Home James!

The grumpiness from waking up in a pool of water hadn't quite worn off when we embarked on our last day of riding, oatmeal and hot cocoa notwithstanding. We were in need of some pick-me-up, which for us, usually came in the form of food. Unfortunately, towns are not too plentiful in Nova Scotia, and we have no way of knowing whether the dots that litter our map are actual towns, or just a handful of houses. We have learned not to bank on there being food available in any given town we stop in. This particular day, we were close to a town called Eskasoni, which, strangely enough, had a brown dot representing it. Dominic joked that it meant there must be brown people there, which we all dismissed, till we read the key: "Brown dot indicates indigenous population." Wow... Speechless.

Anywho, Eskasoni turned out to have the answer to all our problems—the first general store we came across had ice cream! We sat down for ice cream cones and chatted with a talkative worker there, a young Mi'kmaq woman about our age. We didn't get around to asking much about the education system (she was busy telling us about her weekend camping trip that had ended in drama), but she did mention that she speaks Mi'kmaq. Cool that (at least some of) the younger generation still knows it.

Fueled by our ice cream, we flew through the kilometers, making it back to Iona, where our knees and bikes had brought us down the first days of the trip. Passing through brought some nostalgic feelings (the Ceilidh and our monkey wrench breakfast took place here), but it brought us something else: victory! Sweet sweet victory, even if only of the symbolic sort. We challenged the hills to give us our best shot as we rode up them, and wooped and hollered as we flew down them. They weren't so tough now that we didn't have to push our bikes.

As we continued on our way, we were reminded of other aspects of the first day. It turns out that day had been problematic for larger reasons than just our bum knees—we struggled to find a pace that was suitable for everyone, we battled with the rain and coldness, and we generally lacked cohesion as a team. At one point, Nick and Gretta failed to communicate properly with Dominic, and, after falling behind, he almost missed an important turn. Now, on the last day of the trip, we returned to this very spot. As we approached, we spoke candidly about what had been going through our minds that day, and we realized how far we'd come.

We were a team now. A cohesive, streamlined unit, with a sophisticated system of visual and verbal cues. Instead of leaving each other behind, we now rode in tight formation. If one of us was feeling bad, we all toned down the pace. If one of us felt particularly strong, he or she would pull and the others would draft. In cross winds, we employed what we called "bird formation" (better known as echelon form), where the riders in back followed at an angle, drafting to "apparent" wind, and swooping around to the other side if the wind or our direction changed. Indeed, we even felt like a flock of birds sometimes, in that our extra sensory perception was tuned in. The number of times one of us would say something out loud at the exact instant one or both of the others were thinking it was too high to discount. (This happened before for Nick and Dominic on their bike trip.)

Yes we were a team now. 900 miles later. No accidents.

We celebrated at this spot with blueberry fruit cakes.


We rode on. Mostly smooth riding, though Gretta had issues with some cramps. She of course, valiantly fought through them, as she had done many times before on the trip.

In order to entertain ourselves while riding on our trip, we had made up a game of picking a spot on the road in the distance and all taking bets on how far away it was. On this final day, we took it a step further and took bets on what our final mileage ("kilometage" actually) would be at the end of the day.

We flew up and down the gentle hills of the Trans Canada Highway, this last section of which, right before Glendale, had recently been resurfaced.

We blazed past Dominic's guess of 102 kilometers, in so doing breaking the metric century day barrier.

It was down to Nick (106 km) and Gretta (109 km).

As we turned onto the road to Frank and Dolores's, we passed the 106 mark, but Nick could still win if it was less than halfway between his guess and Gretta's (107.5). Just a hundred meters or so away from Frank and Dolores's house, we passed that mark, and finished up at 107.7. Gretta the victor.

Anyone who has the warmth and hospitality of Frank and Dolores to come home to is a winner though, a thought that had been exciting us for several days now. It was a warm homecoming, full of food and celebration.

