Hail the Conquering Heroes

Oh Joy! Mary and Mike arrived at the cabin yesterday, tanned and oh-so-lean 84 days and 7,900 km into their Victoria-to-St. John’s bicycle odyssey. Check the flickr site (link on right) to see a little portfolio of our heroes. Mike shed 29 pounds along the way, Mary is sleek as a jungle cat. Nine provinces down, one to go before their bragging rights go right through the roof. They landed in early evening while the outside thermometer was still reading plus-80F so of course we all enjoyed a dip in the ol’ swimmin’ hole below the cabin before breaking into the Alexander Keith’s and tucking into a big pot of Jan’s best lobster chowder. Long ago in early May we joined our pals for the first leg of their transcontinental adventure, but today we’d have a hard time keeping their dust in sight. Their marvellous physical and mental state is a great advertisement for the benefits of crossing Canada by velocipede. They’re going to slow down for a few days at Big Bras d’Or, enjoy the view from the cabin porch, get some laundry done, perhaps even stretch out on the hammock for an hour or two. They’ve earned a break.

--Alan

July 26: The War on Sag, Mush and Turkey-skin

All play and no work, my Jannie asserts, turns boyo into a flaccid drone. It’s all well and good to overindulge on lobster, swill beer, and overburden the hammock but, by gum, there’s work to be done too. So well has Jan put her stamp on every corner of the cabin that she’s now demanding renos on the renovations she initiated a decade ago. This year’s major interior project is a set of kitchen cabinets she likes quite a lot, but she cites Shakespeare’s immortal wisdom, “Perseverance keeps honour bright”, and has further shack improvements in full percolation.

I have my own motivation for getting to work. It was devastating enough to have pal Judith Hunt note my “saggy tits”. Then cousin-in-law Diane Campbell added to the misery by drawing attention to my “mushy bum”. Finally Jan herself drew notice to the “turkey skin” gathering around my neck. Enough! I fired up the chainsaw and cut four truckloads of birch, maple et al firewood with pal Bob Nagel. The mountain of firewood requires splitting of course and Jan swears nothing does so fine a job of firming up my saggy boobs and mushy bum as a protracted session with the splitting maul, wedges and axes. I’ll let you know how it goes.

--Alan

July 20: Pedalling Perils

Pity the poor bicycle that gets to haul my weighty carcass over the hills and backroads of Boularderie Island. Mike Whitney – who knows a thing or two about the subject and has pedaled a few thousand kilometres with me – says I am hard on a bike. Mike has been a witness to more than a few of my blown tires, wrecked bottom-brackets and broken chains but Friday delivered an adventure in bicycle breakdown that might have impressed even Mike. Being of wide-body construction I have a tractor-style saddle on my Trek that provides plenty of posterior support and comfort. Jan and I had just begun the eastward ascent of the Calabash Road when I noticed a wobble in the great saddle and quickly discovered that the two-inch bolt securing the seat to the saddle-stem had sheared in two. I was suddenly seatless. Unwilling to walk the bike all the way back home I was left with the sole option of riding it standing on the pedals. Try riding a bike over distance up hill and down dale without ever sitting on the saddle and you too will soon discover it ain’t easy. But the prospect of wearing my seatless bike in a most uncomfortable way was a powerful incentive and I managed to get back to Big Bras d’Or without once lapsing into absent-mindedness.

On Sunday, well-supported on the backup bike, I completed the journey over the Calabash and along Boularderie’s beautiful south side with Jan and Bob. How grateful I felt to have a fine day, my boon companions, the scenic Calabash and a bicycle with a saddle.

-- Alan

July 19: Riding the Big Wave

It is a fine fact of Big Bras d’Or summer life that lobster season lasts till July 15, that three of the vessels in the lobster-boat fleet are operated by friends, and the wharf is only two kilometres down the road from our shack in the woods. While it’s regrettable for the fishermen that the price of market lobsters, just five bucks a pound, is the lowest it’s been in a quarter century, it’s a great boon to those of us who love the endearingly tasty crustaceans.

For the last decade or so the ‘Big Wave’ has wound up the lobster season with a little festival of food, music and merrymaking, an opportunity to tip a beer or two at the wharf with old friends, make a few new ones, and marvel again at all the musical talent that abounds among our friends and neighbours. Sadly, after two weeks of hot sunny weather, the skies turned grey and damp for the big day, but never mind, Big Wavers insist on having fun in whatever circumstance nature provides. The event flourishes in the hands of the same reliable volunteers year after year, and even a calloused cynic such as I am forced to admit it does a fine job of bringing out the best of our neighbours’ community spirit.

Click here for pictures from the Big Wave.

-- Alan

Sunday, July 13: Blair’s Birthday Bash

Every year we look forward to Blair Campbell (Alan’s third cousin) hosting a barbeque marking his birthday. Blair’s wife Shelley Allen, and Shelley’s sister Cindy are local well known musicians (and music teachers) so after all are stuffed and sufficiently lubricated, Shelley’s guitars and drums come out, Cindy puts on her accordion, and all join in to the best of their abilities. Tonight featured an impromptu classical guitar recital by another guest, Doug Johnson. Doug tried out my guitar and found it greatly to his liking, then switched to a steel-stringed guitar and showed his virtuosity in that genre, too. We all had a marvelous time belting out the words we knew and otherwise listening to the beautiful voices of Shelley and Cindy. Happy Birthday Blair (and thanks for the shot of Laphroaig)!

