Ashfield, MA to New Carlisle, Que.
I'm not sure how the idea to make this trip developed. I know it had something to do with my brother's trip through the Gaspe in 1997. I met him in North Sydney, Nova Scotia after having personally ridden my bicycle across Newfoundland and returned via the ferry. He had also taken a ferry, from Portland, ME to Yarmouth, NS and ridden the length of Nova Scotia before our rendezvous.
I didn't continue riding with him but since I had my car I offered to shuttle him part way along his route. Anxious to see at least a part of the Cabot Trail together we drove to Meat Cove where Steve was able to get a site at a campground of some renown. I continued on around Cape Breton Island and made the long drive back home.
Steve's stories later about the rest of his bicycle trip through Prince Edward Island and the Gaspe helped plant a seed that sprouted 16 years later in my own plan. I limit myself to two week journeys during the summer months. It's a combination of having time available due to my high school teaching schedule matched with commitments at home, where my wife and I are responsible for care of the nearly 100 animals on our “small” farm. There is a limit to the amount of time she wants to be left alone with all of the chores.
I knew I wouldn't be able to get to Perce on the far end of the Gaspe peninsula and back in two weeks but there was a train that ran between Perce and Montreal and a bus line from Montreal to White River Jct. VT. I think this mirrored part of my brother's old route as well. At least the train ride did. Further research revealed that the condition of the track between Perce and New Carlisle, PQ was such that passengers were shuttled by bus over that stretch. There was a restriction against bringing bicycles on the bus leg of the route. Once back on the train, bicycles, as long as they were boxed, would be accepted for a small surcharge. I calculated the extra time it would take to cycle that distance and realized I could still just make it if everything went well.
As usual everything needed to go like clockwork and my departure on July 25 wasn't quite as early in the day as I had hoped. All the same I didn't think it would set my plans back very much since I wasn't expecting to go too far that first day and planned to follow the Connecticut River valley north for the first two and a half days of the journey. My first night's plan was to camp along the river in Walpole, NH. It was a spot I'd used quite a few years before, the summer before my Newfoundland trip, when I pedaled north to Mt. Washington and back as far as Stratham, NH.
That trip's first night on the banks of the Connecticut was an education. I had just started using a hammock for sleeping on bicycle trips and had not yet gotten any mosquito protection for the hammock. I had a rain tarp but that was all. I'd slept in trailside shelters many times and bug dope was all I ever needed in those situations so I never seriously considered the need for mosquito netting and couldn't quite envision how it could work even if I did think about it, which wasn't much. I had my bug dope and with the setting of the sun started slathering it on as clouds of mosquitoes started to hover around my head. It was a hot, muggy, windless night. I couldn't pull the sleeping bag up over my head because the heat made it just too uncomfortable. I couldn't fall asleep because even though the repellent was keeping the majority of mosquitoes from landing on me, the constant high-pitched whine of their wings only millimeters from my ear canal was just too distracting.
I eventually gave up and walked onto the bridge that spans the Connecticut from Winchester, VT to Walpole, NH. There was a breeze out there so at least I got cooled off, but going back to the hammock was not an option. I tried sleeping on a picnic table used by employees of some small manufacturing business on the VT side. That didn't work. I tried sleeping on another table near the convenience store a bit further up the road. The moths fluttering around the light over the table found their way down to me on too many occasions and I retreated from there. Standing back out on the bridge cooling off in the gentle breeze was enough incentive for me to pack up my gear and start riding. It was about 1 a.m. and I rode for a few hours north until a park bench beckoned. It was at opening time of the nearby store when people, going in for their morning coffee and newspaper, started giving me strange looks that I again packed up and continued riding.
As a stopgap I bought a mosquito headnet later in the trip. When I got home I worked out a design for a hammock net. It was a banana-shaped tube with drawstring closures at both ends. By running a parachute cord from one end of the hammock to the other I could suspend the tube as it surrounded the hammock and by pulling it the length of the hammock and cinching the ends I was completely enclosed in a fine mesh netting that kept out all sized bugs. The real test for the design came the following summer in Newfoundland and it passed with flying colors. It didn't prevent me from hearing the critters but, secure in the knowledge they couldn't reach my skin, the sound was much less close and worrisome. With the netting protecting me the sound actually lulls me to sleep and the system has yet to fail in these many years of use.
So this time I wasn't worried about mosquitoes but owing to the late start, and a flat tire en route, I got to the spot after dark. Using the headlamp on my helmet and a detachable flashlight from my handlebar I located a couple of well-spaced trees in the woods beside the state highway on the NH side of the river. A bit of sawing with a folding saw was necessary to remove a couple of saplings that rose in the proposed line of the hammock but before too long I was resting comfortably. The problem that night wasn't bugs but brakes. The trucks traveling on the highway often slowed down to make the turn to the bridge. Their engine brakes made falling asleep a chore. Plugging into a portable mp3 player was the solution to that problem but there is only so much tossing and turning in sleep before the earbuds either fall out or become uncomfortable. At that point you can only hope the truck traffic is light. It never entirely disappeared. It seemed busy and is probably the best route north from Keene, NH which I suspect generates the majority of such traffic in the area.
