We just discovered a good reason for pulling a short trailer.
Today we boarded the ferry for the 65-minute voyage across the Saint Lawrence. We lined up behind a guy pulling a trailer that must have been about 30 feet long.
With the tide out and the boat heavily loaded, the ferry floated well below the entry ramp. Vehicles had to enter down a short, steel ramp that sat at about a 30-degree angle.
The 30-footer’s tow vehicle went down nice and easy, as did the front of the trailer. The problem began when the trailer wheels reached the boat deck. The front of the trailer leveled out while its hinter end was still high on the ramp.
The scraping of metal on metal was as piercing as a scream in an Alfred Hitchcock movie. The driver stopped, but there was nothing he could do. He had to continue forward. By the time he parked, both of his rear stabilizer jacks were completely severed from the frame. His bumper had scrapes on its underside, but somehow remained attached.
We spent a couple nights camped along the Fjord du Saguenay, an inlet off the Saint Lawrence. Our next stop was to be a two-night stay along the seashore in the town of Saint Simeon.
Experience in the States suggested that reservations needed to be made months in advance for national and provincial parks, but I was assured by fellow A-frame owners that we wouldn’t need to worry about them for commercial RV parks in Canada.
Two weeks before our planned arrival, I sent an e-mail to our desired Saint Simeon RV park. No response. I then tried calling several times, but nobody ever answered the phone. Figuring that was a bad sign, I began calling alternative sites. None had spaces available.
Back when we camped in the bed of a pickup truck, that wouldn’t have mattered. We would have just pulled off the road and camped. These days, we need a legitimate campsite.
With Saint Simeon apparently out of the picture, I started looking for alternatives. A provincial park across the bay had a site available complete with power and water hookups. It was a good 50 miles out of our way, but it was doable and I quickly reserved the spot.
It was a 90-minute drive to the ferry terminal and the ferry folks advised riders to be in line 90-minutes before departure. That meant we needed to leave Fjord du Saguenay by 6:30 a.m. I normally don’t even get out of bed that early, let alone get packed up, hooked up and caffeined up.
But we did it. We made the ferry and got to our next campsite in plenty of time to get set up before the rain hit. A quick stop at a Tim Horton’s along the way took care of the caffeine need.
After starting in the Rockies, crossing the prairies and going for days through the North Woods, we have finally reached the Atlantic. Our original plan, of course, was to go from ocean to ocean, but our start on the Pacific got nixed due to a three-week delay when my surgeon insisted on doing a slice-and-dice on my hand.
We’re now circling Québec’s Gaspe Peninsula on a road that hugs the coastline. The breeze is stiff and the smell of saltwater perfumes the air.
Our route is peppered with brightly colored homes and dotted with small villages, each sporting a towering Catholic church steeple. Nearly all offer municipal roadside pullouts complete with restrooms, picnic tables and views of the endless ocean.
We were parked at one of these yesterday when an elderly lady walked past our trailer on her way to the community mailboxes. She stared at the state-and-provinces maps on the back of the trailer. Although she barely spoke English, we were able to have a bit of a conversation. We told her about our journey and she shared accounts of where she’d been in Canada and the U.S.
As we were ready to part company, she asked us the question we’d been asked repeatedly on our journey across our neighbor to the north.
Québec is like a country within a country.Through much of the province, about the only maple leaf flags we saw flew above post offices.Instead of the national flag, Québec’s provincial flag flew solo.It was worse than Texas.
From British Columbia through Ontario, about a quarter of the campers we saw displayed Canadian flags at their sites.None in Québec.
And even though Québec was one of the four initial provinces that banded together to form Canada, we saw nary a 150th anniversary of confederation flag or banner.None of the gift shops carried any of the commemorative souvenirs so prevalent elsewhere.
Québec refers to their provincial parks as “national parks.”That must confuse visitors who think they can take advantage of Park Canada’s 150-year anniversary free admission promotion.
Unlike provincial parks in most of the other provinces, Québec charges a daily, per-person admission fee in addition to a rather tidy camping fee. And they’re the only provincial parks outside of Manitoba we’ve found that have coin-operated showers. But the washrooms were clean (but small), and the parks abounded with activities from first-rate kid playgrounds to canoeing, kayaking and via ferrata climbs.
We saw very few big rigs in most of the Québec parks. Instead, the majority of campers we encountered bunked in tents or tent trailers. Families predominated, with nearly every camper clan having 2+ children, all under the age of 12. We saw very few out-of-province license plates and precious few folks spoke English as their native language.
