June 29 to June 30
Got frisked at the Calais/St. Stephen bridge crossing. The Canadian border authorities held us up for over an hour going through everything while we sat inside the guard station with the cats. Don’t know what set them off. During routine questioning about bringing weapons into the Commonwealth we admitted we had some pepper spray and a pocket knife. “Pepper spray is considered a lethal weapon in Canada.” (Not the pocket knife’s fault this time.) We surrendered Brenda’s little pink canister of spray without regret, after filling out some paperwork (we have a receipt) but I guess they figured that since we were there they might as well do the whole drill—feeling under seats, shining lights in corners, opening cabinets and Quaker Oats cylinders. I crossed here on foot in 1971 into US and exchanged waves with US authorities as I walked by. Oh well, these are the times, I guess.
A longer-than-it–needed-to-be drive to a remote place on the St. John River after stopping in the city of St. John to exchange some money. The drive was longer than it needed to be thanks to Google maps which I later learned routinely sends people an hour out of their way to get to Crystal Beach campground.
The owner was another 3rd generation inheritor of an aging campground. He said his grandparents built the camp in the 1930s for short-length campers like ours and they haven’t upgraded to accommodate the 30 and 40 foot behemoths that many favor. “We serve campers; people come here and get upset because we don’t have hot tubs.” He teaches high school physics and only opens the camp after school lets out (and after the spring flooding of the St. John River inundates the property. He said, straightfacedly, the St. John River the “Nile of New Brunswick.” We both laughed after a beat. But he did explain that the river drains most of the province and parts of Maine.)
He had a little pub in his campground and some locals came round for a cribbage match. Prize for best score was three t-bone steaks. I declined offers to participate (but did not say that “I couldn’t afford the steaks” or anything like that.) Talked to the campround owner for a couple hours about his marriages, his kids, fracking, (“The scientist in me doesn’t like it but the campground owner who has roughnecks for renters appreciates the trade.”) property rights (there are certain species of ash and maple tree sacred to local native peoples and they have the right to cut down any one that strikes their fancy; mineral rights are deeded separately from land rights so unless you purchase the mineral rights of your property you could wake one morining to find someone driving stakes in your front yard to mark their claim.)
Two ferries serve the peninsula this campground is on. We crossed on the Gondola ferry coming in and walked down to the Westfield ferry the next day. Rather than build a bridge they operate two boats that cross in unison, electric motor-driven cable-guided affairs, each accommodating about 30 cars. They move the traffic pretty quick. We passed this graveyard on the walk to the ferry.
The area was settled by Scottish immigrants in 18th c. I don’t know enough Candian history to guess who the cemetery’s residents were loyal to –resistance to the French I imagine.
Down by the ferry was another campground. The owner of Crystal Beach where we stayed said that sometimes people overshoot the entrance to his camp and wind up there and the owner of that one tells them that Crystal Beach is closed or some other lie to get them to stay at his campground. And that guy was president of the provincial association of campground owners. The cutthroat world of New Brunswick campgrounds.
June 30 to July 5, 2016, Five Islands, Nova Scotia
Near the head of the Bay of Fundy, home to highest tides in the world. The bay recedes nearly a mile from the base of the cliff we are perched on, and comes rushing back again, twice daily.
The five islands are of different size and geology. The whole area is a mishmash of geologic epochs and famous for gems, minerals, and fossils. We haven’t found any but then we haven’t devoted a lot to it, hiking inland mostly.
We were here on July 1 which is Canada Day, or Dominion Day, celebrating the union of the provinces in the late 19th century. We went into the nearest town, Parrsboro, 30 minutes away, to see their national day parade. The short description and the long description would be the same—first came the Royal Canadian Mounted Police SUV with all lights flashing, followed by the Parrsboro FD engine also with lights flashing, the Parrsboro Rec Team (a youth group) dressed in red and white (not uniforms or costumes, just street clothes) throwing candy to kids, five spiffy cars including this one, Preston
then the rest of the Parrsboro FD and rescue squad with lights ablaze and a siren going. Our fellow campers laughed when we told them we were going to the Parrsboro parade so when we got back and asked how it was I told them it was still going on, we left because it was going on so long—pachyderms, a troop of baton twirlers with flaming batons, precision drill teams, clowns on tiny motorcycles, the provincial governor’s wife, not one but three Justin Trudeau imitators. Had them wound up for a while.
This bit of sculpture from Parrsboro I send without comment.
The camp was completely booked for the holiday weekend and we were boxed in pretty tight with partying Canadians. Everyone is very open and generous. Given the late onset of night their fireworks and serious partying doesn’t start until ten pm. We slept through it as best we could.
I was awakened early the next morning by a loud clammer in the tidal flats.
Well, he wasn’t that loud. (In a related vein, after I was awakened by the clammer I went for a walk and saw growths of green and red spongelike matter on rocks, the lichens of which I’d never seen. Then I got hungry and went into a fish store just for the halibut which hadn’t come in yet and the noisy fishmonger gave me a haddock and a desire to drink Canada dry.) People wade into the flats when the tide withdraws with shovels and pails and harvest the local littleneck clams called Economy clams after a local port. One of our neighbors, Frank, said they were exceptional-tasting clams. Sunday morning I was looking out over the flats and thinking what gear I had to outfit a clamming expedition (I knew I had an entrenching tool buried in the truck and was debating about digging it out) when Frank took a break from packing to leave and brought me a bucket full of clams he had caught; his family couldn’t eat them all. Problem solved. Economy clams for me, anyway. I changed the water and added some cornmeal to help them clean out. They were small but sweet, cooked in a little seawater and wine, served with linguine, garlic, parmesan, lemon, local asparagus on the side. Oh Canada!
We hiked the trails of the near provincial park.
One overlook gave us a glimpse back to our home cliff.
With a couple of exceptions all the fellow campers we have talked to in our travels to date, US and Canada, live within an hour or, at most, two, from their homes. Strange.
In my limited experience English-speaking Canadians, at least those who stay in campgrounds, cuss a lot. Maybe a remnant of their maritime heritage. Also their roads are impossible to keep smooth, with the winters being so harsh. Like washboards, and sometimes worn down to bare earth. Even the highways in places. It beats the living shit out of the Scamp, and my nerves, traveling these roads unless I slow to a crawl, so 4 hour trips take 6 or more.