We went berry picking, this time for blackberries, and came home with literally pounds of them. We had also spotted an apple tree on the road, so Nick and Dominic rode down, filled a crate well above the brim and carried it home on their bikes, each taking a side with one hand and steering their bikes with the other. They are proud to report that not one soldier was lost, and they enjoyed getting soaking wet in the rain for the first time because they knew they had extra clothes and a dryer at their disposal.

And what was all of this fruit for, you are wondering? Here are two of the four answers to that question.

No pizzas and storebought pie for this pieful homecoming. Just the delicious fruit of our labor. The way we had it, there was really no incentive to leave, a recognition expressed by Gretta when Dolores asked her what her plans were now that the trip was over. Without hesitating, she replied "Move in with you. Look for part-time work." We're not sure she was kidding...

There were some mixed emotions about leaving, to say the least. But we eventually resolved that we had better get back to Boston, where Nick had a flight to catch. Fortunately, we had left the car with a fair amount of fuel, and we outdid ourselves in the apple/blackberry pie venture. It was a pieful send-off too.

As we put the finishing touches on the packing job, Nova Scotia made an attempt at reconciliation. It brought the sun out just long enough to snap a picture with Frank and Dolores.


Not quite enough to keep us there. Off we drove in the greasemobile, powered by Canada's fast food. The kilometers flew by at appalling speeds as we embarked on many more adventures including, but not limited to: the purchasing of a two-person 6-foot crosscut saw for felling trees (Dominic intends to use this), a tour of a chocolate factory, cheese factory, a close encounter with U.S. Customs and Border Protection on the northern border, and a wild goose chase for a blueberry winery in northern Maine. But that is for another time and, sadly, another blog.

We hope you all enjoyed this last post, and please check out the slideshow below by clicking on it. So long!!!

The Home Stretch

We took for granted how small and isolated Newfoundland really is till we got back to Nova Scotia. Already, there were titterings of it on the ferry, which felt larger than most of the towns we went to in Newfoundland. Actually, with a carrying capacity of 500 or so, it was. Newfoundland has more moose than people, so any semblance of urbanity came as a shock to our senses.

Dominic was overcome with that feeling you get after spending time in a country that speaks a foreign language. We eventually realized that his feeling was apropos. The language is very different in Newfoundland, sometimes unintelligibly so (see our August post "Sou'western Coast," if you missed it).

The most prominently overwhelming feeling we sensed, however, was not brought by human civilization, but rather, Mother Earth. We found Nova Scotia in the same condition we had left it: drizzly and overcast. Oppressively so.

There was fleeting talk of trying to ride the Cabot Trail around the northern peninsula of Cape Breton, but with time and the elements against us, we gave in to the nostalgic warmth you get when you know you are homeward bound. Home, as far as this trip is concerned, is Glendale, a 2-day bike ride to the south. Our car awaited us there, but more importantly, so did shelter from the rain and the warm hospitality of Frank and Dolores.

We had a beautiful ride along the backroads, but Nova Scotia is about as wet as Newfoundland (especially with all the rain), and finding a dry camping spot proved difficult. We had to settle for a spot we all considered suboptimal. Though the ground was solid, there was water all around, and across the way there was a large, flowing pool of water that, if not for the strip of highway acting as a barrier between us, would gladly have come our way. But unlike the monsoonal rains of the American Southwest, the rain up here is gentle. Just a light drizzle all night probably...we'll be okay, we figured.

We figured wrong. Just after dinner, the rain kicked itself into the highest gear we've seen yet, and it never let up. At some dreadful hour in the darkness of night, Dominic awoke to the quiet sobs of his girlfriend, shivering and sopping wet in her goosedown (read: useless-when-wet) sleeping bag. The water level had risen in the night, viciously broken and entered the tent, and attacked Gretta, whose half-length groundpad did nothing to protect her. Gretta is virtually incapable of complaining, however, and, after borrowing a small section of real estate from Dominic's oversized pad, the two of them somehow made it through the night.

In the morning, they told Nick of their harrowing night, and he emerged from his tent, only to realize the extent of the damage. There's wet, and then there's wet. Dominic's tent was wet. Take a look.


