09.03.09

Cocooned in my sleeping bag, I slowly emerged into the cold air of the tent where I sat for a few moments to come round. I woke Anna and we peaked outside to see what a gloriously bright and clear morning it was. Two small, blue birds, possibly blue Jays, pecked at the ground where we had eaten the night before. As I left the relative warmth of the tent, I could see what seemed like deer tracks and also paw prints, which must have been from the wolves we heard, an unsettling thought perhaps. We had a few hours of driving to do so we got up and packed the ice encrusted tent away and commenced the journey.

The snow was no longer fluffy but slightly crisp as the exterior hardened over night. We reached the office which was still closed so we had to accept our free night, not the most painful of tasks. Back on the road we drove steadily north, passing the occasional deer when unexpectedly I spotted an animal on the left skulking along the border of trees. I slowed to a crawl as I tried to work out what it was when, pulling up alongside, it came out of the shadows and into the light glaring at us with those piercing eyes – it was most definitely a wolf! It stopped, still staring and now facing us, no longer unsure of the bright red vehicle but instead recognised us as a threat, its fur was raised and then bounced into aggression, its hind quarters raised with tail in the air and its front half down to the ground bearing teeth with a probable but inaudible snarl, quite an impressive display. This behaviour only lasted seconds as it was soon to realise that we were much bigger and inert to the animal and he ran back into the forest. It was an Eastern wolf.

Annapolis Royal, a former British military base, was our next stop where I got some shots of the clapper board houses from across the water. Walking back to the car, a huge pickup pulled alongside me and who should get out but a little old lady, on her way to the bank. She commented on the weather and icy conditions, and made a double take after my reply, evidently not the accent she was expecting. We followed the Bay of Fundy along the Evangeline Route, another of the scenic routes, admiring the landscape as we went. The bay itself is subject to the world’s highest tides, which was evident as we drove passed at low tide. Large, thick pieces of ice had been marooned on the wide banks as the waters had moved far out making it almost look like a giant sculpture park. Across the waters were Maine, USA, and then New Brunswick and finally back to Nova Scotia. It was difficult to see where these people worked as the vast majority of buildings were houses, with the occasional farm.

We made it to Antigonish later than expected but the drive was worth it. We needed some nourishment on arrival and headed to the local Dairy Queen, a fast food establishment with a large range of ice cream sundaes and ice cream birthday cakes. We’d polished off the ice cream and made our way to St. Francis Xavier University where Anna studies. Her accommodation was very pleasant but wasn’t arranged in flats, like mine, so everyone effectively lived on their own with a shared a large kitchen. The snow was still very much present and was piled very high next to roads and paths but was now starting to brown.

10.03.09

Having had a disjoined sleep in the tent and with the floor not being the most comfortable places where one might sleep, I slept slightly longer as Anna had lectures to attend. She was back by eleven o’clock and we went for a driving tour around the campus then off to a little cafe where we got something to eat.

The place, like some other eateries we’d visited, had mediocre artwork on the walls that was for sale. Anna disagreed but I didn’t like the thought of paying over the odds for some art that had been bathed in the steam, grease and smells that a cafe or restaurant produces. I had a turkey pesto sandwich which was sizeable, my mouth barely able to get around it, but most other people had this and a bowl of soup, which I thought was a very large meal just for lunch. To wash away my sandwich, I had, by recommendation, a ‘spicy hot chocolate’. When it came I could smell the spices and wondered what it must taste like. After trying it, I could taste hints of cinnamon, nutmeg and chilli, which made for a strange but pleasing combination.

While Anna was, once again, at university, I went to the supermarket to buy some food for dinner that we could eat whilst on our way to Cape Breton. I opted for sandwiches and went to find some cheese. Anna had previously warned me of the lack and expense of Canadian cheese but I wanted to try some authentic Monterey Jack. They didn’t have a dairy delicatessen so I found the small island of pre-packed cheeses where I perused for some time. The range was very limited, most being variations of cheddar, with a small area devoted to specialist import cheese from Britain, France and Italy, mainly. I found what I wanted and moved on. I always enjoy looking in food shops while in another country and this was no exception. There were almost barrel size containers full of milk and orange juice with smaller receptacles being the stereotypical cartons, though without pictures of missing children. With Nova Scotia being so rich in seafood, there was a large tank full of blue lobsters just waiting for their hot steamy end to arrive.

I walked back to the halls and then went to fill the car with petrol. Although petrol was relatively cheap ranging from about 85-95 cents/litre, the car certainly made up for it by its poor fuel economy and I felt constantly aware of the needle moving down to the empty symbol as I drove – thank goodness for credit cards! I picked Anna up from her lesson and we set off for the open road.

