Two
Chicks and a Hog
The
edited version of this story first appeared in Motorcycle
Mojo Magazine
January/February
2007
Volume
6 Issue 1
I
leaped onto her like a wildcat onto its prey. The
fur was flyin’ by God and the walls of the tent
were about to collapse, both from the wetness as well
as the bodies that were thrashing about against them.
After taking the first sucker punch, I grabbed her
by the pajama collar and did the unthinkable: I gave
it all back to her, complete with a verbal lashing.
“You WILL get out of your sleeping bag, you
WILL go to the washroom, you WILL let me put the motion
patch behind your ear, and YOU’LL LIKE IT,”
I screamed at her.
Divorce does terrible things to daughters –
and their mothers. It makes them come up with crazy
ideas like taking a “bonding” journey
together – on a motorcycle – to Newfoundland.
At the outset of our trip, I had sat my Katherine
down and had a tete de tete with her about the trip
and all the possible scenarios we might encounter.
To that point, I had ridden extensively throughout
North America for 23 years - it was experience talking
to inexperience. Camping while traveling by motorcycle
is a challenge at the best of times - let alone doing
it with a thirteen year old hormonal teenager. It
would be our first trip together by motorcycle. With
a feigned understanding, my daughter nodded her head
at my ramblings-on about participation and cooperation
and about getting up early. My daughter and I are
total opposites – the house could be hauled
away from beneath her and she wouldn’t even
bat an eye. There are times I need to check her for
a pulse, she moves so slowly - she is not a morning
person. These can be maddening traits to accept for
a hyper over-achiever such as myself. Considering
this, we pulled out of our garage at 4:00 a.m. on
a Sunday…
As I pulled into North Sydney KOA, with my tennis
elbow giving me grief, I was never so happy to have
a set of batteries die in my life. After the first
week of riding, Katherine’s WalkMan had permanently
etched its form into my lower back.
We had managed to arrive at North Sydney Nova Scotia
without killing one another. A great feat, I thought.
The night before had seen a war of wills: Katherine,
in her true teenage rebellion refused to assist me
in tarping down the tent. To tarp down, quite simply,
is equivalent to being dry if and when either a) an
intense fog blows in or b) an intense thunderstorm
blows in. Neither is pleasant to wake up to. A resentful
warning to my daughter on the possibility that I might
need to drag her out of her sleeping bag at 2:30am
had rolled off my lips. And so in the pouring rain
and under the light of God at 2:30am, as I had predicted,
we frantically tried to bungee our tarp to whatever
our eyes could see during the flashes of lightning.
Our days of riding through searing heat, hunger and
episodes of PMS had brought us to that moment of truth
– Mom was right. We had been on the road for
six days, and that night was the first severe weather
we had encountered since leaving northern Ontario.
We were to sail the next afternoon and the morning
had found us both miserable from being wet through,
and tired. But I managed to get the anti-nausea patch
on her – I wasn’t going to take the chance
of my daughter being sea-sick for three days after
the ferry ride to Argentia, Newfoundland. Not a nice
thought, with her head above my leather jacket collar,
on a motorcycle.
Our
days leading to North Sydney had us riding with a
group of chick riders from Quebec; chatting it up
with the truckers who would pass us on the trans-Canada
then bump into us at the truck stop; fueling up beside
Halifax airport in heavy fog, during a “lowered
ceiling flight pattern”. The fog was heavy alright
– it sounded as though the jets were going to
land beside us to refuel. I had already worn my left
arm out first by having to repeatedly lift my girl
up and onto the high side of the bike, before climbing
into the saddle myself. This was the only way she
could climb onto the bike due to the load of gear
we had tied on. I would then have to lift her and
the entirely loaded bike up off the side stand, using
all the strength I could muster from my arms and legs.
It was a production that was viewed amusingly by all
who happened to surround us at the time. My little
girl was not so little anymore. Having a good forty
pounds over my own bodyweight, I strained to remember
the days when she fit into the back of my baby sling
on the bike.