An early start after a restless night isn't conducive to long days in the saddle. All the same I was in Hanover, NH before the end of the afternoon and in Fairlee, VT about dusk. The route had been a mixture of state highways and back roads. One of the nicest stretches of back road happened between Hanover and Fairlee. Late afternoon on a gravel road with the low angle sunlight filtering through the leaves of the almost constant curtain of roadside trees made for a very pleasant ride. Just before crossing over into VT I stopped at a hillbilly-like convenience store in Orford, NH. The salesgirl had all her teeth which was somewhat encouraging but choices were limited to a can of something and since Dinty Moore beef stew was one of them I got that, Funyums, two pickled eggs and a Mike's Hard Lemonade/Black Cherry.
Looking for a campsite along the river meant finding a road that went down to the right as I traveled north on the VT side. There were only cornfields and woods for a long way until a dirt road through a cornfield looked like it held promise. I followed it downslope until it disappeared under a manure lagoon. The road looked like it might continue beyond the pond and make its way eventually to the riverside but unless I wanted to tiptoe through the margins of the pool or somehow bash my way through the corn outside of that I was forced to turn around. As I neared the road and its neighboring train tracks, at about the same elevation as both, a small wooded plateau revealed itself running over to a ravine with a brook at its bottom. The ground was covered with mostly horsetails and ferns with a few rusting pieces of metal but there were well-spaced trees for a hammock pitch so cursing myself for not noticing it on the way in I was nevertheless grateful I'd found something suitable for the night. It was just about full dusk at the point I'd gotten everything set up, heated my stew on my alcohol stove and had my pickled egg appetizers and then sprinkled the Funyums over the top to add some texture to the stew. The Mike's was no longer ice cold but it was a welcome accompaniment and by the time I'd cleaned up and packed everything away it was pitch dark. That's always the best situation for “stealth” bicycle camping. The road and railroad weren't too far away but the brook made enough noise to add a nice soporific effect and, unlike the night before, the traffic was largely inaudible.
The following day took me all the way Newport, VT just a couple of miles below the Canadian border. One notable memory from the day's ride was a pizza slice at Ramunto's in St. Johnsbury, VT where I left the Connecticut river valley and started climbing into the surrounding hills. By 3 p.m. on an all-day ride one is looking to fill a cavernous calorie hole. The chicken, bacon, ranch with broccoli and tomato pizza slice along with a tall glass of ginger ale made a nice dent in the hole. It was my first 130 km day. That number represented the daily average I was trying to achieve in order to reach New Carlisle in time for the southbound train which alternated daily with its northbound counterpart and meant an extra day's wait if missed. It had been no flat or downward sloping tailwind assisted gift of ride. Instead it was steady long rolling climbing for miles between St. J and Newport.
The sun was setting when I arrived on the shore of Lake Memphremagog. There was a bike path that followed the eastern shore of the lake and I went searching for its starting point when I met a group of college aged kids standing on a small bridge over the outlet to the lake. A couple of them had the same orange t-shirts which marked them as Climate Summer riders. I'd heard about the organization through the local papers back home. There were a few such small groups of bicycle riders who were raising awareness about the dangers of climate change as they pedaled a prescribed route and stayed with host families along the way. This was the VT/NH group and they were willing to smile for a group picture. I told them I was a high school environmental science teacher and would like to use their picture in a slide show I was planning to show my class at the start of the school year. They happily encouraged me to do so and gave me some places to look on the Internet to get additional information I could share with the class. I had earlier taken some pictures I was also planning on sharing such as field full of solar collectors and chicken tractors at an organic farm in Winchester, VT.
Thanks to their directions I found the bike path and also stopped at a supermarket to get some supper makings. A short distance north I discovered Prouty's Beach Campground alongside the bike path. The attendant at the gatehouse said the campground was full but thought she might be able to find a small corner somewhere to put me. When I explained I needed hammock trees she said I was s.o.l. in not so many words. I pointed to a nice grove of pines nearby and was told that no camping was permitted in there. I asked if I could cook my supper at one of the picnic tables in the grove and was told to help myself. As it got progressively darker and the attendant had departed, I toyed with the idea of defying her prohibition. Instead I pedaled just a bit further up the bike path and found a couple of well-spaced trees in among those growing a few paces from the edge of the path. The path seemed to have no traffic once the sun set. I figured I was good to go.
The following morning the path traffic picked up, mostly with walkers and joggers. If any of them saw me I was unaware of it. I packed up and departed about 6:30 a.m. and found a diner along the main street of Newport that served breakfast. I knew I was near Quebec province from the accents I heard in the diner. The breakfast was well-cooked, filling and inexpensive. My favorite kind of place for my favorite meal of a day on the road.
Soon enough I returned to my night's campsite and pedaled beyond it out along the eastern shore of the lake. It was a cool, sunny morning with beautiful views along the expanse of the lake. The graveled path was obviously an old railroad bed and it was an enjoyable ride. When I reached a t-intersection with a paved road, my recollection from studying the map was that the backyards of the houses along the north side of the road ended at the international border. I followed the road to the right and eventually reached the border crossing station in the hamlet of Beebe. I entered Canada with no problems and found a continuation of the rail trail a short way beyond the border.