--Jan

Saturday, July 12: St. Esprit Idyll

They know Cape Breton like the back of their hands, the twins. Today they showed us another of their favourite spots: a beach to rival the Pacific Rim National Park, lacking only the people, an improvement in the opinion of our group. We ambled along the beach for hours, happy to wait as Alan took careful close-up shots of every beach-flower, interesting cloud formation or bit of flotsam that we came across. Bob found a washed-up bait bag and filled it with interesting rocks, including one with imbedded clear quartz shining like a diamond in the sun. I found a mussel shell with coral on the outside and a short string of pearls on the interior. Every time we are out with Bob Nagel, the old songs burst out, so you can imagine the five of us walking down the beach singing “Got no diamonds, got no pearls…” Alan kept proposing games involving throwing beach rocks, then winning every game. Some bird highlights of the day were ten whimbrels on the beach (bachelors or early migrants?), spotting four (two different families) downy young spotted sandpipers, a pair of tree swallows feeding young in a light standard.

-- Jan

Wrung out in Washabuck

Always on the lookout for new bicycling vistas we eyed the almost-an-island Washabuck Peninsula and its circa-55-kilometre perimeter road. Too bad we picked the hottest day of the year. People looked aghast as we pedaled by. The long climb from Lower Washabuck to the Gillis Point overlook sucked most of our remaining starch. A kind lady provided life-saving water while pointing out that her outside thermometer showed 40-plus degrees. The crew bailed out at the highland village near Iona. I carried on alone toward Little Narrows to retrieve the truck, arms ablaze in the broiling sun, but was soon overtaken by two Ontario Samaritans delivering Jan on the same mission. Just for the hell of it I carried on. Jan got there first – by a long shot. Our friends Mary, Mike and Mark, two months into their C2C cross-Canada bike trip easily manage a hundred klicks a day, sometimes 160. I decided I wasn’t worth a thimble of Mary’s spit.

The heatwave continues. We installed the infrastructure to the swimmin’ hole and made good use of it in the afternoon inferno. The hammock became a priority too and the cooling birches among which it swings are a great comfort. The sleeping porch provides a little cool at night, but not necessarily perfect quiet. A herd of raccoons foraged unsurreptitiously under the porch corner. The beam of my flashlight reflected six pairs of eyes. Coyotes serenade shortly after nightfall. Meanwhile, the rabbits – more correctly the varying hares – are ever more brazen. They munch on the produce of Jan’s garden and now completely ignore her empty threats of violence. She can forgive the inroads on her celery but the violations against her basil are altogether too much. I propose a whiff of grapeshot; Jan is kind: she insists a length of chicken mesh will do.

--Alan

Riding the Slios

All work and no play gives Bozo a sore back. We vary the woodcutting and whippersnipping with occasional forays on the bicycles or in hiking boots.

The Slios a Briochan [‘SLISH A BROCKAN’] is the name the old Gaels gave the place along the eastern slope of Kelly’s Mountain from New Harris toward Big Harbour. The ancient road is too impassable now even for Leo in 4-wheel drive so we thought this would make an excellent traffic-free bike route. Indeed it was. Once past the last house we didn’t have to share our surrounds with other humans. Warbler and flycatcher song filled the forest. A brave mother ruffed grouse attacked Dennis, causing such a start he nearly fell off the bike.
A splendid male pine grosbeak paraded from the top of a tall spruce. The road grew rougher and knocked me butt-over-bugle on a steep, washed-out, bouldery section; I was still game to carry on to Big Harbour but the others chickened out, opting for a picnic lunch in the cool of a shady brookside grotto at the foot of Beinn Scalpie. Wimps.

Lobster season winds down. We’ve had three big boils already and converted leftovers to a gratifying plethora of chowdahs and sangwitches [those are not typos but Bob Nagel’s preferred pronunciations].

Yesterday being the Fourth of July we did a big chicken in the smoker-cooker, bellowed out a rousing arrangement of the Star-Spangled Banner and produced a bonfire to give the Boston Yanks a fireworks display to remember.

--Alan

In Search of the Wild Orchid

We spent the Canada Day weekend socializing with friends and family and swatting away deer flies in pursuit of the wild orchid. The weekend featured visits from sister Kathleen, bro-in-law Jon, niece Mairin and her squeeze Brian. ‘The Bostons’ -- the great Bob Nagel, his nephew Dennis and Dennis’s better half, Nancy -– arrived in time to join in the festivities.

At the Englishtown Mussel Festival on Saturday some of us heard 80-year-old Lloyd Stone relate details of his solo ski trip across the highlands national park that went off the rails when, alas, he ran out of snow. Eight bucks bought us two enormous bowls of mussels, a cup of tea and dessert of blueberries on shortcake. En route to Big Harbour we crossed paths again with Great Hiker Dana Meise, still in our area after allowing himself to be distracted by the allure of the Cape Breton highlands and a whale-watching adventure.

Our quest for orchids took us on hunts along abandoned roads, from New Harris to Big Harbour and thence to Plaister Mines among the gypsum hills and cliffs. After a good day Sunday with Jon and Kathleen we liked the habitat so well we did it again on Canada day with The Mighty Sparrows, cousins Lynn & Louise. Take the measure of our flower-finding success here:

Our Flickr Site

--Alan