This time we were driving north and were heading for Cape Breton, the most northerly island of Nova Scotia and home to the Nova Scotian Highlands. Our reason for visiting was to drive the Cabot Trail, one of the most scenic in the world, and absorb the natural beauty that we hoped would be presented to us. We were camping again, in a place called Cheticamp, and hoped that this national park would be kinder to us. We took the highway from the mainland to the causeway that links the two. Immediately after was my first encounter with a Canadian roundabout, or rotary as they call them, where people seemed to take a go now, think later attitude.

The scenery was already a treat and we hadn’t even got to the good bit yet. There were frozen lakes hidden in valleys with snow topped peaks all around. Closer to Cheticamp the landscape changed to one with a bleaker outlook, which, to me, was reminiscent of the Scottish Highlands and Hebridean Islands, ironic then that it should be a place for the Scottish to resettle all those years ago; home from home one might say. The light was fading and the moon came out, peaking above the hills, so low and big like I’d never seen it before and quite beautiful. The cool white light from the full moon projected itself out to the frozen sea as the sun set in a dazzling mist of pinks and oranges in contrast to the cold bluish whites of the iced sea.

By the time we got to the campsite it was dark and the information office was closed, even the campsite where we were supposed to pitch our tent was completely blocked by snow and the road impassable. Our only option was to sleep in the car.

11.03.09

My alarm went off at eight o’clock; I was already awake and had been for most of the night. The moisture in the car had condensed and frozen onto the windows so I scraped a small hole to take a peek at the weather. I turned on the engine to get some warmth and defrosting going before we set off and, to my excitement saw that the temperature was minus eight degrees. Retracing our steps we took a short trip to Tim Horton’s so Anna could feed her daily caffeine addiction. As I drove, I quizzed her about the muffin she bought for breakfast. Not only was she having a muffin for breakfast but she had it with butter too, a concept that made my stomach churn at that time in a morning.

It wasn’t long before we made our first stop at a small stony beach. The road curved round a cliff and then dropped down near sea level before ascending again as it snaked around the cliff top. This sight was fantastic. As I stood on the beach and looked out to sea I couldn’t help but feel amazed by what I saw. The sea was frozen solid with small pools and icebergs breaking up the sheet. Icebergs! Real icebergs, I couldn’t believe it, even though I saw this from the plane and knew to expect something similar I was still totally wowed by the spectacle. Cautiously, I made my way out onto an iceberg at the shore and walked out a small way so Anna could take my picture as proof. The icebergs were much larger out to sea and there seemed to be a whole raft of them sticking up like a natural wall into the air. Next to me was a small section of sea with a very thin sheet of ice coating its surface. The ice was arranged as if giant transparent snowflakes had been glued to the water, with the organised symmetry they exhibit.

The hills were steep, the corners sharp and the scenery breathtaking. We drove up into the mountains then down, and then up again, all the while twisting and turning through the snow and trees. The Cabot Trail was living up to its reputation and provided lay-bys where we could stop and enjoy the vistas. The roads skirted deep valleys and gorges all laced with snow. The bare rock faces had seen much water flow and there were large glassy tumours as evidence of this each with a blue glow from within.

We were not far from rejoining the highway to take us back to Antigonish after a successful night away when on one of the frozen lakes I saw some people. They were fishing through the ice and had what looked like toilet tents to sit in for shelter. Desperate to experience walking on a frozen lake, I stopped and went for a stroll. The ice was seamless with the snow and ice on the shore but it wasn’t until I rubbed away the snow that I was indeed stood on the frozen lake surface. I could see the dark depths of the lake tinted by the ice on which I stood.

Approaching the causeway once more, we could see a huge red ship docked near the road. It was an ice breaker, maybe even the one I saw from the plane, and had large scrapes down its bow to which it was clearly impervious. We got back to Antigonish and I went back to the supermarket to get some local scallops for dinner. Just like the other places I’d been so far, the service was warm and friendly. I asked for the scallops and, while she was picking out the big juicy ones, she asked me where I was from then delighted in telling me about her three week summer holiday to the UK and her cunning plan to try and get on Coronation Street. For some unknown reason they show it in Canada.

After a delicious dinner, Anna had a lie down while I sent some emails and transferred some pictures. She’d fallen asleep and had remained so for some time so I thought, being extremely tired myself, that I’d jump into my sleeping bag and rest my eyes until she got up and woke me.

12.03.09

It was nine o’clock and Anna was ready for lectures, when I woke up. I was up and writing my blog when she came back for lunch. It was the day of our road trip and while she was at her afternoon session I cleaned and sorted the inside of the car so we were organised for an immediate departure once Anna had finished. We had a long way to drive as we had to make it to the adjacent province of New Brunswick and the Fundy National Park before nightfall.