It was called the Tomifobia Nature Trail and it ran to Ayer's Cliff. It lived up to its billing as a nature trail. There was also a monument trailside to an engineer and fireman of a derailed train who'd lost their lives in the mishap back in 1895. The rail line continued through Ayer's Cliff but was not maintained as a bike path and even though I followed it, it ended at the crossing of the Tomifobia River near where the river entered the lake. The bridge across the river was long gone and I was forced to retrace my route back to the local highway and follow it north. That section was part of the Google directions I was using.
Google bike directions are a bit of a crap shoot. They can lead you to some pleasant discoveries, like the two bike paths I just followed, and also take you where you wouldn't have chosen to go if you'd known all the alternative routes. In this case the directions had me leave the highway after a good deal of climbing only to descend on dirt roads to the shores of the lake, pass lakeside housing developments, contour along the edge of the lake and then take a right angle turn to climb back up to a paved road that took me into North Hatley at the northern end of the lake. A view of the map afterward showed a more direct route that maintained the elevation gained climbing the hills along the highway until it descended on the same paved road directly into North Hatley.
The algorithm Google uses to generate bike routes must be based upon road use statistics among other things. It seems to invariably send you along the less used roads that parallel your overall route of travel regardless of their relative bikeability even if it results in some strange right angle detours with the comparative road surfaces and angles being ignored. I've since learned not to follow most of the directions for such detours when it is obvious by reading through all of the turns they lead you back to the road you originally are on. In the case of the route from Ayer's Cliff into North Hartley I would have needed a topographic map to see the better route. At least the Google route was quiet, so it had that advantage over the busier highway.
North Hatley seemed like a lakeside village with a strong resemblance to my memories of Alton Bay at the southeastern end of Lake Winnipesauke in New Hampshire. I found an Intenet cafe and went inside for an iced coffee and a chance to check my email. It was run by two attractive young women and my French was sufficient to communicate with them to the extent that I learned their customer computer was not working and they really had no clue where I could find the continuation of the rail trail I'd been following earlier but was now part of La Route Verte, a series of bike routes that criss-cross Quebec province. I would come to discover that unless one was talking to a bicyclist most Quebecois did not recognize that name. “Route 1” of the trail system should, theoretically, be able to take me from North Hatley all the way to Perce and New Carlisle on the Gaspe. Finding the start of it was the first test.
Fortunately my Google directions took me to the beginning of the trail near a dam across the river draining the lake. Almost as soon as I entered the woods that bordered the river I encountered another touring cyclist who was resting near his bike and who looked like he'd been swimming in the river. We talked for awhile in English and I learned his name was Louis David and he was a student at the university in Sherbrooke studying special education. He was on a two day ride and seemed quite amazed at the plans I had for myself as well as my age, which he said was the same as his father's and who, I gathered, was not very athletically inclined.
I followed the path to Sherbrooke and it remained quite nice until it reached the shores of the St. Francis River and became a mixture of paved bike paths through golf courses and suburban residential back streets. It also involved some climbing and descending of country dirt roads and an odd double back to accommodate a detour around a closed bridge. At one point I was routed over an extremely rough dirt section that involved short steep climbs where I wasn't able to outdistance the deerflies. I saw two other loaded tourers who'd descended that section just as I was beginning my ascent. They had drop bars and were not enjoying the handling on the loose, cobbled, gravel surface. I was grateful at that moment for my straight mountain bars.
The ascent brought me up along a divided highway. After I descended from the path along the margins of the highway back to the banks of the St. Francis River I found myself lacking clear enough directions or one of the L.R.V. signs (which fortunately did exist but not abundantly so) to tell me where to go next. I asked a pedestrian for guidance but he appeared mystified by my question, “D'ou vient La Route Verte a partier d'ici?”
By a combination of luck and knowledge that the route essentially followed the river to Richmond, I was able to stay on track. The section between Windsor and Richmond did not involve climbing but instead followed riverside roads and gravel paths through woodlands. It was starting to get late when I reached Richmond and decided that I would buy supper rather than purchase a can of something to heat up. I did buy a can of beer and then visited a poutine stand and ordered the namesake dish and a plastic cup of beer. The poutine portion was generous and with two beers to wash it down it was very filling. Back on my way I found my route to be a gravel trail leaving the road to the right after crossing some train tracks exiting Richmond center to the north.
Not very far along the path I discovered a picnic/rest area on a small rise beside the trail to my right and was able to pitch my hammock using a couple of poplar trees, one of which was pretty spindly. Dusk was well along and there was no obvious traffic on the path at that hour. I felt pretty comfortable that I would be able to spend the night without argument. I did discover that that one tree was just a bit too thin to keep the hammock stretched tightly enough to support the tarp and mosquito tube so I dispensed with those and hoped that neither rain nor mosquitoes were in the forecast. As it turned out, neither were but I decided that should a situation like that occur again I would try to pitch the tarp more like a shelter half and sleep on the ground instead.
