Deer Island, New Brunswick to Sussex, New Brunswick

Stepping from my tent, the morning light greets me, light pinks and blues reflected in the calm waters of the Bay of Fundy.

Driving back to catch the ferry to the mainland, I note the boats that are drydocked at low tide, my first taste of the low tidal extremes in this area.

The coastal route winds and dips, providing sweeping views of the Bay. It also showcases vast areas of farmland, along with my photographer's dream - abandoned farm houses and barns!

When I see a sign warning of moose, a tinge of homesickness tugs at my heart...

Today, I am following the Fundy Trail signposts, a blue sign with a white lighthouse. Seeing these signs every few miles reminds me of the markers along the Camino when I walked across Spain, ever guided forward with their reassuring presence.

The Fundy Trail is a joy to drive and hike, with incredible views of the Bay on this clear, warm day. The trail is currently only 15 kilometers in length, but is being extended with plans to, as locals share with me, rival Cape Breton's trails!

Doll house-like homes scatter the area, with spindling decks, curved roofs and windows aplenty. Some are in pristine condition and others more run down, but all are wonderful to see, as the architecture is so different from what we have in Alaska, with our timber frames and cabins.

Some homes are so run down I assume they are vacant, and when I stand on the overgrown lawn and take photos, only to have someone emerge from the doorway to greet me, I'm taken aback, but grateful they are flattered to have their home photographed!  Of course, saying I am from Alaska always garners a welcome attitude...

I stop at a church-turned gallery and the woman working the desk and I chat briefly while I wander about, looking at antique trunks I can't take home. I buy a couple of postcards and this woman, Bev, who is in her 50's and was born and raised in the area, suggests that I take a few minutes to take a detour down a road to a beach that is known mostly only by locals. Delighted by the opportunity, I thank her and seek out the road.

When I drive the short distance off the paved road, down the red, dirt road, I gape at the red rocks, caves and beach that awaits. I dip my feet into a clear stream and am shocked by its warmth. Always eager to be on the move and having a difficult time being still for long, I am surprised by my desire and moreso my ability to sit and rest and doze on the rocks for hours.

As I sit, I am aware of a growing feeling that I am being watched. There are woods behind me and I assume that there are people camping or locals keeping an eye on me. As I doze on and off in the heat of the day with the cool breeze sweeping over me, I jerk awake expecting to see people around me, only to find that I am still alone.  I guess I was dreaming that I was surrounded by a group of people, but it felt very real.

The longer I stayed in this place, the more I realized that there is an incredible energy of spirituality and renewal. Even now, writing this, I hesitate to try to put the feeling into words, so I won't even try. Let me jus share that my experience here was so powerful that I drove back to the gallery and when I walked in, Bev asked if I enjoyed myself. I am still pondering the conversation that followed, where she told me that she sees energy and knew that this was a place that I needed to return to, not go to, but return to. She continued to tell me that my ancestors came from this area, ancestors not from this lifetime, but from a past life. I will just leave it at that, as I am still processing all of her words, but it had a huge impact on me and so I wanted to honor it by including it here.

Driving back down the road into the evening light, I am filled with the sensation that I am not alone - not in this car, not on this particular trip, not on any of the journeys I have been on or that I will make. I had not been feeling alone or lonely, but still, I am comforted...

Calais, Maine to Deer Island, New Brunswick

Waking early, I treat myself to breakfast at a diner next to the motel and with a hot cup of coffee in hand, I take to the road.

Within minutes, I am in love with this large province that I have never given much thought to. The long, winding roads and this coastal route that at first provides small glimpses of the famed Bay of Fundy, and then open to breathtaking vistas of the blue-green waters that I have come to see ebb and flow in the most extreme tidal fluctuations in the world!

With a map, but no planned route or destination, I freely wander the scenic back roads that weave in and out of forested areas and wide open expanses. The sky is azure blue with just a few clouds floating about and the trees are green and budding and everywhere, the smell of the cool waters fills the air.