Inside the tent.


The tent actually held up pretty well when you consider what the ground looked like underneath. This is the exact spot where the tent had been.




Hot cocoa and steaming oatmeal brought the two back to life, and Dominic's defiant spirit turned adversity into advantage. What had been an abominable place to sleep now became a convenient place to wash his dishes.


We neatly packed up our wet gear and, with the ultimate confidence of waterproof birthday suits should our rain gear fail (as it inevitably did), we rode off into the foggy mist.

The Last of the Ferries

Morning brought the timely arrival of the ferry and we set out on the boat ride that would take us further west to Rose Blanche, a town that actually has roads, and more importantly, a road that leads out of it. Each one of us had battled seasickness at some point on these small ferries, and on this particular voyage, it was Nick's turn.

It was a long and relatively gentle ride, but the battle was quick and decisive. Like a shadow in the night, the sickness came, rose up and struck, leaving naught but a spattering of chunks on the side of the boat. Compared to the drawn out torture that motion sickness usually is, this was actually quite painless. Nick thanked his ferry godmother for this coup de grâce (of sorts), then debarked, cheerful and ready to ride.

We were all ready to ride, but a certain red and white bike, equipped with a new axle, was not. It was here that Nick suffered the series of perplexing and patience-testing flats previously alluded to, so we didn't actually get much riding done that day. Instead, we hitched a ride the remaining 15 or 20 miles into Port aux Basques, where we could contemplate the problem with the security of purchased tickets, and the ferry to Nova Scotia within bike-pushing distance.

Goodbye Newfoundland

Due to ferry schedules, we would leave Newfoundland much the way we arrived—in the middle of the night. We had the rest of the day to fritter away and that we did. We lay in the park, listened to live music, and fed ourselves. When night fell, we played pool at a bar and drank some Black Horse beer. None of us particularly care for beer, but it was our last chance to drink authentic Newfoundland beer while still on the island Newfoundland. When in Rome...

The bartender soon called our attention to another drink: the Newfie Bullet. This was a reference to the now defunct train line of the same name. Slicing through the desolate mainland during even rougher times than now, the train was notoriously late, and the name must certainly have been given with a sense of irony.

The drink has an interesting history of its own. The primary ingredient is a substance called screech. In the olden days, screech was made from a combination of rum and molasses. Old wooden barrels that carried rum and molasses (on separate trips, that is) back and forth across the ocean were rarely cleaned out, and they developed a sort of scummy combination of the two on the bottom. This was boiled out with water and then fermented, or else combined with some other alcohol to make the lovely drink known as screech. We can only imagine where this name came from... That was the olden days. Today screech is simply the cheapest version possible of an already vile drink: Jamaican rum.

With Newfie Bullet shot glasses in front of us, we feared the drink was as ironically named as its forebear, but when the other ingredients were added, the name seemed apt. Enough Kahlua and Bailey's will make anything taste good.

A Pieful Send-Off

Given that our first ferry ride had been so well complimented with pizza, we decided to do it again. This time, times 3. And this time, we arrived early to the boat with 3 pizzas, boarded well before the cars and soon found ourselves belowdecks, quite content with ourselves and our purchase.


Coupled with the realization that our trip was fast winding down, we knew the departure from Newfoundland would be bittersweet, emphasis on the bitter. The best way to combat bitter, however, is with sweet, and of this we were acutely aware. So before tucking ourselves into the plush seats of the ferry for some shuteye, we topped off our tastebuds with one last tribute: partridgeberry pie.

We said goodbye to Newfoundland and awaited the arrival of Cape Breton, which would bring the last leg of our journey.