The entire next day was spent on the bike path. It amounted to 100 km total and was all gravel except for short paved sections in town centers, one of which was Victoriaville, famous home of hockey sticks, and a one-time favorite brand of my brother's. Not too long after I started out in the morning I found a place to have breakfast in the town of Danville. It required leaving the path and riding up into the town center but I found a nice cafe style breakfast place on a corner and the prices were very reasonable. Being a Sunday, there were lots of other people using the trail. It was also a very well-serviced section of L.R.V. and even had its own name: “Parc Liniere du Bois Franc.” The surface notably changed for the worse when I exited the “Parc.” Unfortunately a flat tire during the ride, a rather long nap on the grass in the shade beside the path in Victoriaville, and an average speed of <20 km/hr meant short “miles” on the day. It looked as though gaining back some of the time would require finding a parallel paved route.
The night was spent at another of the trailside rest areas (called “haltes”). Abundant trees meant no problems hanging the hammock. Other advantages over the previous night's accommodations included a wooden pavilion roof over the picnic table and a “flush” toilet outhouse. It was actually a pumped flush toilet and to adequately operate, the printed directions required some better understanding of French than I possessed. I think I bunged up the system since it didn't work as well as expected and some maintenance guys, who showed up as I was preparing to leave, had to muck around with it a bit. I was still there when they arrived because yet another flat tire had to be tended to. I had noticed the front tire seemed a bit soft when I put air into the rear tire, which was the one that had flatted the day before. For that task I had used a compressor at the convenience store where I bought that night's supper and used the pay phone (my cell phone does not have service in Canada so I use a calling card) to check in with Faye. Neither flat seemed to be the result of punctures by gravel however. They were on the inside edge of the tube instead.
Very soon after leaving the night's stop I encountered pavement in the center of the town of Dosquet. The numbered route (116) through the center of Dosquet seemed to parallel the bike path so I took a chance and stayed on the pavement, rationalizing that should the two diverge I would be alerted to the fact by the crossing of the path and could rejoin it at that point. But I missed seeing it when it occurred in the center of the next town and, as a result, ended up having to pedal some extra miles because the bike path led directly to Quebec City while the highway followed a meandering river, the Chaudiere. I did regain the route and one highlight was a crossing of the Chaudiere via a suspension bridge high above the water just downstream from an impressive waterfall. In my journal I remarked that the path leading to the bridge was “touristy, but what the heck, I AM a tourist.”
The ride along the south shore of the St. Lawrence provided nice views of the Quebec City skyline and followed bike paths until reaching the limits of urban development. From that point Rt. 1 of L.R.V. followed the south shore highway, Rt. 132, for the most part. Being day 6 I set my sights on getting a room for the night, having a shower, and finding a laundromat to wash my clothes. I found a “Gite” i.e. a bed and breakfast, in the town of Cap-St.-Ignace but the proprietor told me there were no vacancies. He asked me if I'd inquired at the motel in town, and encouraged me to retrace my steps and do so.
The major difficulty with the motel was the sign on the door announcing that a phone call was required in order to determine if a room could be obtained. I wrote down the number and retraced my steps once again to find a pay phone in the village center. The owner/manager of the motel said he would meet me at the door in a few minutes so I rode back to meet him. He took me to a very nice room upstairs (a place was found for my bicycle downstairs) and we agreed upon a very modest price but he would only accept cash. He told me where I could find a “guichet automatique” or A.T.M. which turned out to be near where I had found the phone booth. Once again I rode to the center of the village and collected enough cash to pay for the room and cover my other expenses for a couple of days. With all the back and forth riding I had managed 130 km for the day.
I was disappointed to find out that there was no laundromat in Cap-St.-Ignace. For supper I visited the restaurant down the street. I had the chef's salad which in Quebec is usually a bowl full of cucumbers, tomatoes, sliced hard boiled egg, and lettuce with Russian dressing. Meat does not seem to be one of the ingredients, unlike at home. After dinner I had a shower and went to bed lulled to sleep by the sound of rain beating on the windows. It had been a good night to pick to sleep indoors.
In the morning I had quite a scare. My left calf was sore. It felt like a temporary stitch but it wouldn't subside and actually increased while walking to breakfast at the same restaurant as the night before. A plate of bacon, eggs and toast in Quebec always seems to come with sliced fresh fruit, another change from home. Back in the motel room I massaged my calf but the pain persisted. I walked across the street to a pharmacy and bought a bottle of “vitamin I” (ibuprofen). I took a couple and started riding. Fortunately the pedaling did not make the pain any worse and with time it disappeared.
Despite the rain overnight and early in the morning, the day became sunny and breezy with most of the wind blowing from behind. I met a couple of other cyclotourists and the male told me the forecast called for three days of good weather. The route followed 132 for its entire length that day, with the exception of side trips into the small village centers that the highway did not normally traverse. I followed some of those and not others, usually when there appeared to be a gradient change involved.
The day's riding came to an end on the north side of Riviere du Loup which is a fairly large population center with a municipal campground along the shore of the river. The rates were reasonable and they had a buanderie (laundromat). My past experiences with Quebec campground laundromats have not been entirely positive but this time there were no problems and no other people to work around (it was 10 p.m. when I did my washing). I slept well in a small walk-in campsite that had spruce trees for pitching the hammock. In this case “pitching” had two meanings with gooey spruce pitch making my hammock ropes a bit sticky.
