my back, nestled by the fire. The blue of the evening dims to the black of night. I look up as the full beauty of heaven’s cloth is unfolded across the sky.

I gaze up at the finest black velvet embroidered with a multitude of stars. Another star seem to have been sewn on each time I blink. The campfire crackles and purrs its way through another log. Bats fly overhead, darting like swallows. As I look up at the night star I wonder how small I am in all of this. Smaller than a pebble on a beach. Smaller than a leaf in the forest. Smaller than an island in the ocean, but still connected to the mainland.

, , , , , , , ,

Foraging for mushrooms

August 23rd, 2013 | Posted by Dino in Canada | Uncategorized - (1 Comments)

Day 61: Miramichi to Sainte Marie de Kent (90km)

As a general rule of thumb, in Canada the cycling days have been glorious and the rest days have been spent wishing I was on the bike. My ride to Sainte Marie de Kent and subsequent rest day broke that rule, in the nicest way possible.

The day’s cycling was fine but largely uneventful. There had been no threat of rain so I’d slept with the tent flaps open and thus had a bone dry condensation free tent to pack up in the morning. Monty and I set off along the main highway. The highway isn’t actually very exciting. Is just a strip of grey Tarmac that bounces up and over the hills and through the forest. Every now and again I would pass through a small village decked out in Acadian flags. Some villages had painted the trunks of their electricity pylons in the Acadian colours. They really are quite patriotic.

All around I could smell the piney, green fragrance of the forest. Soon enough I arrived in the town of Richibucto where the fragrance of the forest was interrupted by the strong scent of the sea. An aggressive line up of gulls watched over me while I ate my lunch by the small harbour. After a short snooze, ended by an extra loud screech from a gull, it was time to get pedalling again.

My lodgings for the night came into view down a long, bumpy track cutting between a riot of wild bushes. I was essentially in the middle of glorious nowhere. At the end of the track, a large trailer stood in front of an old white house. Aaron, Shelley and their young son were out at a farming conference when I arrived but I was greeted by a very cheery note and muffins.

image

I wandered around the back of the house to where a line of washing was hanging up. There was a very large veg patch, stuffed with tangled towers of green beans, green tomatoes, neat lines of onions bursting through the soil, and a lively proliferation of leaves and squashes exploding out the patch. I went over to say hello to the chickens and the three goats (named Hans, Goat String and Tweedledum).

When Aaron and Shelley returned home they offered me the sofa, the tent or the mosquito net to sleep in. The night looked to be bright and clear so I opted for the mosquito net.

As it fell dark I set about gathering kindling for the fire. A bright full moon cast bean-pole shaped shadows across the freshly mown grass. A chorus of insects buzzed in the background as the pop of the fire flung sparks into the sky. I chucked some grass on the fire to create some smoke to deter the bugs. It gave off a nice smell too. Aaron and Shelley came out the house and sat by the fire. We toasted some marshmallows. It grew late, though no darker thanks to the moon. When Aaron and Shelley retired to bed I snuck into my sleeping bag and fell asleep with the brilliant moon arching south west across the sky. The birds had stopped singing, the chickens had long since gone to roost, the goats bleated for a while but soon quietened down. Only the faint chorus of insects, their buzzing amplified by the silence, remained.

I was woken up when the cockerel called. The sun hadn’t yet risen but the eastern sky was a palette of artist’s colours. Wandering around, capturing the morning light on my camera I woke up the goats who jumped up on the fencing bleating. I worried they might escape again.

My rest day was perfectly restful. In the morning we went blueberry picking and in the afternoon we went on a successful forage for chanterelles. After that I had a lazy nap under the mosquito net until it was time for dinner and therefore time to munch the chanterelles. In the evening I again fell asleep under the gaze of the moon. The only difference this evening was that the evening soundscape missed the bleating from the goats. Hans, Goat String and Tweedledum had, just before dinner, been picked up by the butcher. They will return in freezer bags.

