a cycle-ogical travel-osophy

'Every exit is an entrance somewhere else.' -Tom Stoppard

Day 3 [Truro - Windsor] Distance:167 km Total:203 km

Bright and early I load up my packs. I've never done longer multi-day rides
with kit.

'I look like Marius' mule', I thought. Well not much to do about it. Off I
go. I explore the very pleasant Cobequid trail that runs through Truro.

The weather is beautiful though their is a forecast of rain and a severe
thunderstorm warning for the afternoon.

I set off along Hwy 236.

[In Nova Scotia the major arterial highways are the 100 series: 101, 102,
103 etc. The secondary highways - used to be major arterials- are the single
and double digits: 1, 2 ,3 etc. They mostly parallel the 100 series. The
200's and 300's are the tertiary roads. that hug the coast more closely than
the others and crisscross the interior. Beyond that we're talking cow paths.
🙂 I planned to avoid the 100 series because although I'm told bikes are
permitted it is fast moving and rather boring if you want to see anything
other than 2-lane-each-way divided highway with automobile intended
grading.]

My memory was accurate on the nature of the geography of NS. Flat and
terrain are completely and totally mutually exclusive. They might exist
together in some theoretical thought experiment but in the real Nova Scotia
world what is flat can not be terrain and what is terrain can not be flat -
never the twain shall meet.

Regardless I am making good time. The weather would be uncomfortably humid
but for the pleasant breeze - not enough to be an annoying headwind but
refreshingly cooling. Someone mentioned that returning to a place you left
in your youth everything would seem smaller. I was kind of counting on it in
the case of the hills. Though I didn't grow up in this part of the province
I'm grateful the hills are not strength sapping mountains of memory. They
were easily do-able even with my full load.

At noon I stop at the mouth of the Shubenacadie river, viewing and
photographing the river, remains of dykes, the cliffs. Good time for lunch.
Conveniently at the river crossing there is a small general
store/restaurant.

'And I wonder, Still I wonder, Who'll stop the rain?' -CCR

Day 3 Afternoon

Across the bridge I head north-ish on Hwy 215 that hugs the coat. It's got
some mean pot holes. At one point I pass a sign that proclaims: Rough
Surface next 9 km. I'm thinking: 'What in the hell was it before the
sign?!?!? Some of these holes could swallow an entire mountain bike. Further
along I come across a works crew filling potholes - a task for Sisyphus - or
however it's spelled.

The scenery is quite pleasing. If your interests run to exciting nightlife
and manmade edifices you'd be disappointed. I found the pastoral quality of
attractive coastline and sleepy fishing and farming communities refreshing.
Cows and sheep stare at me quizzically from - not massive factory farms -
but small family farm sized pastures. I've gagged from the smell of some
large farm concerns but the farm manure smell isn't a factory farm stench.
It belongs somehow.

I stop at a particularly photogenic ocean inlet to snap a photo. A fellow
from New York stops with the same idea. We chat a bit. He is more familiar
with the stretch of road and gives a few details.

As I continue on I note the encroaching cloud. I'm wondering if I can
outride the impending rain/storm warning. Though thinking it out I realize
that I'm heading generally west and weather generally moves from west to
east...

At Burntcoat I turn off onto a road one below tertiary... quaternary? to
follow the coast. It boasts a beautiful view of the Bay of Fundy over jagged
reddish cliffs. Thanks to the scenery a park for camping is located there. I
consider stopping for the day but it's still early. I continue on.

Just short of the urban metropolis of East Walton [pop. 320, not including
sheep]the rain starts. Not too bad though. It's a level of rain that I
consider merely extra cooling in addition to normal perspiration. But the
wind start picking up. Then the light rain becomes heavier driven by
increasing winds. This is not good.

As I enter Walton proper [pop. 490 including sheep]I'm soaked. It's a
steady rain with strong winds. Other than a post office the 'town' seems to
have nothing to offer but one pub. I decide on a much needed dinner. Parking
my bike under an umbrella on their porch - the proprietors are quite
accommodating - I dine.