I see a small island, Deer Island, noted on the map, with a short ferry ride and with a love for tiny islands and any kind of ferry ride, I steer Lobsterina, as I've dubbed my small, red car, in honor of the lobster fishing industry in this area, in that direction.

On the small car ferry that holds just 8 cars or in today's case, 5 cars and 1 semi-truck, I meet Lawrence. He is sitting in his truck, arm resting on the window, gazing out in to the Bay and I am standing on the bow of the ferry, taking photos of the landscape. I am struck by how pensive he looks and when he turns his head and catches my gaze, I smile and he returns it with a large smile of his own, and I watch him wipe a tear from his eye. When I ask if he is alright, he gets out of his truck, joins me on the deck and we spend the rest of the ride talking. 

Lawrence is 86 years old and last month, lost his wife of 55 years. They lived on Deer Island for most of their lives and when she died, he was unable to face staying in their home and instead, stayed with one of their children. Now, more prepared to face the empty house, he is making the journey back home, alone, to begin to pack her things.

As the ferry horn blows to signal our docking and for passengers to return to their vehicles, Lawrence rubs my left cheek with his rough, calloused hand, leans in closely and whispers, "The night after she died, I woke up, feeling her rubbing my face, just like that. It only happened the one time, and I sure wish she would come back and do it again."

This man's grace and sorrow remain with me through the evening...

I drive the entire circumference of the small island in just over an hour and think about love and loss, endings and beginnings. All the while, I pass small wharfs and houses up on stilts and when I step from the car to take photos, I breathe in the salty sea air and this is when I realize, I am in Atlantic Canada...

I stop at a gallery and the owner tells me about a campsite whose sign fell down and hasn't been replaced and so which I missed. Grateful for the kindness of strangers, I delight to find a camping spot on a hill, beneath an oak tree, overlooking the Bay of Fundy. As I prepare camp, the cool breeze from the Bay washes over me, the sound of the incoming tide slapping against the shore lulls me deeper in to my sleeping bag and one final peek out the tent window blesses me with a view of the dark blue sky filling with stars and a crescent moon.

And this is New Brunswick. 

Still Dreaming of Canada's Maritime Provinces...

Back home in Alaska, I still wake some mornings with the taste of salt on my lips and the whispers of the Bay of Fundy's surf in my ears. The beauty of the landscape and the friendliness of the people of Canada's maritime provinces are forever etched on my heart.

Bangor, Maine to Calais, Maine

From Bangor, I snag my rental car, a snappy, little red Toyota Yaris, and head out for the Canadian border to make my way through New Brunswick, heading for Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. 

I am delighted to be distracted by the natural beauty of the area, and this first day, I manage to drive just 200 miles, all along the North coastal route 1, to the small town of Calais, hugging the border.

I tuck myself into a hotel in Calais, to ensure a good night's rest for the day of driving tomorrow and as a treat before the evenings of camping I plan to do...

Bangor by Bus

While many people I know have expressed that they would never make a long journey by bus unless there was no other option, riding the Greyhound bus is actually quite nostalgic for me. When I was young, my mom would drive me from our farm to Rycroft, a one and a half hour drive, and put me on the bus. I'd make a five hour trek to Gunn, where my grandparents would be waiting for me at Gunn Corner, stepping from their four-door brown Chevrolet car, arms waving and big smiles on their faces. This boisterous greeting always made me feel so special and so loved and the summers I spent at their farm provided some of my happiest childhood memories.

The first time I was to ride the bus alone, I think I was around 12 and I recall eating pancakes at the bus station restaurant as we waited for the bus to arrive. I was so nervous about riding on my own that I threw up all the pancakes and I learned what it meant to feel butterflies in one's stomach.

I've ridden the Greyhound bus numerous other times, from Edmonton to Grande Prairie to visit a boyfriend when I moved from my college town to the big city and he stayed behind, from Seattle to Edmonton to see family when I didn't have enough money for a plane ticket all the way from Anchorage to Edmonton and then later, from Anchorage to Edmonton when I sought out the adventure of seeing the countryside pass me by and making in stops in places along the Alaska Highway.