Grand Bruit

Our time in Ramea was entertaining, restful, and recuperative, both for our bodies and our gear. Nick fixed his wheel, we all caught up on some laundry, and worked on correcting an issue with our camp stove. It had developed a small leak in the gas line, the most immediate consequence of which was that each time Nick retrieved something from his bag, it emerged reeking of fuel. No amount of bagging (single, double, triple...) had been able to solve this problem, so he was forced to accept it. After a while, he even embraced it. Bringing the clothes close to his face, he would sniff, and then, as if to mimick the old Downy commercials, smile nostalgically and gush over their fresh smell. We're not sure if this was an attempt to be comical, or whether the fumes where just getting to him...

The more important consequence, however, was we couldn't really turn the stove off! It sputtered and hissed and generally resisted having its flame snuffed. Fortunately, it would eventually peter out (after about 10 minutes), so we had gotten used to taking this into account, even throwing something back on the dying flames after we thought the heat source was long gone. But most of the time, it was inconvenient. Trying to pack up a still-hot stove after hot cocoa is hard enough—a still-flaming one is out of the question.

Fixing it involved a lot of glue on Nick's part (fumes galore!), some careful cleaning on Dominic's, and fixed or not, we called it good. Next thing we knew, we were back on the ferry and headed out of Ramea!

If you are wondering how taking one of the longest and most solitary roads that leads to a dead end stop in Burgeo was going to help us in our loop aspirations, you probably figured out there would be ferries involved. From Burgeo, we would head west on the ferries back to Port aux Basques, then catch the big ferry back to Nova Scotia.

Outport Communities

We went from the small town of Burgeo (pop. 2000) to the smaller town of Ramea (pop. 462) to the even smaller town of Grand Bruit (pop. 14). This is one of the many outport, roadless communities along the coast of Newfoundland that has slowly been dying out. Confederation into Canada in 1949 brought the promise from premier Joey Smallwood that the old way of life would no longer be necessary. "Burn your boats!" he told people in his effort to modernize and urbanize Newfoundland. Newfoundland is moving this direction—mainly because the government outlawed codfishing—but slowly and not without a fight.

Grand Bruit is a perfect case study of this phenomenon. It has gone through fluctuations in population over the last several decades, and the most recent sign still lists its population at somewhere around 50. But according to one of the local inhabitants who invited us in for breakfast, there are only 12-14 year round residents. The school is closed down now, and some residents are talking about resettlement.

Like we mentioned before, resettlement is a Canadian program to eliminate these small outport communities. Overt efforts to push this program have been abandoned, but some communities are still considering it on the their own. If 100% of the residents agree to relocate, they get a lump sum of money to buy themselves a new house somewhere else. Grand Bruit is one of these communities.

We arrived on the Tuesday ferry from Burgeo, planning to lay over for the night and take the ferry that goes west from there, which only runs one day a week (Wednesday morning). We were greeted with a charming little town that seems quite a bit larger than 12-14. There are 50 or so houses here, and as we should have known, the population is significantly larger during the summer. But the town is still unique. There are no cars there, and all of the "roads," which they recently got paved, are about the 4 feet wide. Big enough for a 4-wheeler, which many people have, though we never saw one in use.

We got to asking some of the locals about the resettlement controversy. It turns out that part of the movement to resettle is being pushed by erstwhile residents who, having heard they could make a buck through the resettlement program, changed their addresses back to Grand Bruit, even though they don't actually live there anymore. The property value for these houses is pretty low--nice 2 or 3 bedroom houses go for 10 or 15 K or less, and if a resettlement deal is struck, residents will be rewarded with 80 K (to buy a new house). The true full-time residents are mostly sticking to their guns, though a few favor resettlement, and most of the summer time residents aren't interested in selling either. It's a magical place, and they'd rather have it than the 80 K.

For our part, we were enchanted. Though we could see little more than 50 feet in the thick fog, we had a wonderful stroll down every last street in town. We played with a lovely black dog (one of many beautiful free roaming dogs who act as if they own the place). He was quite the fetcher, selecting the largest stick around and bringing it over to Dominic.