Anna had something special planned for dinner and we pulled off the highway and parked in the car park of funeral directors – lovely. It was peanut butter sandwiches for dinner which I wasn’t exactly excited about but Anna insisted that it was all part of the North American experience as I’d never had one before. Apparently our peanut butter is disgusting and nothing like the original but then who eats peanut butter in the UK anyway? Anna perfectly spread the gloop onto the slice being sure to hit every last square millimetre before cementing the two slices together. I was pleasantly surprised but can’t say I would ever buy it.

After exiting the highway we took what seemed more like a back country lane than a main road with a section of it being dirt but it was a nice drive with rolling hills covered in a thick layer of snow. Many of the turnings were completely cut off by the snow and the prospect of being able to camp at our third and final national park was looking grim. Eventually, we made it, all was looking good, the entrance and car park had been ploughed but then an eight or nine foot pile of snow was blocking our way. This was just the information centre though and the campground was some way down the road. We tried to find it but had no luck and with the sun setting we decided that another night in the car was to be had so we went back to the office.

I manoeuvred the car across the thick sheet ice that covered the car park. The centre had toilets which, of course, were locked so I went to irrigate a tree in the minus eight degrees. As I wandered around, keen to make the most of the freezing temperatures, I discovered a lake, hidden from sight by the eight foot pile of snow, and completely frozen. I felt the wind chill on my teeth as I smiled to myself and walked onto the slippery surface. I stood, still amazed that I was where I was. I took some pictures, it was now pitch black and the stars were out in force. Billions of little white, orange, yellow and blue lights, some twinkling, that seemed to appear as I watched. I watched an orange pulsating shooting star fly across the sky, travelling at thousands of miles an hour, from horizon to horizon. I heard a noise; it was Anna, my toilet recognisance trip had taken me out onto the lake and I’d lost track of time. I started running back when I heard what I initially thought was far off gun shots, it wasn’t though, it was the ice cracking beneath my feet so I slowed to a tip toe hoping that I would make it back to land.

13.03.09

The sun had just risen, all was light and the car was once again frozen. The exterior of my sleeping bag was white with ice and despite our need to push on I was in no mood to leave my sleeping bag. Like caterpillars we sat and came round, I wriggled into the front and turned the ignition. Anna suggested looking at the temperature, which I did. Suddenly I had all the energy in the world, like a five year old on Christmas day as I turned to Anna and said:

“It’s minus eighteen! Anna it’s minus eighteen!”

I was out of my sleeping bag into my coat before you could say “New Brunswick”. I’d always been so intrigued by the cold, having always travelled in warmer climates, and whilst minus ten was cold, put on a decent coat and it’s just a chilly day. Minus eighteen was something entirely different and I rushed out with my camera and coat. In the hurry I’d not yet put on my gloves and within about forty-five seconds my hands were bitterly cold and quite painful.

“This is proper cold” I thought to myself as I walked, remembering not to run, over to the frozen lake. When I got there I took a couple of painful pictures, my hands were not warming up, and on my return I noticed something which I’m glad I didn’t see the night before. Enormous cracks in the ice stretching as far as my eye could see. I walked cautiously towards them to inspect the damage. They were substantial, though the gap was only a few millimetres wide, but as I continued I saw more, a junction of five, all coming together at a point then I heard that dull thud again, the gaps widened. I made a swift exit.

Quebec City was our final destination but we had to traverse most of New Brunswick, with a dip into Maine, and then into Quebec. Again, we needed to find the hostel we were staying in before it got dark but at least we had all day to do it. It was hours, and many kilometres before the temperature even thought about rising. The landscape was noticeably different, if only slightly, to Nova Scotia with more farms and fewer trees and the hills more inclined to roll. The moose signs kept appearing but we didn’t have a sighting throughout the whole trip. We did, however, see two bald eagles, one swooping down to snatch an unsuspecting hare and the other soaring above us but both had the white chisel tail and head, and a large yellow beak for tearing its prey. Impressive and rare, I was thrilled to see them.

We’d planned to cross the border into America and drive through Maine then back into New Brunswick before hitting Quebec but Anna realised that she’d forgotten her passport (yes, even Canadians need a passport to get into America now). Anna suggested that I leave her at the nearby Tim Horton’s so she could get a coffee while I just nipped in so I could say I’d been – or so the plan went.

The drive to the road border crossing was further than anticipated but as I arrived I saw a friendly Canadian office with flags fluttering outside.

“This should be easy” I thought until I realised that the American office was on the other side of the river. A large metal bridge with wire mesh floor lead up to a nasty little prefabricated structure and adjacent booth. The back drop was a cluster of industrial buildings with large refinery of some sort billowing thick clouds of white smoke into the atmosphere. The whole package just suggested an unpleasant experience and I would have turned around given the chance. It was too late and before I knew it there was a police official, complete with over-the-top uniform, at my window. I wound it down and released my passport.

“So then, where y’off to?” said the aging officer with an air of boredom to his voice.