Still, every adult we talked with spoke passible English, so our lack of French was not a major problem. One guy we met on a trail told us we should learn French in advance of our next visit. Probably won’t happen.
Our travels through the province were predominately a series of two-night stands. We would drive to a new campground, check in and set up. The next day would be a layover allowing us to hike, explore the countryside or sit in the trailer and wait for the rain to stop. The following morning, we would pack up and drive to our next site.
Our two-week journey took us to the Mont Tremblant ski village and adjoining provincial park. It was then on to Québec City. From there, we camped at Jacques Cartier Park, an hour’s drive north of the city.
We hit our first salt water at the Saguenay Fjord, crossed the Saint Lawrence on a ferry and camped in the mountains of Bas St. Laurent. From there it was up the coast with stops at a series of campgrounds on a route hugging the edge of the Gaspé Peninsula.
Along the way, we photographed lighthouses, ate fresh seafood, took a tour of world’s largest vertical-axis wind turbine electrical generator, visited a visitor information center whose walls were made from 27,927 aluminum beer cans and hiked to Land’s End at Cap Gaspé — the very tip of the peninsula.
We passed through countless small villages filled with colorful homes, most of which bore attractive front-yard flower gardens. Ideal for guys with weak bladders, each town sported a “Halte Municipalité, which was a small, in-town roadside pulloff complete with picnic tables, flush-toilet restrooms and endless views of the ocean. Unlike small-town America where houses are often surrounded by weeds, abandoned cars and discarded junk, nearly all the homes here were tidy and well kept. Our journey was a visual feast.
A week ago, we were looking forward to the day when we would finally exit the province of Québec. A few hours ago, we crossed the bridge and entered New Brunswick. The first thing we saw was a street plastered with endless signs for the same chain stores, motels and restaurants we have back home.
Boarding the ferry at Saint-Simeon, we watched the guy pulling the trailer ahead of us lose both of his rear stabilizer jacks on the sloping boarding platform. His were totally ripped off – completely severed from the frame. We boarded without a problem. Our turn came later.
We were heading for a commercial RV park south of Miramichi, New Brunswick. I had the address programmed into the Garmin, and Garmie flawlessly got us on the correct, narrow but paved farm road to the park.
“You will arrive in 200 metres,” she assured us as we blissfully drove right past the not-too-well-marked entrance to the park.
“Isn’t that where we’re spending the night?” my intrepid copilot-navigator calmly asked as we sailed by.
“Oh shucks!” (or something like that), I screamed as I realized my error.
We now had two choices. We could try to back up the length of a football field to the entrance or we could go forward to a pullout and turn around.
I first tried the backup option but backing up a 17-foot, single-axle trailer with a mind of its own down a narrow road is not an easy task. With no traffic and a bit of time, I suppose we could have done it. After a few yards of watching the rear of the trailer weave back and forth like a dog at a fire hydrant factory, I opted for the second option. We shifted into first and started heading up the road.
Pullouts on narrow farm roads are not commonly found in Canada, and this road lived up to the expectation. Finally, a kilometer or two up ahead we came to a farmhouse with a wide driveway and a large area of bordering grass.
Rather than pull into the drive and make a wide turn through the farmer’s front lawn, I decided to do a simple Y-turn turnaround. I’d back up, turning the trailer at a 90-degree angle so we’d be perpendicular to the road. Then I’d stop, turn sharply and take off in the opposite direction. The procedure worked perfectly, but I failed to take note of the slope of the ground I was backing into.
Reversing our path, we were soon back at the campground. We checked in, found our site and began setting up. After leveling the trailer, I started dropping the stabilizers. The first three corners went down perfectly. I then got to the fourth.
I found the jack bent back against the frame. Impaled on its base was a divot of grass that would have made Arnold Palmer proud. A swift kick straightened the jack, but the threaded screw-rod inside was bent causing the jack to oscillate violently as I tried to lower it. I got it down, but with another 40+ days of camping ahead, it needed to be replaced.
Fortunately, there was a major RV dealer just a few kilometres up the road, and for a mere $80+ I was able to buy a replacement. Two hours and one beer later, I had the new one bolted on and ready go.
Garmie, by the way, has now been placed on probation.
“It’s your own fault,” my always-right wife, Dianne, tells me.
I hate tailgaters, those people who cruise 65 mph down the highway a mere 10 feet from my bumper, or in our case, the trailer’s bumper. I’ve heard of too many people who have had their trips turned into insurance settlements by some tailgater who failed to stop in time.
Unfortunately, it seems that along with hockey and curling, NASCAR-style tailgating is a national sport up here in Canada.