Then we swam in the lovely pond located just above the source of the 'grand bruit' (French for 'great sound'), the awesome waterfall which cascades through the center of town. We set up camp right down on the harbor, where they have a public bathroom and a little storage house. After a genuine pressure cooker feast we were informed by a nice local ('nice' is relatively meaningless modifier, considering all the locals here were very much so), that we could stay in the storage house if we wanted and no one would care. The thought of dry, packed tents in the morning sounded lovely since the boat would leave at 8:10 am (not at 8:45, as all the schedules claimed, including the one posted in the harbor itself).

We were still a bit apprehensive about sleeping right on the harbor, but who was there to hassle us? As we contemplated this, who should pull in but the RCMP (Royal Canadian Mounted Police, or "mounties," as they are called, even though they are no longer mounted on horses). It was a curious sight, to see this huge boat in such a small town, and we wondered what they were after. The locals did too; they had not seen the likes of such a thing in the previous decade. As such, their explanations bordered on extragavant, some of them involving smuggling and preparing for a raid on the high seas.

Things in Canada are much more relaxed, however, and we have found their police are too. So much so that they all jumped off the boat and left it docked right there, apparently abandoned. We stood next to the boat and observed it from the dock. It was a pretty thing and we joked about commandeering it, only to find a few minutes later that there were a few officers still aboard. Oops.

In any event, they were not after us, and we went to sleep hassle-free in the storage building on the dock of Grand Bruit. Sleep brought dreams of the morrow—an easy camp breakdown and more time on the open water.

Video Blog

We took this video a while back in the trip with hopes of posting a page with videos. Fast internet was impossible to find basically anywhere on the island of Newfoundland, so we are late in getting this to you. We were hoping to give you a little picture of what our life was like on a daily basis, so here ya go. The first video was shot on our way through Gros Morne National Park the first time (heading north).



We should note that riding on the road wasn't always this pleasant. We spent plenty of time cowering in the shoulder on the Trans Canada Highway as trucks blared past us, or biking through the rain, which could be unpleasant. But generally the roads were pleasant and the people were incredibly nice! People braked for us almost all the time, and we often got friendly honks and waves as they went by. Stark contrast to the United States, where honks are usually accompanied with a less-than-friendly gesture.

Here's a video from later that day as we searched out a campsite.



Camping was usually pretty easy too. In the video above, we found a lovely spot along the coast, within plain view of the highway. We later found out (after the fact) that we were supposed to be paying a day fee just for being in the park. But no one stopped us or really seemed to care, and we didn't find this out till we'd already left Gros Morne.

To give you a fuller picture of what things were like, however, we should also say that finding a spot to camp was hard on a few occasions. Mostly it was because the territory was so boggy and wet it was challenging to find a reasonable place to put a tent; we didn't always make the best choice, as you'll see in a later post. But a couple times when we were closer to civilization, humanity and its laws seemed to be against us as well. It is a far cry from trying to camp in the States though, and people have generally been very friendly and helped us in our search to camp for free. We are nearing the end of our trip and our total spent on camping to date: $0. Woohoo!

Bike Maintenance

This section is going to be almost exclusively about Nick's bike, since his is the one that has had all the problems. She's a good bike, but built more for racing, so she's had some trouble here and there carrying all this weight. You are probably most curious about the tale of the broken axle, but we'll leave that for the end of the post and go in a more chronological order.

The ever-present problem so far has been flat tires. We have gone through almost 3 or 4 patch kits and we figure he has averaged at least one flat per day (for those of you not counting, that puts us somewhere around 25). The flats have ranged from obvious pinch flats to flats from running the pressure too high, from slow leaks to immediate blowouts, from thorns to mysterious flats that occurred over night while the bike was not moving. We have learned to accept it. A more serious incident occurred, however, the day we were trying to make 100 miles. While coming down a hill fast, Nick hit a dip and his bag flew into his spokes. This wreaked havoc on both his bag and his spokes, as you might have imagined. The bag was torn open with a gaping hole at the seam 6 inches in length. Three spokes were completely sheared in half, and two more came off altogether, including the one that held our computer magnet (for measuring speed, distance, etc.). Gretta went to look for the lost spoke, which she eventually located.

