Each year, I attempt to balance between experiencing Cape Breton and writing about our experiences. This year the scale tipped towards experiencing. My good friend Carrie Anne came out to stay with us, and we spent a week exploring Cape Breton. We began the visit traipsing around Halifax in the rain, a fitting parallel to the first day we spent in Dublin, back in March, but the skies cleared, and we had days of sunshine in which to make our way around the Cabot Trail, visit nearby towns like Mabou and Baddeck, and hang out at Big Spruce brewery.
On her last day here, before heading to the airport, we made the pilgrimage to Peggy’s Cove, which, despite its touristy nature, still has the power to amaze with its magnificent sprawling rocks on which its iconic lighthouse sits.
If you are ever feeling even slightly complacent about the beauty of your surroundings, I recommend you invite a guest (be sure to choose one you love dearly), and you will come to see your surroundings afresh. Carrie Anne’s oft repeated refrain, this isn’t at all what I imagined, is indicative of the fact that it doesn’t matter how much you have read about the Cabot Trail, or how many pictures you have seen, it is only when you are gazing at the vast green hills or peering at the red cliffs that you can truly appreciate their majestic nature.
Driving the trail brings one level of appreciation, but cycling brings another whole level, especially on the long climbs when you’re only moving at 8 or 9 kms/hr. Two years ago I cycled the trail in three days, riding about 100 km each day and camping with Phyll, who very generously drove ahead and got everything set up. It was on that trip that I rediscovered my love of bike touring and began to contemplate riding across Canada.
Suffice to say I have pedalled many miles since then, and have lengthened my daily mileage considerably, so this year I wanted to tackle the trail in two days. I also wanted to do it on my own, and to travel with minimal gear, given that the grades on French, Mackenzie, North and Smokey are all steeper in places than the mountains in the Rockies. I was hoping to book a motel or a cabin somewhere near the middle of the trail, which turned out to be a challenge given that the whole world seemed intent on visiting Cape Breton this summer, but I finally found a cabin at a campground in Dingwall.
In the past I have always gone around the trail counterclockwise, so this time I rode clockwise. As I started out on Monday, the dark skies brought forth the usual combination of mist, drizzle, and rain, but the morning was warm. By the time I hit my first bakery, The Dancing Goat, the rain had stopped momentarily. It was as I found space for a bag of cookies in my pack that I was met with a litany of questions from a tourist who was having breakfast on the patio with his wife. Where was I heading; was I really riding all alone; did I always ride alone. When I told him I had cycled from Vancouver to Cape Breton on my own, he jokingly said what about Newfoundland and Labrador, why didn’t I ride there as well? I cannot tell you how much I enjoyed informing him I had just finished riding across Newfoundland and Labrador. On my own! Why is it so many people find it unthinkable that a woman should ride on her own?
While the threat of more rain ahead did not weigh upon me, what did was my concern for our dog Griff who had grown increasingly anxious over the last few days and who had suddenly stopped eating. I was feeling guilty about being away while Phyll was trying to find a vet in Cape Breton who would see Griff, and when I got to Cheticamp and read the text that she was heading to Halifax because no vets on the island were taking patients, I felt even worse. What was I doing sitting outside a cafe with an iced latte, while she was driving hours with our poor aged dog? I was almost 100 km into the ride at this point, so it wasn’t simply a matter of turning around and heading back. Instead, I needed to shift my mindset. I realized that if I ruined the ride with guilt, I wasn’t benefitting either of us, so I got back on the bike and readied myself for the climb ahead. Though it was overcast and dark clouds loomed over French and Mackenzie mountains, the rain held off. Other than some short, steep pitches, the climb up French felt quite manageable, and the views were stunning. After a long winding descent into Pleasant Bay, I stopped at the grocery store, just to double check on directions to Dingwall. Just stay on this road, she said; it’s on the other side of North mountain. Ah, yes, I still had one more peak to go, and it almost broke me with its long stretch of 10 to 12% grade, which of course was under construction. My lower back was screaming, and I was feeling nauseous, but just as I thought I couldn’t pedal any further, I rounded the bend, saw a sign warning about moose, and knew I must be at the top.
Then it was clear skies and rolling hills all the way into Dingwall and the Hideaway Campground where I found my charming cabin and, nearby, a local grocery and liquor store with all I needed for a healthy enough if not gourmet dinner. If my day was long, it was not nearly as long as Phyll’s, who made it back from Halifax in the wee hours, with medication but few answers as to the cause of Griff’s distress.
My second day on the trail was magical, perhaps in part because, having texted with Phyll early in the morning about heading back to Guelph to see our own vet, I knew it might be my last day riding in Cape Breton this year. I packed up my bike and checked over the cabin repeatedly to make sure I left nothing behind, then rode away blissfully unaware that I still had the key to the cabin in my vest pocket. Only when I took off my vest did I feel it and realize at once what it was. Guess who rode back 8 km? The good news is it is much easier to add 16 km at the beginning of the day than the end of it, at which point I probably would have wept.
After I dropped off the key, I headed for Ingonish where my friend Lisa was staying in a cottage with her parents and partner. Though I would have loved to join them on their trek to the beach, I knew I needed to face the final challenge of Smokey Mountain, which, when you climb it from the south side is a fierce beast with over 2 kms ranging from 10 to 12% grade. Lisa had assured me that from the north side it was a breeze, and though I doubted her, indeed, it felt like nothing. I don’t think there were any sections steeper than 7% grade. What was challenging was controlling my speed descending; my poor hands were aching from gripping the brake levers relentlessly.
Once I was down, I felt like I was almost home, but even when I finished the Trail and reached the Trans Canada, I still had 50 km to go. I stopped to check my phone, and found a text from Phyll, saying she was on her way to Sydney with Griff to get X-rays done, and not two minutes later as I got back on the bike, Phyll flew past waving away. I was so happy to see her, and was happier still to discover I had a brilliant tailwind that took me in its embrace and made the last 50 km dissolve into nothingness. Well almost.
When Phyll returned with Griff, some hours later, we offered him a bowl of soft puppy food mixed with water, and he lapped it up. We still don’t know if he is having difficulty with his jaw or teeth, but at least he is eating now, and when we get home this weekend, we will hopefully get more answers from our own amazing vet and good friend, Jane.
And so, dear reader, I must tip the scales back towards experience, as it is time to begin the long process of packing up our home at Logan’s Glen.
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