I couldn’t have wished for a better rest day and am very grateful to my kind hosts for having me stay.

image

, , , ,

Bear in area

July 31st, 2013 | Posted by Dino in Canada | Uncategorized - (0 Comments)

Day 45: Huntsville to Mew Lake (75 km)

“Bear in area”

The a-frame sign was propped up outside the campsite office entrance.

image

This wasn’t the species of mammal I saw hoping to encounter today. I’ve spent all day peering in the bushes, scanning the trees, and peaking under the rocks in the hope of seeing a moose.

But alas, no moose.

O where art thou moose?

O where art thou moose?

There was one exciting spectacle to liven up my otherwise usual day’s jaunt cycling past the forest, rocks, lakes etc etc of northern Ontario. There was I merrily swooping around the corner of a nice descent when what should fly across the road in front of me but…

A plane.

Wow!

This plane was literally flying across the road. If you’d been driving a truck or wearing stilts when it passed you’d have been knocked over. It swooped gloriously by, all buzzing blades and shiny yellow paintwork. As I approached the bottom of the hill, I squealed on Monty’s brakes and swivelled around to see the lake. On the dock stood the outline of two figures and a stack of crates and bags. The plane was now floating on the lake and skirting around to meet the dock. Like any good tourist I jumped over the “no trespassing” sign in order to take a better photo without the limb of a tree in the way (regret: I took the photos on my actual camera not my iPad so cannot share it with you).

I then continued to cycle past more forest, rocks, lakes etc etc. Until at a pleasantly mid-afternoonish I pulled off the highway towards the campground. To welcome me was the warning sign: Bear in Area.

Inside the office, the staff informed me that there was a Zero Tolerance policy in operation. Perhaps more scary than the the threat of seeing a bear was the fact that if a park ranger found you had left out a crumb of food or a smudge of toothpaste you would be fined $150 on the spot. Eek!

I decided to try my luck hanging up my food using my rope. After a few throws, I successfully had my rope hanging over a high branch. With a bit of fiddling I attached one food-laden pannier. And heaved. And heaved. The friction of branch to rope wasn’t helping me. I finally succeeded in heaving my pannier up by poking it up with a stick with one hand while simultaneously pulling down with the other. Despite the tallness of the branch, my bag was now only up at the height of me + arm + stick. I stood back. Hmm.. What to do? There were no tall people strolling past.

I wanted to leave at dawn tomorrow so that I could get on the road during the wildlife window of the day (ie between dawn and human breakfast). The office staff had informed me I could get a bear locker but in order to get my deposit back in the morning I’d have to wait until the office was open and thus miss the wildlife window. I looked up again at my pannier dangling only a metre from my head. I estimated the height of a bear on tip toes.

Off I wandered to get the keys to my bear locker.

This is a bear locker.

This is a bear locker.

On reflection, this was probably the sensible choice as when I went to retrieve my pannier from its tree the branch broke as I yanked the string down. Oops.

Having stashed my food away I went to gather firewood. I was happily gathering from a cache of dried bark when a man’s voice boomed through the trees.

“If a warden catches you doing that you’ll be fined!” The man yelled.

Eh?

“Warden. The police. Banned. Illegal.” He shot words at me in an angry tone.

Yikes. I put down the firewood. And, in my clearest English accent, explained
I haven’t seen a sign, didn’t know it was banned, and thank you very much for telling me.

I’m sure there is some sort of explanation for the ban on collecting firewood (eg leave the wood to rot so it can provide a home to numerous varieties of fungi etc) but I would like to know what it is and not just be yelled at. At least the guy did save me from a potential fine. But having spent the day entirely alone a small bit of human contact can really swing your mood. His angry tone had put me on edge and made me feel quite alone.

And because bad stuff comes in 3s I then encountered the water tap. The first water tap had a sign up indicating in pictorial form that one is not allowed to wash dishes under the tap. Fair enough. But then the sink in the washroom had the same sign. And then the industrial looking sink in the laundry room had the same sign. Hmmf. And where is one supposed to wash the residue of one’s tomato gnocchi off one’s folding bowl? There was no indication.