I got breakfast at the Normandin in Riviere du Loup. This is a chain of Quebec highway exit ramp restaurants much like Denny's and its ilk, if you substitute crepes for pancakes as part of the menu. The prices are right and the portions are large so it fit the bill. The ride went well. It was sunny, almost cloudless with a good tailwind on largely level roads until near the Parc Bic area where there were some hills.
I entered Rimouski, the next large town north of Riviere du Loup and went in search of a store. I had experienced yet another flat tire on the run in to town and it also wasn't on the outside surface of the inner tube. Examining the inside of the rim I could see where the rim strip was shifting to expose, ever so slightly, a couple of the access holes for the spoke heads. I suspected that either the edge of the hole was abrading the tube in that place or the lack of support allowed the tube to balloon out into the space and, like an aneurism, allow it to spring a leak at that point. I found a Canadian Tire store and bought some narrow fiberglass packing tape. It fit the rim bed exactly and covered the holes.
On my way out of town I discovered a bike race in progress. The city annually hosts an international junior development series that has some famous alumni. The team time trial was underway and followed the route of my ride. The roads were closed to traffic but a race marshal gave me permission to follow the road provided I stayed out of the way of the competitors. It was the oldest male riders who were competing in the last starts of the day and they were fast and well disciplined. I did not mind stopping as each team went by and cheered them on with shouts of “Allez!” They looked like top amateur or pro teams except the ages were younger. Watching a bike race is always fun.
Once beyond the course I began to look for someplace to buy supper. I found a convenience store where I was able to purchase a Knorr's Sidekicks Stroganoff along with a ½ pint of milk. I originally thought I would cook supper across the street at a church park but the mosquitoes drove me away. I found a beach side picnic area in Ste. Luce and the breeze off the water kept the bugs at bay. The breeze also made cooking with the alcohol stove somewhat of a challenge. But in the end I was successful and the supper was good.
The next challenge was finding a sleeping spot. The picnic area was too noisy and crowded so I motored down the road 10 km to Ste. Flavie. The halte municipal was locked and the small beach held promise but it looked likely that when the tide came in it would leave me very little room. The church yard across the street was devoid of trees in pairs but I saw a sports field and what turned out to be a hockey rink/tennis courts with its penalty box still in place. I used the floor of the penalty box for my sleeping surface but forewent my thermarest in the interest of a quicker getaway if necessary. I was sorry that I did since the floor of the box was too hard for cushioning with just the down of my sleeping bag.
The town employees who oversaw the caretaking of the sports “complex” came to start their duties quite early but I was able to get packed up and out of the rink area without drawing any attention to myself. For breakfast I found another Normandin restaurant at the top of a hill in an area that also served as the location where the divided highway reduced down to two-way traffic, a bike path and information booth were located there and a few other roadside businesses had set up shop. After breakfast I was able to score a free map of the Gaspe region at the info booth. Ste. Flavie marked the official beginning of the Gaspe penninsula at least for tourist orientation purposes. I talked to some other cyclists outside the info booth who were using the bike path but who gave me directions for continuing on my route from there rather than descending back to the road I had been following the previous night.
Their directions proved helpful by allowing me to cut off the right angle turn I'd have been forced to make and at the same time giving me a quieter, less heavily traveled route. They mentioned some other sights worth seeing along the way. First they talked about the Reford Gardens and after that came the historical stretch of road along the shore in Metis-Sur-Mer which the Route Verte signs (and Google directions) both coincidentally indicated was the route to follow. Since it shortly rejoined the highway I might have ignored them. I didn't have time to stop and enjoy the gardens but the ride through the center of the town with it's information signs on the history of the area was worth the “detour.”
The long stretch of road from there to Saint-Ulric kept me pedaling until I felt it was time for lunch. I found a roadside grocery store and purchased something to eat. As I went out to use a picnic table overlooking the St. Lawrence, and the small stream running into it nearby, I was asked by another touring cyclist if I'd mind sharing the spot. His name, I learned, was Marcel and he was a fit-looking 57 year old who worked as a printer in Quebec City. He was on a trip to Perce and back and said his friends all thought he was crazy but he didn't mind since he liked riding his bicycle so much. His English was very good so I encouraged the conversation to proceed mostly in that language but it helped to know a little French and we talked about the words for some of the animals at the farm when it came time for me to tell a little about myself.
We ended up riding together throughout the day. I waited for him in Matane, the last large town we would be traveling through, to give him time to visit a sports store and buy some panniers for his rear rack. He was towing a single wheel trailer and carrying some of his gear in a backpack because he was unhappy with a perceived surplus of sway. He was anxious to get the weight off his back and did not think it would affect the handling if it was placed in panniers. After finding a couple that looked good and moving the backpack contents to them, he said it felt better as we finished traversing the town and got back out onto the open road.
The road began to climb and descend more frequently from that point on. Marcel had more trouble climbing than I did, I guess because of the extra weight he was hauling. The trailer, all by itself, probably weighed as much as most of my gear. Also, he was only two days out of Quebec City and I'd been riding for nearly nine. My early mileage is never as much as later in a trip. I told him so.