The longest Greyhound ride I've ever taken was in 2002, when I traveled from Edmonton to New York City to experience the one year anniversary of 9/11. Four days of riding the bus took its toll on my body and spirit and I recall finally arriving in to the Big Apple, my first trip to the city, and being complete exhausted and self-conscious of my cleanliness and swearing that I would never make that trip by bus ever again!

So, while riding the bus has its drawbacks, mainly that I can't stop whenever I want - to photograph an old barn or talk to someone selling vegetables at their roadside stand or explore a market or Festival, it also fills me with sentimentality, and for that, I will always have a soft spot for that old, familiar logo of the sleek, silver dog running the length of the bus...

 

Catching a 4am bus from New York City to Maine sounded fun and adventurous at the time that I booked my ticket, so that arriving at 2:30 in the afternoon would provide time to pick up my rental car and then have the afternoon and evening to explore my way to the Canadian border of New Brunswick.

Catching a 4am bus from New York City to Maine was not easy. I didn't trust that I would be able to take a nap at midnight and hear my 2am alarm to make the trek from my Brooklyn apartment to the subway and then to the bus station in Manhattan. So, I forced myself to stay awake, going cross eyed and becoming nauseous doing so.

On the plus side, I didn't have to deal with commuters.

Upon arriving at the Port Authority bus station, it was clear that I was not alone in my exhaustion. 

Twenty-six of us boarded the bus and I spent the next six hours being woken up every hour or so when the man sitting next to me jerked violently upright when his head would tilt and settle upon my shoulder.  I was too tired to care.

A brief bus change in Boston afforded me a front row seat where I chatted with Butler, a driver from Philadelphia who was driving the Boston, Mass to Bangor, Maine route for the first time. 

Our scheduled five hour trip took nearly six and a half hours because Butler was having difficulty following the printout of directions he was given. We turned around several times and he often stopped at forks in the road and paused for minutes on end trying to decipher the intended route. Why new drivers aren't provided with a GPS until they learn the routes, I don't know.

Thankfully, none of the riders were disruptive or angry and instead, those who were familiar with the route guided him to the appropriate bus stops. From the city to the rolling farm land, and all beneath sunny, cloudless skies, I was impressed with the driver's calm demeanor. When at last we disembarked in Bangor, I asked what he was going to do for the evening and he gave me a large smile and said just one word, beer. What could I do but laugh?

Thanks for the memories Greyhound...

Nova Scotia or Bust

I'm leaving New York City and heading for the Maritime provinces of Canada, including New Brunswick and Nova Scotia, before heading west to see family. I'm eager to explore small fishing towns, interact with locals and experience the Bay of Fundy's extreme tidal fluctuations. 

And, I'm off.

One Thing I Know For Sure...

... I am the happiest when I am in the midst of an adventure - moving, exploring, discovering and far from the known shores of home. 

Brooklyn Comfort

The ease with which I moved through the city this time around was wonderful.
Because my goal this trip was to reconnect with friends, I wasn't frantically running about every day, trying to see as many new places as I could.
I was able to spend time with each person I'd hoped to and I also created space and time to sit in stillness and just be.
I leave Brooklyn feeling full and satisfied, but not exhausted.
Bye bye Brooklyn. 
You are forever etched upon my heart.
I hope to see you soon...

Coney Island Fun

Spending time on Coney Island always leaves me feeling like a little kid, digging my toes into the warm sand, splashing my feet in the cool water, picking up beachglass, wandering the boardwalk, treating myself to lunch at Tom's Restaurant, all the while, surrounded by families laughing and couples holding hands and the smell of hot dogs, cotton candy, sunscreen and the beach filling the air.

Perhaps this is why Coney Island is the first place I visit when I get to NYC and the last place I explore before I leave...