“They’re just coming in close just to check out the maps you put on the back of the trailer,” Dianne suggests.
Our decal maps of the U.S. and Canada showing which states/provinces we’ve camped in do bring in a fair amount of attention. At our last campsite, for example, our neighbor popped over to ask why we hadn’t colored in Nova Scotia.
“Haven’t been there yet,” I explained. “But it’s next on the list after P.E.I.”
Nova Scotia was his home province and we proceeded to talk about places to go and things to do while we’re there. At other times, we’ve used the maps to show where we’re from and where we’re going in Canada. The Canadians use them to tell us where they’ve been in the U.S.
I just wish they wouldn’t study our maps from 10 feet back when we’re cruising down the highway at 65 mph.
We left Québec, crossed into New Brunswick and spent the night at Sugarloaf Provincial Park near the border town of Cambellton. In the winter, Sugarloaf is a one chairlift ski resort. In summer, their two-person lift is used to haul mountain bikes up to the top of the hill for what is apparently a thrilling ride down.
From Sugarloaf, we headed south to Mirimichi where we bunked two nights in our first RV park since Ottawa. For a commercial RV park, it wasn’t bad, and we were entertained every afternoon and evening by the seemingly 600 pre-teen kids who chased through the park like a pack of rabid wolves.
After an oil change in Mirimichi, we headed south to Kouchibouguac National Park on the coast. Our first task there was learning how to pronounce the park’s name (Koo-shee-boo-gwak) and then how to spell it without looking it up again on the map.
The park sported a long, sandy beach that Dianne longed to go to for a sun soak. Unfortunately, we didn’t see the sun much during our stay. Instead of a day at the beach, we hiked a riverside trail, photographed lobster boats, talked to lobster fishermen and caught a free concert by two Acadian musicians doing their versions of bygone American rock songs (remember the dead-teenager song, “Well, where oh where can my baby be…” by J. Frank Wilson & The Cavaliers?). I can’t get the damn thing out of my head.
Next stop was a two-night stay on Prince Edward Island, a place we bicycled across on the abandoned rail-line Confederation Trail ten years ago almost to the day. On that trip, we had excellent weather. On this trip, it was overcast on our arrival day and sopping wet with rain falling on our layover day.
Instead of wasting away, ensconced in our 84 square feet of A-frame living space, we took off on a mission to photograph the vertical-axis wind turbine electrical generator that supposedly resides on the island. Google hinted that it was on North Cape, so we went there first.
The test units that were originally there had apparently been torn down, but we were told a working one could be found 45 minutes away at West Point. A drive there provided a rainy look at a lighthouse, but no vertical-axis wind turbines.
Tomorrow, we head back across the 12.9-kilometer-long Confederation Bridge to New Brunswick. Nova Scotia, our ninth province, lies just beyond. I’m looking forward to applying yet another provincial sticker to the map on the back of the trailer.
After 67 nights in 29 separate national park, provincial park and commercial campgrounds in Canada, I’m ready to share a few observations about Canadian campground restrooms.
First of all, they’re not called “restrooms.” In English-speaking Canada, they’re “washrooms” or “comfort stations” and in French-speaking Canada, they’re “toilettes.” It doesn’t matter. The man and woman stick-figure icons are universal.
Almost without exception, the facilities are extremely tidy with crews often cleaning twice a day. Most of the time, they’re closed to entry when being cleaned, but not in Québec where the cleaning staff, which often featured members of the opposite gender, cleaned with the facilities in use. It’s surprising to emerge from the shower or stall in the men’s room and find a young lady washing the sinks.
Speaking of sinks, we’ve yet to find a campground washroom/comfort station/toilette that didn’t feature hand-soap dispensers. A few had paper towels for drying, but most of the time, it was just a blow dryer that often didn’t work or featured an output so anemic as to be worthless.
As for paper, the Canadians have perfected the art of making super thin toilet tissue, which is thinner than the individual layers in two-ply Charmin. It comes on giant rolls, which is good because one has to use an abundance of it to get the job done. And while it’s not quilted like half-ply Charmin, it is relatively soft.
All the national and provincial parks we’ve stayed in have featured showers. They’re free in all the national parks we’ve sampled, and also come for free in Ontario and New Brunswick provincial parks. Not so in Manitoba and Québec provincial parks where they’re coin operated, typically four minutes for $1.
We generally avoid commercial RV parks in the U.S., so our American experience is limited. But we’ve never been charged to use the showers in a commercial campground south of the border. Not so up here in Canada. Of the eight commercial RV parks we’ve camped in, three have featured coin operated showers.