As the day got later we began to consider stopping for the night however Marcel's idea of when differed from mine. Earlier in the trip, when I'd reached the end of the bike path and started the road- riding section near Quebec City, I calculated the daily mileage requirements needed to get me to New Carlisle in time for the train three days hence. It seemed like a reasonable objective if I put in 120 km (or 72 miles) per day. As we reached the town of Les Mechins and found a grocery store Marcel inquired about camping in the area. He was tent camping, a very logical way to travel by bicycle, and was using campgrounds as his stopping place. He'd spent the previous night at one in Ste.-Luce, one town further back from where I'd spent the night. I had ridden past the same campground as it was getting dark but chose not to stop. I can't remember if it had a “no vacancy” sign up or whether it just didn't strike me as accommodating, at any rate I went on to spend my night in the penalty box (probably a poor decision in retrospect.) When I told Marcel of my location for the previous night he rolled his eyes. It obviously wasn't on his radar screen as an acceptable manner of camping. I couldn't really argue with him.
He found out there was a campground nearby, Camping Aux Pignons Verte (Green Pines Campground), and seemed ready to make the move to stop. I told him I couldn't make it to the train on time if I stopped so soon. Again, a regrettable decision as it turned out. It would be less than 12 hours later when I finally faced the fact that, after carefully studying my new Gaspe map with its mileages, I wouldn't realistically reach the train without three 130-150 km days in succession, and that would only ensure that I reached New Carlisle before the train actually rolled out of the station at the end of the day. If I'd realized that soon enough I would have gladly gone with Marcel to the campground and ridden with him as far as Ste. Anne des Monts where I was going to make my decision to shortcut to the south and guarantee that I made the train with time to spare. Alas, we all have better hindsight than foresight.
So I continued on for another 25 km to Cap-Chat (Cape Cat). New England has its Cape Cod and Gaspe has its Cape Cat. One of the notable features of the town was its extensive array of wind turbines. In fact the biggest one was called Eole, which is the world's tallest vertical axis wind turbine at 110m. I reached the center of town in time to buy some things at the local epicerie and used one of the picnic pavilions at the halte municipal in which to cook my supper. I figured I gone far enough for the day at 141 km. The options weren't numerous. There was a bandstand which I inspected and rejected as no where near secluded enough to escape detection. The same problem existed for the picnic pavilions. There was, however a bank at the edge of the picnic area and it dropped off enough to shield me from view so I leaned my bike up against a bench and guyed my tarp off of the seatpost, staking the other three corners of the tarp to the ground. It was mostly for privacy since in a heavy rain I would have been chased out by the sheet of water running off the bank and in under the tarp.
As it was I was shielded from view to either side by beach rose bushes so I felt it would not be a problem making it through the night without detection. Unfortunately I didn't take into account the local teenage boy population who used the halte, after hours, for illicit beer consumption. I listened to their hoots and hollers for what seemed like an hour and at one point they discovered my tarp and approached only to rouse me from my reclining position which sent them running off shouting insults that I took to be what you might hurl at a homeless guy if what you spoke was French. The rest of the night was uneventful and I found a nice place across the road to have an early breakfast. In fact I was their first customer of the morning. It was during studying my map over breakfast that I made my decision to cut across the middle of the peninsula instead of following the coast around its end. My ride that day would take me only as far as Ste. Anne des Monts before I turned south. I hoped Marcel might overtake me somewhere along the way but it was not to be.
The ride to the turn off was uneventful. I visited a supermarket at the road junction and bought everything I thought I would need for supper that night. The road was uninhabited for most of its length, especially the section I'd be in by the time I'd need to stop for the night. By 1 p.m. I was on my way. The road, Rt. 299, went through the heart of the Chic Choc mountains for 140 km. It promised to chop about 2-3 hundred kilometers off the coastal route distance I needed to ride to reach New Carlisle. Even though I would be ascending from sea level to a maximum elevation of 553 m, or 1,797 ft., in the aggregate I didn't expect it was much different from the total I would have faced along the coast. The coastal route had started to involve a lot of climbing and descending due to the now closeness of the hills and the numerous bisections of them by streams flowing into the St. Lawrence.
It started raining before I reached the top and I put on my rain gear, having once before done so, needlessly as it had turned out. The rain became steady and made the second donning of the gear a wise decision. After a series of ~8% descents I reached the banks of the Cascapedia River and began searching for a place to spend the night. I stopped and received permission to fill my water bottles at an isolated campground/motel/restaurant/salmon smoking operation. It was completely unoccupied with the exception of the proprietor (I assumed) who was sitting on the front porch. I felt sorry to come and go without spending any money. He looked like he could use a cash infusion. I wondered briefly if I could ask for advice on choosing a camp site but that seemed egregiously cheap.
I began hammock-site shopping shortly after leaving and stopped and inspected and rejected at least a half dozen places before finding one that suited well. It looked like someone else had created it as a place to park a camper with easy access to the river. The rain had stopped and except for drips from the trees it never started up again. The night was passed very comfortably.