The quaint little communities of Nova Scotia’s
southeastern shore had led us gradually to our designated
reprieve: the ferry terminal. We were directed to
the front of the motorcycle lineup while other bikers
and onlookers watched. Barely out of the saddle, we
found ourselves being greeted excitedly by other motorcyclists
bound for the same destination. I placed my bright
yellow Argentia card on the inside of my windshield.
The line of motorcycles had grown to include over
35 bikes, 10 ATVs and 9 bicyclists, with two walk-ons.
The motorcycles were the first to be loaded, and the
clanging of the steel hooked tie downs sent a rush
of adrenalin to my head. Excitedly Katherine and I
tied down my bike. The woman officer handing out the
tie downs informed us her position was visual watch
on upper deck, once sailing commenced. She chatted
with us and invited us to the steward’s office
. Once there, she took Katherine under her wing and
together with her own daughter gave us a personally
guided tour of the officers’ deck. Full internet
access and a theatre full of movies for the girls
left me free to enjoy the live entertainment in the
bar lounge. I had reserved dormitory beds, and after
a crew from Kinmount Ontario had bought me a few beers,
I found myself totally relaxed in the berth of the
ship.
Named after a former premier of Newfoundland/Labrador
and his wife, the ferry MV Joseph and Clara Smallwood
smoothly brought us to “The Rock”, as
the locals call it, after a16 hour overnight run.
The early hours of Saturday, barely one week after
leaving Ontario found us rolling off the ferry into
heavy fog and even heavier rain. It took just a few
minutes of riding from the ferry terminal to the welcome
centre in torrential rains to soak both Katherine
and myself through. Along with the other bikers, we
inundated the welcome centre with our rain-filled
boots and leathers, and begrudgingly pulled our rain
suits over our already wet clothing. The first 50
km on the Rock were barely tolerable. It felt vaguely
familiar –for a moment, I was back in Alaska
again. Desolate and alone, my daughter and I wound
our way through poorly marked highways until we reached
the top of a highway where the rain and fog just seemed
to mysteriously end – and the black flies began.
The view from atop the road was spectacular –
the craggy shoreline with its thunderous waves beckoned
for me to take its picture. I pulled over to unload
my camera and descended slightly for a better perspective.
Nevertheless, there is a huge difference between day
rides and days-on-end rides when it comes to tolerance
and insects. As I jogged back uphill to the bike,
I found my daughter swatting furiously at the black
flies.
“I wanna go home!” she wailed.
My daughter had turned five years old again and I
had sudden pangs of panic – Four weeks of this?
rolled through my head like the water below effortlessly
rolled through the deep crevices of rock. I looked
at the clean trail her tears had left down her road-dirt
cheeks and unsympathetically told her she had better
deal, because we were in the middle of nowhere and
getting there fast. It was not a very patient response,
let alone motherly. A few km later, the sun broke
through the clouds, lifting our spirits greatly. As
we wound our way around the Avalon Peninsula, the
temperatures grew warm and inviting. Eventually we
camped down south of Witless Bay, on the Eastern shoreline
of the Avalon, at La Manche Valley Provincial Park,
under hot sunny conditions. As a relaxed smile crept
across her face and without a word, Katherine helped
me tarp down…
Day eight of our journey to bonding found us arriving
at St. John’s in the morning, still under hot
sunny skies. We stopped at the waterfront to look
at the tall beautiful ships of all colours and origin
moored there. After a quick call to the Gower House
Bed and Breakfast, we headed up – and I mean
up the streets towards Gower Street. The hills of
St. John’s are something to be seen. With the
load I was carrying on my bike and the steep grade
of the cross streets I felt as though my bike was
going to do a wheelie. I literally had to demand Katherine
to disembark in order for me to make it through the
intersection. It is not easy trying to advance whilst
on toes, left foot supporting, left hand clutching,
and right foot on rear brake together with right hand
on throttle, perched precariously on the steepest
hill ever created by Mother Nature. The next day,
I learned one DOES NOT stop at a yield sign in St.
John’s. To do so is sacrilege – as one
woman was politely informed by the driver of the standard
shift vehicle behind her. For the next few days the
Hog stayed parked out front the colourful houses of
historic Gower Street, and Katherine and I took up
fitness – we walked everywhere.
