Glories of White Point

In his alluring guide to the hiking trails of Cape Breton, Michael Haynes asserts that the trail to White Point, two hours north of Big Bras d’Or, provides some of the most dramatic coastal scenery of any trail in Cape Breton. When Naomi and Terry came for a weekend stay, I suggested that based on Haynes’s opinion, White Point would make a good destination for a day hike. Particularly since it would be a ‘lifer’—a first—for us all. The others agreed. For most of the drive north, windshield wipers were essential equipment; I began to worry that I’d given my companions a bum steer. But as we approached White Point village the rain eased and a break in the clouds delivered sunshine. Who could believe it? No turn in human affairs is more welcome than serendipity.

White Point made good on the Haynes assurances. The hike is not a long one but it proved to be every bit as glorious as its promise. In the early going thick spruce and fir skirted one side of the trail but soon enough the view north was obstructed by nothing taller than the abundant white granite rocks I guessed must be what gives the point its name. We passed an old French cemetery dating back to a time before the first Scots settler arrived two centuries ago. The cemetery’s ancient graves are marked by rough granite slabs offering no clue as to the identity of the persons who lie below them, nor any hint of the lives they lived.

The rocks turn from white to red at the point itself and are very much bigger than those we passed along the way. Water churned at the base of vaulting cliffs and in a stiff wind we took pains to avoid a fatal tumble. Despite the wind and falling hazard I was happy I had recommended White Point as our destination. Jan often maintains it is easy to measure my happiness in an outdoor outing by the number of pictures I take. On this day I took many.

In addition to its scenic charms, White Point provided rewards to gladden an old birder’s heart. Gannets coursed the shoreline, diving headlong into the littoral for choice selections from the seafood menu on offer. Double-crested cormorants lolled on a shoreline rock, resting or waiting for opportunity to unfold. An alcid—was it a razorbill or thick-billed murre?—appeared for just a moment, not long enough to permit a sure ID. A female harlequin duck, purportedly rare in Cape Breton, went about her business among the eiders riding the whitecaps close inshore. Lapland longspurs breed in the Arctic tundra; when we see them in Cape Breton at this time of year they are typically en route to their southern wintering grounds. Two longspurs, both disinclined to take flight, kept several steps in front of us as we slowly made our way to Burnt Cove. There were mammals to see too: seven grey seals turned their heads to assess what we crazy humans might be up to.

We saw evidence that White Point provides abundant wild food to suit migrant birds having vegetarian preferences: crowberries, cranberries, juniper berries. Even more abundant were the Michaelmas daisies flashing blue petals wherever we went. I wondered: what wildflowers would dominate the landscape were we to come in May? What birds? Would seals be conspicuous then too?

The break in the weather lasted just as long as was convenient to the hikers: rain returned just as we got back to the car. At nearby New Haven I spotted the community war memorial—one I had managed never to see before. I barked a command to stop the car. Terry complied. I contemplated the names listed on the monument—seven ‘heroes’ of the community who went to war and died ‘for King and Country’, heroes such as Private John Bird who died on the Somme in October 1916 and Private George Hawkins, killed in action at Passchendaele a year later. Bird had attained the grand old age of 23, Hawkins just 20 when he breathed his last. No serendipitous endings for them.

Just next door to New Haven is Neil’s Harbour. By mid-afternoon we agreed that after our collective exertions, some sustenance might be in order. At the tip of the narrow peninsula jutting from the village into the Gulf of St. Lawrence we made our way past rooftop lines of black-backed and herring gulls to an establishment called the Chowder House. What to order at a place called the Chowder House? Wouldn’t it have to be chowder?  We ordered four bowls and reached broad consensus that the house chowder here exceeded that any of us had ever found in a roadside diner. Windshield wipers beat a tattoo most of the way back to Big Bras d’Or. No one grumbled.