We’ve been home for a week now and Pam’s been after me to write something about our trek through Atlantic Canada. Well, what’s to say? We had a good time, 2,600 miles’ worth, great weather, lots of laughs, met friendly people, enjoyed the seafood, the local craft beers and ales, hiked some interesting trails. And somewhere along the way I incidentally learned the basics of van life.
Which is to say I learned that a van is not a motorcycle; that this is this, and that is that.
Before we set out, I thought (and said in this space), Pam would quickly tire of the journey. As it turns out, it was me who didn’t have the chops. I hadn’t gone through the van-life learning curve yet.
Note the land out there at low tide
Here’s the one big lesson I learned: Don’t wander.
In a van, always know where you’re going. And get there on the best roads; on interstates and secondaries that might as well be interstates. I learned it’s a helluva lot of work to go wandering down crummy roads to who knows where. A van is too much stuff to lug around aimlessly.
But whether you go down good roads or bad, it’s so nice to have the van there at the end of the day. You’re in out of the weather, grub’s in the fridge, two-burner cooktop, comfortable bed, lights and dimmers at the touch of a switch. When it’s cold, turn on the heater; when it’s warm, open up the three big cargo doors.
The van—this build in particular—makes for a highly civilized end to your traveling day. Jenna and Jonny studied lots of other vans, thought out what they wanted for their own and nicely executed.
On a night when rain pinged the steel roof, I said to Pam, as Bubba Blue from Forrest Gump: I’m going to lean up against you, you just lean right back against me. This way we don’t have to sleep wit owwa haids in da mud.
Done plenty of that. Rode wet and cold from the Adirondacks to the Rockies once. Given what I’ve learned about van life, I see now where a van can spoil your relationship with adversity; get you comfy, soften you up.
I found out a van is a completely different tool that works best if you know enough to adopt the mindset that goes with it. It’s a planning mindset, which is to say the one that hardly comes naturally to me. We never got to Newfoundland because I was unaware of the need to plan the trip. I’m used to winging it. Just go… see what happens.
Now that I know what I’m doing, here’s my five-part plan on how to get to Newfoundland from Rhode Island, in a van.
1) Get on the interstate and don’t get off it for 850 miles.
2) Pull up to the Marine Atlantic ferry terminal in North Sydney, Nova Scotia.
3) And get.
4) On.
5) The boat.
Doesn’t matter which boat. Depending on the seas, it’s six to eight hours to Channel-Port aux Basques, maybe 16 to 18 to the Port of Argentia.
Anybody can do it. Two easy days on good roads. On the night of the second day, morning of the third day at the latest, get on the boat.
But no, I wanted to wander around as if we were on two wheels (call it two each). So we got to New Sydney on day seven after poking around the desolate Eastern Shore of Nova Scotia, the Cabot Trail, the Cape Breton Highlands, often fighting terrific wind gusts. By the time we got to New Sydney I was both mentally and physically tired; tired of roads where crumbling asphalt ends just the other side of your starboard wheels, and there steps down to a thin ribbon of eroded gravel four to six inches lower, inviting you to damage a sidewall, maybe even cause an accident. Log haulers and wheelers and semis flew by so close in the head-on direction I wondered if I shouldn’t fold in the side-view mirror.
After six days of driving all the wrong roads I had zero desire to see Newfoundland again. All I had to say to the boat at that point was bon voyage. My idea of hell at that moment would have been sailing over to the Rock and piloting the van up and down the windy switchbacks of Gros Morne.
So that’s what I learned: If you’re going to Newfoundland, leave the house, drive to the boat, get on the boat. Don’t wander, don’t mosey. Don’t even think about wondering What’s down this road?
The Eastern Shore between Halifax and Cape Canso—forget it. I’m certain the graphic designer who colored it scenic yellow on the map had never been there. Unless by “scenic” they mean a long, ruined road through coastal scrublands of stunted spruce and birch where you rarely see the water.
The Cabot Trail through Cape Breton National Park is a Jekyll & Hyde road. You’re in the park, out of the park, in the park, out of the park. The federal road is lovely, the local stretches are falling apart.
On a motorcycle, not a problem. All you need is a small part of a bad road. You’re the fastest thing on it anyway—let ‘er rip!
In a van, good roads only.
Near a place we camped in Bras d’Or, Nova Scotia. Must have been brothers, 29 and 27. Lost at sea on a date uncertain.
Trees down everywhere we went. I’m guessing spring in Atlantic Canada was especially warm, wet and windy.
(I take that back: just read a news report on the Nova Scotia wildfires that broke out this week. It says their spring was warm, yes, but exceptionally dry. Who knows, maybe both extremes make trees more vulnerable to high winds.)
Our windiest day on the road was day seven, the day we turned around at the ferry dock in North Sydney and headed back to New Brunswick. Trees were down everywhere on the highway’s edge. It wasn’t unusual to see them pushed over in groups of a dozen or more. Hardly a mile passed without quite a few down.
A front was coming in from the east that day. For hours on end it felt as if the wind was trying to grab the steering wheel out of my hands. Pam doesn’t swear but she did on that ride. Once she grabbed the seat and the door for support and let out a frightened cry—JESUS CHRIST!!
Very out of character, which got us both laughing.
Though we never got to our intended destination we really did have endless laughs on this trip. But we do here at home anyway. Many a morning we start the day laughing about something before we even get out of bed.
She can’t really ever get mad at me because I’ll have her laughing in 30 seconds. Start talking to her in Hillbilly or whatever…
So after we swore off Newfoundland we had no reason to be in Nova Scotia anymore. We’d had such a good time in New Brunswick we headed back there. Stopped for fish & chips at Skipper Jack’s in Moncton, then drove up to Kouchibouguac National Park for the night.
Kouchibouguac… Not as hard to say as it looks: COO-she-boo-quack.
Pam was alarmed to see a porcupine wander into our camp that night. She was under the impression they can shoot their quills at you. I’m a city boy and think I was probably born knowing they can’t. She’s a country girl and got to be 69 years old thinking they can. What?
She was also twice under the impression that dangerous drifters were knocking on the van at night.
Wake up!! Wake up!! Somebody just knocked on the van!
Nobody knocked on the van…
I heard it! They knocked hard! Two hard knocks!
You were dreaming… go back to sleep…
Second night, a variation on a theme:
Wake up!! Wake up!! Somebody just knocked on the floor of the van!
The floor…? Somebody’s lying under the van knocking on the floor…? Go back to sleep.
But I heard it! Two hard knocks!
Next day, we headed back to Fundy, which had been the place we’d enjoyed most on the way up. Great hiking trails nearby, and we liked walking around the town just outside the park. Nice restaurants. And it’s a real town, not at all touristy.
We camped two more nights at Fundy then headed for Aunt Roberta’s place on Flanders Bay, in Sullivan, Maine. We had stopped there on our way up as well.
Here she is in her youth.
When we left Fundy and made for the Maine border, we saw a guy on a Triumph Bonneville struggling in the wind. A Bonnie doesn’t weigh anything, 500 pounds. He was going 30kph below the limit, drivers hanging on his taillight, whipping around to pass.
I matched speed and pulled in behind, not so close he’d think I was pushing him to go faster, but close enough that no one would pull in between us.
Bikers on four wheels (bikers I assume) have done the same for me, on coal-black night rides, in heavy rain, in punishing air… Got yer back, brother…
We rode with him about 40 miles before he got off the highway in Saint John.
Tony DePaul, June 1, 2023, Cranston, Rhode Island, USA
