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.