I consult with the locals and my map. I can abandon hugging the coast and
take a more direct route towards Windsor - my ultimate destination for the
day. It would cut ~25 km or so off my trip but they warn me it can be 20 km
between houses along this road, though they assure me the roads isn't too
rough - mostly paved - nor hills too steep for a bike.

I decide on the shortcut. During a break in the weather and feeling
refuelled on a meal of deep fried scallops, a rare beer, and coffee I set
off again.

The locals were right. The road isn't so bad - no steep hills and it is
mostly paved though some sections prolly haven't been maintained in couple
decades and could be called half-paved I guess. Once I had cleared the
'urban core' of Walton houses petered out until they were few and far
between. The wind and rain picks up and slackens off intermittently.

At one point - must have been 10 km since I'd passed any house or sign of
human existence - I come upon a ragged little cemetery. No church, no
houses, just a lonely collection of tombstones a little ways off the road. I
guess that's what happened to everyone hereabouts, though I wonder who
buried the last person....

Coming to the end of what my map calls Walton Woods Road I start seeing
signs of the existence of other human beings - houses, road signs, power
lines. I was a getting a little worried I'd turned off into a Twilight Zone
episode.

Cresting a hill - still raining but with the sun's rays poking through at
angle from the evening sky I see a glorious rainbow! I have to stop to take
a photo. I don't know if it will show on film but it was a sight you just
can't repeat.

But then I did repeat it. Winding my way down to the St Croix River
crossing I see the rainbow again, one end perfectly cantered over the
winding river. I stop on the middle of the bridge to take another photo.

A fellow in a pick up truck crosses the bridge while I'm stopped. He stops
turns around and comes back to offer assistance. I'm struck by the different
attitude. A certain small town hospitality exists that is lost in Southern
Ontario. This is a place where you can hardly open a map without a local
offering assistance. He even offered a ride.

I'm on a mission though so I decline. I'm pretty much all the way to
Windsor anyways. Hwy 236 to Hwy 14 to Hwy 1 and I'm on Windsor's outskirts.

I pull up at the first motel - No vacancy there are 'two weddings and a
convention' in town. Uh-oh, I have camping gear but after this day I really
need a hot shower and warm bed. I try the only other motel on the other end
of town: Nope. The proprietor suggests a B&B. The sign says No vacancy. but
I try anyway. They say they do have one room but is a small single. At this
point my entire being is focused on a hot shower and warm bed.

My day's mission is accomplished. After hot shower, a snack of pastries and
hot decaf offered by the owners I sleep the sleep of the truly exhausted.

loki said:

I don't blog; don't have a home page. So I thought I'd post a travelogue of
my vacation. It was a cycling trip so it's actually on topic.

Forget about that, what were you wearing? ;-D

Actually, how are you posting? Carrying a laptop? Palm? 'Net cafe? Be
sure and post picture of laptop. (and Bicycle!!).

-B
I love travelogues.

"Badger_South" <[email hidden]> wrote in message
news:[email hidden]...

Quoted message said:

loki said:

I don't blog; don't have a home page. So I thought I'd post a travelogue

of

Quoted message said:

Quoted message said:

my vacation. It was a cycling trip so it's actually on topic.

Forget about that, what were you wearing? ;-D

Actually, how are you posting? Carrying a laptop? Palm? 'Net cafe? Be
sure and post picture of laptop. (and Bicycle!!).

The trip is done. I left on June 28 and returned on July 12. I kept a
handwritten log and transcribed it to PC.

I did take photos - nondigital but I do have a scanner.

--
'As your looks start slipping,
so should your standards.' -red green

'I'm gonna soak up the sun
While it's still free
I'm gonna soak up the sun
Before it goes out on me
Don't have no master suite
I'm still the king of me
You have a fancy ride, but baby
I'm the one who has the key' -sheryl crow

Day 4 [Windsor - Blomidon] Distance:102 km Total:305 km

July 1 - Canada Day - is simply a beautiful sunny day; temps forecast in
the mid to high 20's. Pretty much the same humidity offset by a breeze.