The two days in St. John’s had put us in the
middle of the George Street Festival, an annual celebration
of music when buskers from all over the world gather
on the street and demonstrate their talents. There
were a few celebrities wandering around at the time,
and we were lucky enough to have spotted Goldie Hawn.
After passing Burton Cummings on the street, we followed
him into Fred’s Music Store. He graciously signed
an autograph for us. A score for me – my daughter
thought I was bluffing when he walked past us, so
I took her up on her dare to go and ask him.
Touring in and out of the many beautiful coves of
Newfoundland brought us to Dildo, located on Route
80, along the scenic southeastern shores of Trinity
Bay. I set up my tripod by the town’s road sign
and as we posed for my camera the locals in their
trucks driving by tooted wildly at us, giving us a
big smile. We laughed at their implied joke. At one
time Dildo was a thriving whaling and sealing community.
Dildo now remains a tourist destination, drawing visitors
primarily because of its name.
How did Dildo get its name? One possibility is the
name originates from Spain or Portugal, although its
signification unknown. It is also possible that the
name “arose” from the shape of the headland
that forms the harbour. Dildos are also the traditional
name for the two round pegs in a dory that braces
the oars when rowing. Dildo is also the Algonquin
name for a tree.
We arrived at Dildo during “Dildo Days”
– a community celebration of rural life in Newfoundland.
We passed the damp foggy afternoon inside the Dildo
Museum, which houses a collection of whaling photographs,
tools and artifacts, in addition to a well-informed
staff. After the giggles, we stocked up on souveniers
– stuffed penises – complete with hat,
nose and face - and of course, we could not leave
without our official Dildo Days button!
Cape Bonavista greeted us with hot sunny skies, the
perfect day for whale watching. From the bluffs just
southwest of Cape Bonavista Lighthouse we watched
as two groups of whales arched their massive bodies
out of the waters with great ease. A gathering of
tourists waited patiently with their tripods and cameras
for the “perfect breach”. Contracted by
England to search for new lands and the “route
to the Orient”, Giovanni Cabotto (John Cabot)
instead discovered lands west after setting sail aboard
his ship, the Mathew. Upon sighting land he yelled,
“O Buono Vista!” - meaning “Oh happy
sight!” spoken in his native Italian language.
With its name being derived from this accidental blurting
of words, the town of Bonavista was born. Access to
the fish and seal-rich waters had made Bonavista a
busy settlement for the Portuguese, Spanish, French
and English during the 1500s. One of the first settlements
of Newfoundland, Bonavista attracted wealthy merchantmen
from across the ocean and by 1677 it had grown to
be the second largest town on the island.
Down below our feet the thunderous crashing of the
Atlantic had carved deep gorges within the rock walls
of the shoreline. The water is so clear one can see
the root of rock well below the surface of the water.
The lighthouse keeper left his post to look at my
bike. We passed a pleasant afternoon chatting bikes,
lighthouse history and then, of course food.
Meandering our way towards Terra Nova Park eventually
had us riding in rain. A good-sized thunderstorm had
us seeking shelter for over 1 ½ hours inside
a service station outside of Bloomfield, along Route
233. Whether thirteen years old or three, a frozen
ice cream dessert is sure to pacify – it helped
Katherine to temporarily distract her from her rain-soaked
lower half.
Comprised of 396 square km of rugged coastline and
wooded lands, Terra Nova Park, Newfoundland’s
first National Park is on Bonavista Bay, once inhabited
by Eskimo peoples. Discovered artifacts helped to
date the first inhabitants at over 5000 years ago.
The abundance of fish had attracted seasonal anglers
and by the 18th century, the lumber resources along
the many inlets had given birth to the lumber industry.
Sawmills and steam engines eventually produced five
schooners there during the years 1925-1936. After
establishing the park in 1957, the federal government
seized control of mills that were still operating.
Now traveling Trans-Canada 1 West, our next stop was
Gander. It was time for a motel room. I had stretched
Katherine’s tolerance to the limit, and so decided
to treat her to a real bed. The woman behind the popular
motel chain desk peered at us from behind her glasses
and inquired as to whether or not we would like to
save a few bucks on a room rate. After an excited
“Sure!” she then gave us directions to
the Irving West Hotel. Strange, I thought –
but ten dollars is ten dollars, especially when one
is traveling for four weeks, so we took her up on
her suggestion to take a room from their competition.