Are bears not going to be attracted to the smell of my unwashed hot chocolate cup and a sticky bowl? I was not impressed and decided, warden or no warden, to wash my dishes.

So yes, the evening was quite frustrating. I can’t collect my own firewood, I can’t wash my dishes in the sink and now I have to stomp up the road for 5 minutes to retrieve any smelly item from my bear lock. Now – yes, now – I understand why so many of you good people choose to stay in hotels. You don’t have to put up with this nonsense.

I now have only 3 more days of cycling until I reach Ottawa and civilisation. I will be pleased to be out of the woods and in a place without so many rules on dishes, firewood, bears etc. But not before I have seen a moose.

, , , , , ,

Highway of Hell

July 24th, 2013 | Posted by Dino in Canada | Uncategorized - (0 Comments)

Day 43: Wasaga to Bracebridge (ish) (112.5km)

You know you’re having a tough day when the generosity of someone giving you a square of tin foil nearly brings you to tears.

The tin foil, I later discovered, wasn’t actually necessary anyway as the corn on the cob was still wrapped in its husk. (The husk, Google tells me, is sufficient protection when tossing a corn on the cob on a campfire.)

At this point it was about 3pm and I was in a grocery store stocking up on the necessary ingredients for a delicious and cheering campfire meal. I needed a cheering campfire after today’s awful, awful, AWFUL ride along Highway 11.

This wasn’t the Road to Hell so much as Hell Itself in highway form. The four-lane highway was very, very busy with cars and RVs headed north from Toronto. The cars zoomed past at terrifying speed. In fact, forget my description – just imagine the M1 on the Friday afternoon before a bank holiday. To make matters worse, the paved shoulder I had to ride on was about 6 inches wide. 6 inches.

I was cycling along at some ridiculously fast pace – fear clearly strengthens one’s leg muscles. I pedalled in a state somewhere between abject fear and gritty, determined focus. I was hungry. I had already done 60km and eaten little more than a protein bar all morning. I had been on the Highway of Hell for over 10km. Every second was terrifying.

Cars honked at me. (Yes, because adding to my state of witless terror by startling me with a blasting horn is going to help!) Trucks screamed past.

I scanned the roadside looking for somewhere to eat lunch. I spotted a gas station ahead. there was a patch of grass and a tree under which I could shelter. I peeled off the highway, hungry and shaken. I sat curled in a ball, eating my avocado and crackers off my knees, and worried about what to do next. The clouds threatened rain.

Google maps showed a possible detour which took an extra 20km. But were those side roads really roads or just bumps of exhausting gravel? I was scared of the solitude of empty, forest roads. But even more daunting was the prospect of cycling alone along the M1. Either way, I needed to push on up the highway for another 6km before I could pull off.

At the turn off I pulled up at a small grocery store. Inside the store I collected food for my campfire. “Excuse me, do you have a piece of tin foil i could have for cooking this in a campfire?” i asked the woman at the store, pointing at my corn. When the woman returned with a square of foil I nearly cried in gratitude. The kindness felt like a cloth had been lifted from my body, unveiling my vulnerability.

With 40km to go I entered the back roads of the forest. The scenery had changed again. The thickening forest, wet grasses, rocks and sudden, sharp inclines told me I was back into northern Ontario. The dense forest was pierced by the grey road as it twisted and turned through the wilderness. Although relieved to be away from the highway, the solitude of the wilderness and the looming grey clouds cast a darkness over my mood. Was that the sound of an aeroplane? Or the long, distance rumble of thunder?

Here the wild things live. This is sort of place where the only soul you are likely to meet is a lone man with a gun. Or a bear (if bears have souls. A topic for another discussion perhaps). I sang to myself for comfort and cheer. And dipped into my pannier for a handful of my emergency Jelly Belly beans. For 40km I pondered the wild idiocy of my decision to cycle across Canada. I still have to get to Kearney by Friday morning and that means either going back on highway 11 or another lengthy detour.