The spoke was obviously beyond repair, but at least we got the computer magnet back. (The screw was all wonky from the blow it took, so we attached it with electrical tape.)

Seamster

Nick set to work with a stopgap sew job using Dominic's leather punch and some p-cord. We were in a hurry to make that 170 km, so he would have to do a more thorough job later on.



That night, in the comfort of his tent, he fixed it good and right. Stiched it up neatly and then sealed it against the elements with some shoe glue. Dominic's sandles completely came apart after using this glue, but at least it served some purpose.


Frank's Bad-Ass Bailing Wire

As for the spokes, this was a more serious matter. We were over 100 miles from the closest bike shop and had no extra spokes. Luckily, our good friend Frank suggested we bring along some of his bailing wire before we left the car in Glendale, Nova Scotia. Didn't seem like it would be useful at the time, but with Dominic's ingenuity, it saved our butts!

Dominic rescued what was left of the shorn spokes, bent them neatly, and then looped some of the bailing wire through the end and down to the hub.

Master mechanic that he is, he managed to tighten the spokes up and basically keep the wheel true. It weren't pretty, but it worked!

This got us several more hundred miles, both north and south, till we got back to Corner Brook and Nick could get his spokes replaced.

The axle was another matter. Though the bike was running fine, it made Nick a bit nervous, especially when we rode tightly together in a pack. Being in front meant that if anything should go wrong, he'd endanger the ones behind; being in back meant limited visibility and a higher chance of hitting a rock or pothole.

Getting to the southwestern coast of Newfoundland turned out to be a mixed blessing. It is a remote area, which meant there are few roads, which meant we'd be off our bikes for a few days while we traveled by ferry. But being remote also meant we'd be further away from a bike shop than ever. What we wanted was a new axle that was ready for quick release. (Quick release makes getting the wheel off easy, and with all of Nick's flats, it was certainly convenient.) We had a day of rest in Ramea (for which our legs were most grateful), and on the advice of our hosts, we posted a sign on the fire station bulletin board asking if anyone had an axle "today only!"

Ramea is a small town, population 462, but within a few hours, a neighbor showed up with exactly the part we needed. Well, not exactly the part. It was not quick release, so putting your wheel on and taking it off required a wrench, but it would certainly do the trick. We'd just put it on and hope that Nick's flat tire problems would miraculously subside. With a little coaching from Dominic and Gretta, the bonified mechanics of the trip, Nick removed the broken axle, reset the cone on the new one, repacked the bearings, and voila! Solid wheel. Good as new.

Of course, he flatted several times before making it 15 kilometers, and on one occasion he failed to remember where he had placed the wrench. His bags were completely torn apart and his clothes strewn all over the side of the road before he was able to find it. Then he faced the difficult task of navigating the wrench between his bags, rack, and derailleur into an almost impossible position to unscrew the bolt and remove the wheel. You can imagine the joy this brought him...

Luckily, Dominic and Gretta were patient and helpful, and after the 4th flat, they solved the day's flat tire problem source (there seems to be a new one everyday)--the rim tape (a piece of sturdy material that sits in the rim and protects the tube from puncturing against the spokes) was having trouble staying centered. We had removed the underlying piece of rim tape during the axle fixing (there were two, which seemed unecessary) and left the newer one, reasoning that two were not necessary.

It was then, 4 flats later on the side of the road, that we realized that the remaining rim tape was of one of the thousands of infuriating products that should come labeled "Not Fit For Use." (Available at a store near you.) No matter, though. We had electrical tape. Tape is tape, right? Whether or not this logic was reasonable, it was our only option. So Dominic and Gretta neatly layered the rim with electrical tape and put the original rim tape back on top.

They did such a pretty job even Nick had hope it would solve the problem. Our hopes took a serious blow, however, when his tire deflated within 5 minutes. We eventually decided the cause was not the rim tape, so we patched it up and rode on. 150 kilometers and no flats later, we are satisfied placing that last one into the category of "undetermined," of which there have been many.