Wednesday, May 12th
Going Down
And now the times are changin’
Look at everything that’s come and gone
Sometimes when I play that old six-string
I think about you, wonder what went wrong— Bryan Adams, Summer of ’69.
Grand Falls, or Grand-Sault by its French name, is at the eastern end of an area called Madawaska, the place of the porcupine. It has been settled by a people of French origin. They call themselves Brayons and are adamant that they are neither Québécoise nor Acadiens. The area stretches across the border into Maine and is known as the Republic of Madawaska, formed unofficially during a border conflict between the USA and Canada in the nineteenth century. To this day, the mayor of Edmunston is also bestowed with the title of President of the Republic. It even has its own flag that is flown at the Edmunston town hall.
The republic isn’t treating me all that well, though. I wake up with the only too well known signs of a migraine in the making. After breakfast, I have a quick look at the grand falls. I have been here before in last autumn. My notes from back then lament the rather disappointing amount of water over the falls. Now in spring, with snow melting in the mountains, the falls are really busy. The sign claims that there is as much water as at Niagara falls.
Following the usual pattern, the weather this morning is overcast. There are no big evil rain clouds, except some in the north where I am going. As I take off and across the hill, it looks like there actually is rather bad weather going on north.
I take a shortcut towards the main highway. It ends with a stop sign. Which raises this very philosophical question: If there is nobody to witness the event, will North Americans stop at a stop sign, too?
Up on the main route, a large yellow sign with blinkenlights warns drivers of the moose. And speaking of moose, here is an interesting little fun fact for the biologically inclined readers that Mr. McFadden made me aware of: Moose didn’t originally exist in Newfoundland but was brought there only a relatively short time ago. One pair was released in 1878 at Gander Bay and another two pairs in 1904 near Howley. From those six animals, a rather large, healthy population has arisen in the last hundred years. Intelligent creation at work (except possibly for the intelligent part).
Shortly before the town of Saint-Quentin it starts to rain, although the rain looks rather suspiciously like snow. Saint-Quentin has its centennial celebration this year as it was founded in 1910, originating from a railway line being built from Campbellton to Saint-Léonhard. The railway line is long since gone, only a small museum remains at the old train station.
Ahead, the weather looks rather dramatic. Dark, rain-heavy clouds are surrounded by a halo of sunlight with beams poking through.
Much like Saint-Quentin, Kedgewick, the next town is very francophone. At the end of town is a big sawmill, by name of Irving which may or may not be the same Irving that owns lots of petrol stations. The mill is blowing a lot of sawdust across the street.
We are here in the middle of the Appalachian Mountains, a mountain range running up the better part of the east side of the North American continent. The map shows an International Appalachian Trail, which is the Canadian continuation of the Appalachian Trail well described by one Mr. Bryson.
Through heavy rain, the road climbs down to Restigouche River, which is actually more the western end of Chaleur Bay that separates New Brunswick’s Acadian coast from the Gaspé Peninsula. Through the English town of Tide Head and French Atholville it finally arrives at Campbellton. I’ve been here, too, half a year ago, only arriving from the east along the Acadian coast. Back then, the weather was about the same. Only now, it has stopped raining and the spring air smells refreshingly after-rainy.
Last time, I crossed the bridge and, once in Quebec, turned right to go up to Gaspé. This time, I turn left to go north again. The road gets very lonely very quickly. We are running along the Matapedia River and share its valley only with the railway line connecting New Brunswick and Nova Scotia with Quebec and the rest of Canada. The weather can’t quite decide whether it wants to be sunny or rainy, so it does both in intervals.
My destination is the town of Metane on the Saint Lawrence Stream where a ferry service operates to the Northern Coast. During spring, a boat is leaving at eight in the morning and then again at two in the afternoon, going to either Baie-Comeau or Godbout. When I took off in Grand Falls, I thought I’d never make the two o’clock crossing. But I forgot the one hour time difference between New Brunswick and Quebec. So I actually make it with half an hour to spare.
Unfortunately, on Wednesdays the afternoon boat goes to Godbout, which is a tiny place about fifty kilometres east of the much bigger Baie-Comeau. If my migraine gets worse (as it normally does during the afternoon) and there is no accommodation in Godbout, those fifty kilometres will be bad. I could stay in Matane and take next mornings sailing. But then again, it is only two and too early to call it a day.
So I go to the ferry docks. There is two lanes for cars with reservations and one line for those without. As I have none, I queue there. I am not sure, whether the boat will be big enough for all the cars, but since there is more people without reservation waiting and they have Quebec plates I assume that it is. Eventually boarding starts and I am proven right.
I find myself aboard M/V Camille Marcoux, built by Canadian Vickers in Montreal in 1974 and named after a physician from the North Coast, as the region on the north side of the Saint Lawrence is known. The crossing takes two and a quarter hours. The boat has a galley and a bar as well as a resting room, but everywhere there is either TV or radio. The outer decks are closed except for a small section at the stern, where a lady has wisely brought a little portable radio.
The sun is shining over the Gaspédian side of Saint Lawrence, but there are black clouds hanging over the North Coast. Ten minute before arrival, all car passengers are called back to their vehicles. It is a strange feeling, sitting somewhere in the belly of a boat listening to the docking manoeuvre.
I also notice that, over the crossing, my migraine has magically disappeared. Rare thing these days. While we are docking, I inspect the map. I’ll be off the ship around quarter past four and would be in Baie-Comeau shortly before five. About one hundred and eighty kilometres the other way is Sept-îles. For whatever reason, it is one of those places that always has featured prominently on my mental list. Maybe it is the name. Maybe it is its remoteness. Now, it is only about two hours away. I should be there around six. Let’s go.
Of course, most of the people on the boat going to the eastern of the two destinations from Metane are going further east. So a convoy runs along the windy road, running up and down steep hills. The landscape is pine forests on sandy grounds. There are lots of lakes. I am not going to say Norway, now.
The road switches between the hinterland and the coast. Where it runs along the coast, there are trailer parks and little villages. Most of the time, it is raining, changing between a light drizzle and heavy rain.
A sign announces that we are crossing the fiftieth parallel. In Quebec, this means much. There are only few towns north of the fiftieth. In comparison: most of Britain lies north. That’s the difference a Gulfstream makes (and I am not talking about the aeroplane).
Sept-Îles is, with twenty-five thousand souls, a rather large settlement (and reading the Wikipedia entry on it may be worthwhile). Unfortunately, it has only about four motels all of which are thoroughly booked. I am told there is absolutely no way I could get a bed tonight. In other words: crap.
About seventy kilometres back is the town of Port-Cartier at which I glimpsed a motel. So one hour back. But no luck either. Full. Baie-Comeau, where I should have gone to in the first place, is one hundred and seventy kilometres, about two hours. I should be there by nine. All right then.
As I drive along, the evening turns into dusk and I start getting a bit worried about moose and other largish animals. With falling darkness, it gets ever so more difficult to see details in the forests by the side of the road. I keep my fingers crossed and press on.
As I drive through Godbout, where this odyssey started four hours ago, I spot the lights of a motel by the roadside. Fearing that Baie-Comeau may not have accommodation either and what then? I stop and knock on the door of the reception. Yes, they have a room and it is below sixty dollars with tax. So here’s what you get: A small room with everything you need, a TV with an antenna mounted on its top (I didn’t even try), and no Internet. But the room is spotlessly clean and even decorated with a jigsaw puzzle the owner presumably made. Since there is nothing much else to do, I have a bite to eat and go to bed early.
Beer of the day: Clancy’s Amber Ale (by Moosehead, which we passed yesterday. This was my emergency stash and a good thing I had it, too).