I breakfast with the other guests I hadn't seen the night before: A young
Austrian couple doing a pre-wedding vacation trip and a young black man -
the groom of one of the weddings in town - the poor sod. [I kid! I kid!] The
B&B proprietors tell me to phone if I have any problems and they will drive
out to get me - down east hospitality.

After breakfast I load up for my day's excursion. Though rested I can tell
my muscles [and butt] haven't forgiven me for yesterday's ordeal.

I head north along Hwy 1. I don't know if the hills are getting steeper or
I'm just sore, or the heat is affecting me more, but it's tough getting my
groove back. The first trial is Mount Denson - not really a mountain but a
decent hill.

My groove comes back slowly. Sweating a great deal I keep a towel looped in
my pouch strap and go heavy on the water bottle. The scenery on the one side
is pleasant Fundy coast at the mouth of the Avon River and Annapolis Valley
rolling greenscape on the other.

Eventually I arrive in the fascist police state of Hantsport - Ok, Ok I'm
exaggerating, but I did have a little difference of opinion with the local
constabulary over bicycles and rules of the road. I was of the opinion that
at an all-way stop the first vehicle stopping - even a bike - is the first
that has the right-of-way to proceed. He seemed to think the auto had the
right of way. I played contrite cyclist rather that make an issue and
continued on my way.

Hantsport was actually a pleasant little community celebrating Canada Day
with various events. I stop at the tourist info place for.. well... tourist
info.

I get some maps and relate that my ultimate destination today is Cape
Blomidon to see the view from The Lookoff.

The tourist info girl looks at me and speaks as if to a developmentally
delayed child: 'But Blomidon is a _mountain_!'

I shrug, 'This is a mountain bike. Blomidon is a mountain and it's there.'

Off I go through various small towns. At one point Hwy 1 is subsumed by the
arterial Hwy 101 for ~ 2 kms, but it's not a hardship as the Hwy has wide
smooth shoulders.

Back on Hwy 1 I start passing Acadian villes, most notably Grand Pre.

[History Note: The Acadian region of NS and NB was first settled by the
French then conquered by the British. The British required the settlers to
swear allegiance to the British crown. Those who refused were deported -
known as the Acadian Expulsion. Many ended up in Louisiana, hence Cajun - a
corruption of the word Acadian.]

The francophone influence adds a decided difference to the tone of the
region. There is a special Acadian flag prominent; A red, white and blue
vertical tricolour with a gold star in the corner.

I arrive in Wolfville [home of Acadia University] around noon. It reminds
me a great deal of Guelph in that it is a smallish [though smaller than
Guelph] white bread community given an eclectic multicultural feel usually
not seen except in larger cities with diverse immigration, thanks to the
University. It is also more tolerant, knowledgeable, and accommodating of
bicycles than I've seen elsewhere, again like Guelph and prolly thanks to
the student population.

I lunch in Wolfville and stick to my Seafood Diet; this time a seafood
platter featuring clams, scallops, haddock and mussels. I seem to have
fortuitously missed the lunch crush. Apparently there are two bus tours
[exclusively older folks] in town along with some sort of motorcyclists'
gathering. It made for an interesting mix....

'I would rather face whole Hyde Parks of artillery than the ghastly forms of
death which he has faced among the peaks and precipices of the
mountains.' -Mark Twain

Day 4 Afternoon

After lunch I wend my along a rail trail that passes through Wolfville.
It's a pleasant trail though some parts are verboten to bikes for some
reason.

At Hwy 358 I head north to start my assault on Cape Blomidon. The hills are
definitely getting steep now as I make my way through the 'foothills' I can
see the Cape, looming in the distance.