I started the morning of the eleventh day with lemon coffee. It is made with lemon-flavored water. I had started putting a lemon slice in my water bottle when I discovered it made the water somewhat more tasty after putting in one rather than throwing it away immediately after finishing an iced tea earlier in the ride. The lemon in this case had been purchased in Ste. Anne des Monts the day before. The water came from my water bottle and the coffee was obtained by steeping a Folger's coffee bag in it after heating on my alcohol stove. I don't think I'll repeat the experiment any time soon. The rest of breakfast consisted of a Clif bar chased with what was left of my trail mix, mostly sunflower kernels.
The remaining 50 km to reach Rt. 132 on the southern coast seemed to take forever. The river was very picturesque and I enjoyed the scenery but I was low on water and quite hungry so I decided to stop at the first place that presented itself. I found a small store and sports outfitter in Cascapedia St. Jules. It turned out to be far enough from the well-traveled roads to be quite expensive. The proprietor and his customers spoke English as, I was soon to discover, did most people in this section of the Gaspe. He told me that salmon were still running in the river but no fishermen were taking advantage of the fact. I also learned all the fishing in the river was catch and release and why I'd been quizzed by a game warden in the morning before departing. No fishing was allowed without a permit for a specific spot on the river. Camping was no problem but if I'd had a fishing rod I would have been in for a good deal of cross-examination. Another thing he mentioned was that climate change was altering the typical dates of the local salmon migration.
I continued on to the junction with the coastal road and an info booth with a pay phone so that I could check in with home. I rode into the center of New Richmond and found a cafe with a panini and espresso-type bar where I got a second lunch. I stayed for three “courses” and spent a lot of money as a result. Rain began and they let me bring my bicycle in under cover. The power went out, just after the third course. After I was finished I went across the street to a Catholic school with an overhanging roof in order to suit up. Just as I was all set the rain stopped. I rode to Bonaventure on the suggestion, made by the Cascapedia outfitter, that it was a good location for tent camping. I stopped in St. Simeon to ask about campsite space and motel prices but there wasn't anything in my price range. I saw a less fancy looking motel on the entrance to Bonaventure and returned after seeing nothing else that looked as inexpensive. The room was first quoted as being $106 but the desk clerk was willing to let me have it for $82. I was satisfied with that.
I had dinner at the Restaurant Le Rendez-Vous: brochette de crevettes (skewered shrimp) and dessert with coffee. Back in the room I opened a bottle of Maudite which is a Belgian-style ale from Unibroue, a Quebec brewery. At 8% alcohol and 26 oz. it had me feeling quite mellow and silly when I called Faye on the motel phone to tell her where I was and my plans for the following day.
I had until 6 p.m. to catch the train out of New Carlisle which was only 16 km away. The morning consisted of a stroll over to Le Rendez-Vous for breakfast, followed by a visit to the Intersport store where I was able to find a reasonably priced hockey bag to carry my luggage in once I boarded the train. After motel check out I visited the Acadian Museum of Quebec which is located in Bonaventure. It was very interesting with enough of the exhibit descriptions written in English to keep me engaged. I learned the list of surnames associated with the Acadian diaspora and recognized a few of them, though our family name was not one of them nor did I think it would be. Bonaventure was the location for the museum because many of the exiles had escaped transportation to Louisiana by fleeing to the Gaspe.
There was also a very amusing traveling exhibit on the Quebecois propensity for cursing and the use of religious terms especially in that regard. A carved statuette of a canoe full of Frenchmen falling from the sky was almost identical to the drawing on my Maudite beer label that I'd seen the night before. The story that went with the statuette was quite funny. It seems that the legend was that a love sick Frenchman in a spring logging camp made a bargain with the devil to be magically transported for a one night rendezvous with his lover. The means of travel was a flying canoe and he found willing volunteers to help him paddle it. The one caveat was that no one would be allowed to take the Lord's name in vain or the magic would disappear and their souls would be forfeited. None of them thought this was a hard bargain to keep until the wind blew one of the crew's hat off and he reflexively cursed bringing the spell to an end and sending them all to eternal damnation. It made the name of the beer more understandable as well, since maudite means damned.
The ride to New Carlisle was pleasant, flat and easy enough even with an empty hockey bag bungied to my rear rack. I found the train station and talked with the station manager, a woman in her forties, who appeared very capable and efficient. She told me all I needed to know about getting my bicycle and self loaded on the train and when I would need to be back to start the process. I then left to spend some time visiting the small museum which told of the town's founding by discharged British soldiers and Loyalist claimants following the American Revolution. I also learned it was the boyhood home of Rene Levesque, a Quebec premier and founder of the separatist Parti Quebecois.
Lunch at the beachside snackbar consisted of clams frite, Pepsi and an ice cream. Back at the train station I received the box needed for loading the bike on the train. It was wide enough to leave my racks and pedals on. The only requirement was removal of the handlebar since simply rotating it would not have been enough due to the length of my aerobars. I did remove the bar and, leaving the cables attached, draped it vertically beside the front fork and loaded the bike in the box. We sealed it with packing tape and the station manager hauled it into the baggage area. She had said I was free to transport it as is, without the box, but ViaRail Canada would not accept any liability for damage to the bike if I elected to do so. That didn't bother me but I knew the bike needed to be in a box for the next leg of the journey, a bus ride from Montreal to White River Junction, VT and it made sense to put it in a box now and have it ready for the bus trip when I arrived at the station. There were two other cyclists, a young man and woman, who loaded their bikes unboxed.