Cruising down the halls to our room, we saw the chamber
maids filling boxes full with empty beer bottles and
cans - I began to understand why she directed us there:
it was the “have bike will party” premise.
However, it turned out to be an interesting night
of entertainment spent within the walls of a piece
of history.
Originally
a Holiday Inn and sold to Steele Hotels, the Irving
West Hotel Gander had once been a student dormitory.
Renovated and turned back into a hotel, the Irving
West still houses the original grand staircase from
its early days as a Holiday Inn. Upon entering the
old hotel I imagined myself Scarlett O’Hara
style, descending the grand circular in my flowing
gown (made from leather). The place definitely had
an eerie historic feel. Once upstairs, it didn’t
take me long to locate Legends Bar and Grill. The
walls were adorned with large posters of legendary
music artists, and this combined with guitar and drum
cases piled off to one corner fuelled my excitement.
Lucky enough to have found it on a Friday night, my
teen did what teens do best - relax in front of the
TV - while I enjoyed a night of great live music.
With a population just under 9700, Gander is part
of a rich Canadian aviation history. Housing a large
Canadian Forces Base and airport, Gander still is
a vital connection between communities of Newfoundland
and Labrador and the site for aviation military exercises.
A pleasant deviation from two-wheeled travel, Gander’s
North Atlantic Aviation Museum located on Trans Canada
Highway 1 displays military and civilian artifacts,
historic clothing, and an actual cockpit of a DC-3,
along with numerous other aircraft. Deceivingly small
in appearance, I found the museum surprisingly packed
full of interesting photos and displays. A gift shop
with unique gift ideas for the aviation buff added
to the experience. After spending an afternoon inside
the museum Katherine and I continued on, island hopping
on small bridges until we reached Twillingate, “Iceberg
Capital of the World” and one of Newfoundland’s
oldest seaports. It is located on Notre dame Bay,
Route 340, on the northeast coast of Newfoundland.
Arriving in August, we were unable to see the icebergs
– springtime is best. After a night’s
sleep at Dildo Run Provincial Park, we slowly made
our way westward to the highlight of our journey –
Gros Morne National Park.
We arrived at Gros Morne as the sun slowly sank westward
– Day 17. We were out of clean underwear! Deciding
to camp down early, the afternoon warmth was spent
washing our clothes and between dryer loads, taking
a dip in a very cold lake. Named “Spirity Pond”
because of the manner in which the early morning mist
dances above the water, Spirity Pond is fed from underneath.
At its deepest point it is 60 feet deep – little
wonder it is so cold!
Well, Day 18 started with bright sunny skies, but
gale force winds had made it very difficult to travel
northward along Route 430. We had decided to head
up to L’anse Aux Meadows at the northwestern
peninsula of Newfoundland. After, we hoped to see
Western Brook Pond on the way back down, but the bitter
Gulf of St. Lawrence wind blowing over the bluffs
made the deteriorating road conditions intolerable.
The further north we headed the worse they became.
I hit many potholes and had to reduce my speed greatly
to have any hope of avoiding the large craters in
the road. I had begun to worry that I would lose parts
off the bike. Katherine had begun to tire of “impact
soreness” so it took little convincing on my
part to talk her into abandoning our visions of rugged
Norsemen rushing to greet us as we arrived. We had
made it over half way to the most northerly tip of
Newfoundland – where the Vikings first had landed
– and – yes – we were quitters -
Giver-up-ers! Arriving back at Gros Morne KOA (Kampgrounds
of America) I paid for two more nights so that we
would have a home base from which we could explore
Gros Morne National Park – or so I thought.
What we did not know at the time was that the next
few days would be in solitary, sleeping like a couple
of hibernating bears, rained out, in Gros Morne.