Perspiration is becoming a real problem. I've gone through 3 litres of
water and 1 litre of sport drink and it all came out of my pores. I take my
towel and drape it over my head. That helps but it doesn't want to stay in
place. I take a spare bungee cord and use that to hold the towel on like a
make shift Arab head dress... an agal I guess is the term. I'm thinking;
'This is real smart. Here I am in the post Sept 11 world, suntanned,
unshaven, wearing sunglasses and an Arab head dress with a bike and backpack
loaded up so that if it were explosives it would make one damned fine
suicide-bike-bomb.' But what can I say. It worked really well at both
keeping the sweat out of my eyes and protecting the back of my neck from
sunburn.

I make a wrong turn at one point. I have twin goals: One is to follow Hwy
358 to The LookOff and on all the way up to the end of Cape Split on the
Western side of Blomidon, the other is to cross and make it to Blomidon
Provincial Park on the Eastern side of the cape. I inadvertently had started
down the road to the eastern side of the Cape.

At a crossroad I consult the map. I can either reverse my intended course
and go to Blomidon first then up the mountain or take the crossroad to
return to my original route. I take the crossroad. The highway up Blomidon
is 1 lane each-way asphalt that s-curves up out of sight.

Now all those who hale from the Rocky Mountain region, the Andes, the Alps,
the Hindu Kush can look at the terrain and call me a candy-ass wimp for
calling Blomidon a mountain. I admit I'm no great altitude rider but at the
bottom it looked like Mount _freakin_ Everest!!

I do a check of my bike and kit and start up the road. I keep thinking,
'Around that next turn it _has_ to level out a little bit! It must!!'

BUT IT NEVER DID!! It just kept climbing and slaloming up and up. I
expected to meet Zeus and the pantheon when I finally did reach the summit.

I admit I probably only actually cycled less than half the total slope. But
even pushing the bike up and walking was an achievement. I wouldn't say it
was impossible to cycle all the way up but anyone who could - even without
full kit and fresh - has my undying respect as a cyclist.

For most of the climb the view is obscured by trees, but at some points I
get a peek at the view that's awaiting me at the top. When I finally break
out at the top I am left speechless.

Sometimes in relating an experience, a view, or whatever it can be over
hyped so that when the person does experience it themselves they tend to
say; 'Ya, it's nice but not that great.' That would be simply impossible to
do with the view from the Look Off. You can not oversell the experience.

There are no railings or obstructions. Below, you can see the Annapolis
Valley spread before you. It feels like you are standing on top of the
world. I could have easily shot an entire roll of film. The view is simply
stunning. I pose my bike so it is in the foreground and the view of the
valley is in the background.

This is also the point at which I realized that Nova Scotia has no lawyers.
I can't imagine that in Ontario they would allow such a cliff to not be
fenced and railed to prevent stupid people from hurting themselves. I assume
if someone did injure themselves Nova Scotians would invoke the 'Damn Fool'
precedent in any tort action; 'The person was a damn fool so the lawsuit is
dismissed'. Later I find more evidence of this mindset.

A man amongst the tourists approaches me; 'Did you just _bicycle_ up that
road?!?!?!?'

Me; 'Well, not ALL the way up.'

🙂

I enjoy a well deserved ice cream from the souvenier/snack/campground store
and savour the view. I debate camping here for the day but it's still early
and the hard part is over. Right?

The jagged cliffs of Cape Split are worthy of the trip. Only in comparison
to the view from The Lookoff could the scenery be considered merely notable.
Slopes are tiring but maybe only due to the big push up the main slope.

Returning from the tip of the cape I cross to the eastern side via a dirt
road. a loooong down slope to the shore then north again to reach Blomidon
park. From sea level the Cape looms again. The road has a roller coaster
quality, up & down, twisting left & right. It's low tide so I get some
telling pics of the vast tidal flats with the stranded fishing boats lying
on the red mud - waiting for the tide to float them again. I am gauging the
down slopes with some trepidation now as I know I will be returning on the
same highway and will thus be up-slopes tomorrow.

At Blomidon Park I make camp and explore the hiking trail on foot -
altogether a pleasing bit of nature. Treed slopes, red cliffs, and the
eternal, relentless tides breaking over rocks; all converge at the Cape.