Finally I arrived at the campground. It is expensive. I even upgraded to a site with electric. But I don’t care. This wasn’t supposed to be terrifyingly hideous. It was supposed to be “fun.” Yes, it was going to be a challenge but I had encounter enough challenge today. I have my own water tap, my own electric plug, a campfire, lots of firewood and a nice, dry tent. This, I consider, is the height of luxury.

I cooked maple syrup flavoured baked beans (nice, but oddly sweet), spider dogs and roasted foil-and-husk-wrapped corn on the fire. The sunset. The clouds parted to reveal a scattering of stars. I sat cross legged watching the embers of my fire glow. The worries of the day melted like the marshmallow turning to goo in my hot chocolate.

Thankfully the Road of Hell led to something rather heavenly.

image

, , ,

Campfires etc

July 11th, 2013 | Posted by Dino in Canada | Uncategorized - (0 Comments)

Day 30: Atikokan to Kashabowie (98.5 km)

“Do you ladies need a hand?”

Clearly.

A large man, with larger-than-my-thighs biceps bulging through his tshirt, was strolling over from his RV. Usually I do not like this whole macho “do you ladies need a hand” thing. Yet on this occasion my post-feminist self (and the two Wanderers) were proving to be mildly ineffective at chopping the firewood.

I only learnt how to chop wood with an axe back in BC. Chopping it vertically with the grain is one thing. Chopping it horizontally quite another. The axe that Sofi was welding was just as liking to slice her leg in two as it was to successfully chop the humongous log lying on the grass.

Sofi Wanderer vs. log

Sofi Wanderer vs. log

“We’re from the city,” Katie said, by way of explanation.

City or no, we didn’t have so much trouble starting the fire using my usual trick of Vaseline and a tampon. We had enjoyed our day off in Atikokan by hanging out in the laundromat for six hours. There we washed our clothes, Sofi cleaned her bike, we stretched, we ate, we blogged, we danced. It was joyous. To top off the day we needed to have a campfire.

A kind man camping nearby had given me some coals which helped the create wonderful glowing embers, perfect for toasting our marshmallows and making s’mores. S’mores, for those who haven’t tried them, are made by squishing a toasted marshmallow and some gooey melted chocolate between two biscuits. Nom nom nom.

After the Wanderers headed to their tent I stayed by the fire. It was a cloudy, dark and moonless night. The fire hissed softly from the wet birch wood, emitted the fragrance of the forest. I watched the flames expire into the darkness, the embers brightening and cooling with each breath of wind. I lay down on my mat to stretch. I saw first one, then another flash of greenish light: the first fireflies I’ve ever seen.

The day cycling to Kashabowie was rather uneventful. Needless to say we cycled 100km through beautiful Ontario.

image

We arrived at a lakeside to have another campfire. This campfire we used to cook dinner on. The menu for the evening: beans and spider dogs.

Beans bubbling on the campfire

Beans bubbling on the campfire

Spider dogs. Not to be confused with a cocker spaniel with 8 legs.

Spider dogs. Not to be confused with a cocker spaniel with 8 legs.

After dinner I went for a swim. The water was calm. The sun had dipped behind the forest on the far shore. I had the surface of the lake entirely to myself, save for the Dragonflies darting over the water. My swimmer’s strokes distorted the rippling reflection of late evening sky. The mauve clouds in the horizon became bands of pastel colour in the otherwise calm water. All I could hear was the sound of my breath, and the slow ripples of the water.

That evening I lay on my back again by the campfire and watched the stars appear. One, then two, fireflies joined the stars, flashing like beacons in the dark. As I fell asleep I heard the lone cry calling from the Canadian wild.

“That was a loon!” Sofi called from her tent, just to check I haven’t missed it.

Goodnight Ontario.

, , , , , ,