The bus from Gaspe rolled in but I was in line before them and allowed to board, along with the other New Carlisle passengers, before the bus passengers were taken on. The train had a “skyview” car with a second floor viewing area. I was eager to give it a try and found that it wasn't particularly crowded, most passengers content to sit in the lower levels of the train or in the dining car. We left the station and made our way slowly back along the coastline that I had already traversed that morning. The train lurched and pitched somewhat alarmingly and the speed never got very high. I had heard that maintenance issues were what prompted the need for a bus leg from Gaspe to New Carlisle. Later that summer I learned that the train would no longer run past Matapedia, essentially eliminating the Gaspe peninsula altogether as a route, making my ride one of the last opportunities for such a trip until further notice. Eight years later service has still not been resumed.
There was a conductor on board who was retiring at the end of the run. It seemed like he had been well known and liked and many of the stops featured tributes and well-wishes to his last ride from fellow railroad employees. Our station gave him quite a send off as well. The lurching of the train subsided after a while. The sun set and I snapped some pictures of it from the skyview car. I took advantage of the dining car and bought supper before returning to my seat in one of the regular passenger cars. One of the better things about train travel is the roominess of the seats as opposed to either buses or planes (at least seat prices I can afford). I propped my head against one of my stuff sacks filled with clothing and fell asleep. I slept reasonably well and didn't really wake up until the train was approaching Montreal. By then the car was full and the train was running behind schedule. We actually skipped a couple of the last stops in order to make up lost time. It was still early and my bus didn't leave until 11 a.m. so I wasn't panicking. Hopefully a convenient way to get from the train station to the bus station would reveal itself when I arrived.
As it turned out the bike was not unloaded for quite some time after the train arrived at the station. Then the size of the box became an issue since no cab wanted to take it. The “organizer” at the cab stand said he would find a minivan that would take me but the first one he approached flatly refused. The next one, driven by a French speaking African or Caribbean also tried to refuse but my advocate didn't take no for an answer and I was duly loaded into the cab bike and all. My greatest regret was the paltry tip I gave the guy. I was trying to draw down my Canadian money so that I wouldn't have any when I crossed the border. It's never worth much on exchange and I wouldn't be able to exchange it anyway until I got home. I also needed to save some for my grumpy cabby, though in hindsight I should have given it all to the guy running the cab stand.
The cab driver took me on a more circuitous route than I had remembered from studying the map, I think intentionally to pad the fare. As it was, I wouldn't have made it on time to get loaded on the bus anyway because of the multiple delays, but I was sure the bus that was pulling out of the station as we drove up was the one I had wanted to be on. I gave him what I had left for a tip and he gave me a sour expression in return. I dragged my box and hockey bag into the station and looked for a ticket window.
After purchasing the ticket I called Faye to tell her I was going to miss the expected bus and would not be able to take another one for about four hours. At least there was another one. We had been planning on visiting the Marsh-Billings-Roosevelt National Historical Park in Woodstock, VT mostly to see the Jersey cows they had as part of the farm there. That was supposed to take place on the trip back. Now my arrival would be too late to make that possible and she said we would have to go together at some later time, which we did. The bus wasn't expected in White River Junction until about 10 p.m.
The next thing I worried about was the size of my bicycle box. I managed to find some baggage guys who looked at it and said it wouldn't pose a problem. I had regretted not taking the time back in New Carlisle making the box a bit smaller but I don't suppose I could have shrunken things down small enough to have made it into the first cab that came by anyway. I just hoped the baggage guys were right about the box fitting on the bus. I was going to be first in line which was at least an advantage.
I spent a good deal of time just sitting and watching the activity in the bus station. It was a brand new building with some hipster style food concessions. I bought something to eat for lunch and fortunately my debit card was enough for that. The wait seemed interminable but eventually it got close enough to take my place in line (first) and when the bus arrived the driver seemed completely unconcerned about the size of my bike box though he wandered off to do some business before returning to take our tickets and begin the loading process.
The bike fit in the luggage compartment pretty easily and I took a seat directly behind the driver. It took a while but eventually we got into a long conversation, once back in the U.S. and I learned he was nearing retirement after quite a few years and over a million miles of driving buses. We also talked about the damage from Tropical Storm Irene which had wreaked havoc in Vt. He lived alongside the Conn. below White River Jct. and had seen the river rise enough to cause many problems in his town. We both enjoyed our conversation and I was sorry to see it end as we rolled into the bus station at WRJ.
Faye arrived not long afterward and since neither one of us had any supper, we bought something to eat at the Chinese buffet restaurant in the same parking lot as the bus stop. With my bike loaded in the back of Faye's car we headed home, about two hours away. I had been a very enjoyable trip and Faye is always happy when I come home with a smile on my face.