“We’re going to Quebec city.” I’d already messed up as I was the only one in the car. “I know it sounds stupid but we [there’s that ‘we’ again] were just passing and I thought it would be cool to just pop into Maine. I’ve never been to America before and I thought it would be good to just have a drive around.”

His expression was clearly saying ‘people don’t just “pop” into America, especially not these days’ but he actually said nothing. He was looking in his mirror to try and see the number plate but with all the dirt and salt from the roads it wasn’t clearly visible. It left his booth and walked to the rear of the vehicle where he took a mental note. It didn’t pass whatever he was doing on his computer and so went to check again. This time he got a result.

“So what ya doing in Maine?” he said abruptly having clearly not listened to anything I’d already said. I paraphrased myself and he interrupted, still using his PC.

“You know you’re going the wrong way for Quebec don’t ya?” now suspicious of my activity. My position was made even worse as I, with a British passport, was driving my, technically American, friend’s dads’ car, who live in Nova Scotia, through New Brunswick trying to get into Maine on my way to Quebec in a vehicle that is licensed in Alberta – it wasn’t looking good. Not only that but my friend wasn’t with me and I had no decent reason to be doing what I was. He proceeded to ask me what I was carrying and then retained my passport and ushered me into the covered parking area at the rear of the offices that was blatantly used for searching vehicles. I suddenly realised that you need to have completed a VISA waiver form, online, at least 72 hours before visiting the USA. I’d, of course, already done this ready for when I visited New York but that wasn’t for over a week, I thought I was in trouble now. I didn’t know whether to admit trying to get entry to the US without a qualifying form or just to ignore that fact and hope for the best. As the saying goes ‘ignorance is bliss’ so I made my way inside for questioning. As I did I remembered seeing a lone carrot, vegetables not being allowed to be brought into the country, in the cool box from our first camping trip and then Anna’s medication. A, so thought, harmless jaunt into and new and exciting land was falling apart.

I’m a worrier by nature and I’m really rather good at it now. An infinite number of possibilities of what was about to happen was going through my head, most of which ended badly. In an instant I’d convinced myself I was guilty, that they would find the carrot and medication and imprison me for that, in the back, and not even be given a phone call. Who would I phone, what would I say, how would I let Anna know what was happening. They were going to impound the car, find bomb-making equipment under the seats and then deport me after 60 years behind bars. Finally realising that I hadn’t done anything wrong I pushed my way through the door to reveal an eastern European not fairing too well.

I sat for what seemed like an eternity on a bench in front of a high desk plastered with official crests and posters telling me my rights and what I am and not allowed to do. The immigration office looked just like a typical American police station that one sees in films with the drab walls, separate offices and a multitude of desks occupying the central space decorated with phones and computers. My heart racing, a policeman called me over to the desk.

“Richard?” he said holding my passport. “Where are you going?”

I explained my situation, which he accepted, and he proceeded to question me on many different aspects of me and my trip. I was asked to take a seat and he moved to a different desk, a desk with five computers, each with its own camera. He called me over again and did some more checks on my passport then asked me to fill out a form declaring my credentials, that I wasn’t a terrorist or part of the Nazis regime and that I don’t have any offending items with me. He then asked for my fingerprints and photo, I had no choice. Still unsure of whether I was about to be imprisoned or sent on my way, I asked if I had doing something I shouldn’t. He said I hadn’t and I handed over the car keys so he could check the vehicle.

Again I sat, hoping for a favourable result and after what was probably twenty minutes he came back and smiled – all was OK. All I had to do now was pay for the privilege and get out of there. It was six dollars, presumably for administration, but on receipt he asked a few last questions. He wanted to know about my train journey and entry into New York and what my plans are after.

“Where are you heading after New York?”

“Home, I fly home, back to England.”

“But I thought you went to Toronto first?”

“No, I go to Toronto then get the train to New York.”

“Well that’s not what your itinerary says.” He laughed. “Sorry, we have to go through everything.” I was glad he read it, solid evidence that I was doing what I said and he was right, my flight from New York goes to Toronto where I get a connecting flight home.

“You said the car was your friends?”

“No, no! It’s her dad’s, his name is Hartmut.”

“Excellent, very impressive.” My final test was complete and I was free to go. He stamped my passport and stapled half of the green form I’d completed earlier into it. He warned me that I must return it when I leave New York so that the government know I have left America.

My run in with American customs and the unpleasantness of Madawaska, the town I had crossed into, not to mention that the whole ordeal had taken over an hour, I made an immediate return to Canadian soil. To do this, I had to drive around the block which was a strange experience what with speeds changing to miles per hour, prices changing to American dollars and American flags adorning every available surface. I took a quick picture of me on the other side and made a beeline for the bridge where Canadian customs allowed me straight through. I went to find Anna, she was all worried and alone but at least I was back now and I was telling her the story until we made the border of Quebec.