Back at camp I reflect and rest.

'Big wheels keep on turning
Carry me home to see my kin'
-lynyrd skynyrd

Day 5 [Blomidon - Oak Island] Distance:97 km Total:402 km

The day begins overcast with a warning of rain. But the overcast burns off
by noon and it's actually a pleasant day. I hope to outrun the rain yet
again.

This stage is the crossing of the interior of Nova Scotia to reach the
South Shore: my ancestral home. I a bit wary of the trip though. Before I
left I had read a blog of someone who had biked the other way; From the
South Shore to the Annapolis Valley. He described it as a relentless series
of hills and a continuous headwind. Granted I was going the other way but
with both endpoints being at sea level I imagine some tough pedalling ahead.

First though, down from the cape: It's a rather easier ride. I think I
over-estimated the difficulty of those slopes. Maybe the terrain is
deceptive or maybe there was a subtle difference in head-winds/tail-winds.
Whatever the reason my return to the Valley proper goes rather well.

Back in the Annapolis Valley I travel along the Kentville-New
Minas-Wolfville megopolis. K-NM-W are three towns in a row forming one more
or less continuous built up area. Wolfville as described is a more eclectic
university town. Kentville is what I would call a traditional medium sized
Nova Scotia town. New Minas in between seems to be given over to the bland
brand-named commercial sprawl I had hoped to leave behind. It even had a
Walmart... *sigh*.

As I am heading into the deepest darkest interior I decide to pack food.
Might be weeks without seeing civilization! I kid. The population does thin
out in the interior and restaurants might be rarer but it's not like I'm
travelling through Africa to find Dr. Livingston. I have good idea on my
liquid needs: 3-4 litres of water and 1-1.5 litres of sport drink per day
seems to be my daily allowance.

I do decide to lighten my load a little I mail home some of my kit I've
deemed superfluous along with some souvenirs and dirty clothes. I'm reminded
of just about every rookie soldier war movie where the new guy tries to
carry every piece of kit he was ever issued until he discovers on his own or
a mentor tells him what is really needed.

I have an early lunch in The Valley. That's how the radio station refers
to the area: The Valley. I half expect to see California airhead blonde
bimbo Valley girls sashaying up and down the streets.

After lunch I prepare for my trek across the wilds of the untamed
interior....

'What is brought by the wind will be carried away by the wind.' -Persian
proverb

Afternoon

Turning south I climb out of the valley on Hwy 12. A bit arduous but it is
a straight forward climb, followed by the same series of hill challenges
described by the aforementioned blogger; but in the opposite direction. I'm
also getting headwinds in this direction as well. I suspect there is a black
hole or some sort of Bermuda Triangle phenomenon in the centre of the
province that causes one to face a headwind regardless of direction.

With the wind, the hills are a trial. The down slopes don't seem to make up
for the up-slopes. Though I suspect my anonymous blogger did have it
tougher. As much of an effort as my route is, I estimate he had it tougher
going the other way. He faced a series of hills that trended higher until
the final descent into the valley. While I, going the other way, had a
series of hills that trended lower after the initial climb out of the
valley. Still I felt my energy being sapped by the sequence of hills and
headwinds.

The scenery is pleasant though not as compelling as what I have already
seen. I pass some very picturesque rock strewn lakes that remind me of a
Group of Seven painting. I stop at one for a snack and a rest. The highway
itself is well maintained though a little less so in the middle section.
There are more trucks hauling logs than I'd care for but the shoulder is
wide and smooth if unpaved.

Thanks to the sun my Arabic headdress comes out again. I'm impressed at how
well it works. I grind up the hills in a windless calm and coast down slope
into a head wind it seems. Major achievement is a sign in the road: I cross
from the county of Kings to the county of Lunenburg. I am getting closer to
home.

I stop in New Ross to purchase water and a snack. I first detect that
familiar accent in the cashier - the accent of my youth.