The rain, which had arrived in the middle of the night,
had started to take its toll on our tarp. The continuous
heavy rainfall had slowly seeped its way into the
fibers of our tarpaulin and we had developed a slow
leak. It was necessary to cancel our boat tour of
Western Brook Pond due to stormy conditions. With
all options exhausted, Katherine and I braved it on
Day 20 and took the 3 km walk inland through bogs
and moose trails to the docks on The Pond. The tours
run as long as the cliffs are not densely shrouded
in fog. The rain had gradually stopped and left behind
a grey ceiling and light fog.
Approximately 165m deep, Western Brook Pond is a fiord
formed by glacial erosion. The steep walls of granite
enclosing this freshwater lake had been situated above
great sheets of glacial ice and remained untouched
by the erosive power of the ice. As the land rebounded
from the weight of the retreating glaciers, seawater
drained from the fiord, and the table of rock at the
mouth of the fiord retained the fresh water. The water
of Western Brook Pond is amazingly clear. Spanning
16km, it supports several species of fish including
Brook Trout, Arctic Char and Atlantic Salmon.
Despite the recommencing rain, we nevertheless enjoyed
the tour and our guide, whom, apparently according
to my daughter, thought I was “hot”. I
didn't think near-forty-with-teen could possibly be
“hot”. The trip had turned from exciting
to educating. I certainly had great opportunities
to glimpse inside a teenager’s head…
Despite being a terrible day for photographs, I was
happy we didn’t omit the tour from our plans.
Unfortunately, the walk back out to the mainland parking
lot left us soaked to the bone again from rain.
It
was now Day 21 and I was considering fashioning a
long pole for waking my daughter – she was getting
down right ugly in the mornings – and with good
reason. Even I had enough of the rain, after spending
several days holed up in a tent. The morning had held
promise however. The sun began to clear away the traces
of fog that shrouded Gros Morne Mountain. The locals
use The Mountain as a weather barometer. With our
spirits uplifted from the promise of a good riding
day, we left Gros Morne National Park and headed for
Cornerbrook. Scenic Trans Canada 1 West from Deer
Lake to Cornerbrook led us along the Humber River
to our right and to our last night on the Island.
It was a drive reminiscent of I-70 East to Denver,
Colorado.
Despite the lousy weather we had endured, I had a
slight ache in my heart. My daughter had so far endured
more “ruggedness” in just three weeks
than some people could have endured in a lifetime.
My teenage TV-watching junk-food–scarfing girl
had made me proud. With a cushy sofa being her natural
habitat most days, my daughter had endured long hours
on a postage stamp for a seat. We had become companions
– she helping me in times of need – like
when I buried my bike to the rims in pea gravel at
Terra Nova Park. It had been my daughter who dripped
with sweat as she pushed me while I balanced the bike
in order to get out of a bad situation. It was Katherine
who had helped me get the bike turned around in a
very steep and extremely rocky downhill grade campground
driveway. But it was also Kat who dispensed pink lemonade
from our cooler spout out onto the windshields of
the drivers behind us. And it was Kat who scrubbed
my mufflers clean of the same said lemonade. Yep –
we definitely had a system going, and I think for
the most part, Katherine had enjoyed it.
After spending the night at a quaint bed and breakfast
along the Humber, we departed for the ferry terminal
at Port Aux Basques. We were on the last legs of our
journey. A six hour ferry ride had us arriving back
onto mainland Nova Scotia. For the next week we made
our way home, without much incident. Other than a
small problem with a broken tailpipe (the result of
dropping my bike at a Quebec intersection - avec passenger
on board) the bike ran well, as did we. Our worst
weather homeward bound was in Trois- Rivieres, where
we rode quite some time in extremely heavy rain. We
arrived back home in one piece, with a load full of
memories. Our perception of each other had been changed
forever from our experiences. I had witnessed an inner
strength never before extracted from my daughter.
She had witnessed determination at its best exiting
her mother. We came away with a new understanding
of each other, although teenage life and single parenthood
very quickly returned after turning the doorknob to
our home. It is during times of desperate questioning
that we are able to reflect back on our journey together
and use it to gather the strength to carry on. The
farm must continue to operate - at times with just
two chicks and a hog.
Marine
Atlantic Ferry Service: www.marine-atlantic.ca
Newfoundland and Labrador
Tourism: www.newfoundlandandlabradortourism.com
Day
1