I push on to Chester Grant, then Chester Basin. Nova Scotia has a wonderful
economy and utility of names: Upper Sackville, Middle Sackville, Lower
Sackville, First Lake, Second Lake, Third Lake. It seems like they feared
running out so they practiced frugality.

At the crest of each hill I hope to see the ocean. The sky has clouded over
and it is definitely cooling. For the first time I feel a little chilled.
I'm racing the weather.

I reach the end of Highway 12 where it T's into Highway 3. Though close to
familiar territory I ask a local at the gas station where the closest
accommodation is. To the northeast is Chester and a motel. To the southwest
is a 'resort' but that's pricey. I ask the local what 'pricey' is?

He shrugs; 'About a hundred dollars.'

So close to home... but I turn away from Chester and head for the Western
Shore. I had planned to loop through the Mahone Bay-Lunenburg-Bridgewater
area first anyways.

'The sea was angry that day, my friend' -George Costanza

Evening

Highway 3 though well maintained has virtually no shoulder and what
shoulder there is, is very loose gravel. But I finally come upon the ocean
proper along the shores of Mahone Bay. I can smell the salt in the air. The
sky is a solid sullen cloud and it reflects on the ocean a steel grey
colour. The wind whips the waves into whitecaps. The surf washing ashore
seems to have an extra restless quality.

A storm is brewing.

I push along the coast still trying to decide whether I should stay at the
'resort.' I vaguely recall a motel along this stretch... a quarter century
ago, though. I go past the resort hoping to find the motel. But I am so
tired, so sore. I turn around and decide to give this 'resort' a try.

The desk clerk, a summer student I guess, seems scrubbed impossibly clean.
Maybe only because I know I am a sight: covered with three types of dust and
dirt, four layers of dried sweat, unshaven for 6 days, dressed for cycling -
not success. I ask if there are vacancies and how much it would be for one
night.

She sizes me up, 'I guess you want the least expensive room. Land-side,
single, etc. etc'. She looks at me uncertainly, '$109 ??'

'Just [censored] wunnerful!!!', I think to myself. I give her my platinum card
and say I might stay for two nights. Would that be a problem?

Nope, there's plenty of room at the inn. I make arrangements for storing
the bike and Impossibly-Clean-Student-Desk-Clerk starts listing the
amenities: indoor pool, walking trails, spa, hot tub-'

My ears [censored] up. 'Hot tub?' My legs - calf muscles, quadriceps - every
single aching fibre of muscle snaps to attention: 'Hot tub ??' Could there
be two more beautiful words?

I settle into my room and then bee-line for this mythical, mystical, hot
tub.

After more than 400 km in four days, I ease my sore, aching, exhausted body
into the hot bubbling water.

Heaven.

Bliss.

Joy.

Nirvana.

Paradise.

Shangri-La.

Now it's cliché to describe some pleasurable experience as 'Better than
sex'. Was this better than sex? No. But it lasted longer and it beat
everything else but by a nautical mile.

On the way back to my room I tell Impossibly-clean-student-desk-clerk that,
yes, I will be staying for an extra day.

I walk along the shore and breakwater; drinking in the ocean scent;
watching the restless wind and waves. I dip my hands into the Atlantic
waters. I taste the salt. We all came from the ocean [creationists excepted]
I scoop up handfuls of gravely sand and contemplate the meaning of life.

I have returned.

After an absolutely delicious seafood chowder, I retire for the night. I
awaken in the early morning by the storm, by a loud crack of thunder. Loud
enough to wake me from a stupor - but only for a moment. I return to a
dreamless sleep.

"loki" <[email hidden]> wrote in message
news:[email hidden]...

Quoted message said:

The trip is done. I left on June 28 and returned on July 12. I kept a
handwritten log and transcribed it to PC.

I did take photos - nondigital but I do have a scanner.

A good place to put this would be www.crazyguyonabike.com
There are a lot of bike trip journals there. This makes it more likely that
someone looking for information about a particular area will find your
journal.