I’m convinced that people who design campground showers have never used one. With few exceptions, campground showers up here come tighter than Superman’s phone booth and lack benches, shelves, hooks or soap trays. Shower curtains are rarely seen and dressing area floors are almost always wet. We take our own portable, wooden shower platforms so we have a dry place to towel our toes.
Now, of course, none of this would be an issue if we had a real trailer or motor home with full hookups or holding tanks.
Prince Edward Island has a great racket going. Getting there is free, whether it’s over the 12.9-kilometre-long Confederation Bridge or taking the ferry over from Nova Scotia. Getting back is another matter. The bridge toll for our car and trailer was $54.50. The ferry would have been even more.
For the most part, roads across Nova Scotia have been the best we’ve found in Canada. South from the New Brunswick border, we were on a smoothly paved, divided highway that would put most American interstates to shame. What they didn’t tell us is that about halfway down to the first major town, we’d be ambushed by a toll booth. At $5.25, it was far cheaper than the per-mile tolls on the ring road around Denver.
After a night in an RV park near Truro where we did laundry, we were off for Kejimkujik National Park (locally known as Keji) in the middle of southwestern Nova Scotia. Needing a potty break along the way, we stopped at a visitor information center located near the remains of an old bridge across the Shubenacadie River.
“You’re just in time,” the chief visitor informer told us. “The tidal bore will occur in about 30 minutes.”
It seems the Shubenacadie empties into the Bay of Fundy, home of world’s highest tides. When the tide rolls in, the up-flow of seawater overwhelms the downflowing river and a giant wave forms across the river narrows. We joined a few dozen others at an overlook built atop one of the old bridge abutments and watched the action. The Banzai Pipeline it’s not, but it was an interesting phenomenon to observe.
Dianne’s been longing to do her Lewis and Clark thing and paddle a canoe, something we’d been weathered out of doing so far. Finally, she got her chance. Under blue skies, we rented a craft and paddled our way up the slow-moving Mersey River. Shoulder and hand surgeries have kept me from doing upper body weight workouts for over six months, and after two hours of paddling, my arms were as sore as a starting pitcher’s after nine innings.
From Keji, we went to Halifax where we camped in another commercial RV resort for two nights. On our layover day, we drove to Peggy’s Cove, a world-famous site that draws in tour busses faster than a fresh horse pucky draws flies. After a few hours of tourist dodging, we went back to the car and did a drive around Saint Margaret’s Bay.
Our first and last stops on the drive were memorials to the victims of the 1998 crash of Swissair Flight 111. The plane took off from New York on its way to Geneva. Somewhere around Halifax, a fire onboard apparently took out the flight controls and the plane went down a few miles beyond St. Maggie’s Bay. Memorials to the victims stand at Peggy’s Cove on one side of St. Maggie’s and Bayswater on the other.
Next stop was a night at Murphy’s Camping on the Ocean, a commercial RV park in Murphy Cove owned and run by Brian and Marilyn Murphy. Our site was on a big open lawn next to a post that had a water faucet and a 15-amp electrical hookup. The water failed to meet health standards and came with a boil-before-drinking warning, and the electrical hookup was so weak, we couldn’t run our microwave or space heater.
Despite all that, Murphy’s will go down as one of our favorite commercial campsites so far. Every night at 8:00 p.m., Brian builds a campfire down near the water. Like breakfast at a B&B, it allowed us campers to meet each other and share information and stories. Along about 8:30, a huge pot of mussels arrives and is boiled on the fire. I’m not a mussel eater, but Dianne was in shellfish heaven.
As for the water and electrical issues, it turns out we still had plenty of good water in our freshwater tank and we managed to survive without heat or microwave popcorn.
From Murphy’s, we headed north up the eastern coast of Nova Scotia, visited yet another lighthouse at the end of a dirt road pitted with potholes big enough to swallow a MiniCooper and took yet another ocean cruise – this one a five-minute ferry ride across a small cove.
Our drive ended at the Hyclass Ocean Campground near where we’ll cross onto Cape Breton Island. The name is a bit boastful, but the water is drinkable, we can run the microwave, space heaters and heat-pump furnace and there’s snail-paced free Wi-Fi service available that even sometimes works.
But there’s no communal campfire here and no boiled mussels.
After a well-deserved catchup day at the Hyclass Ocean Campground, we took off for Cape Breton Island. This huge hunk of rock forms the northern end of Nova Scotia.
Our campsite for three nights was at the Broad Cove Campground in Cape Breton Highlands National Park. Even though we don’t have a potty onboard, we camped in the full-service section of the campground surrounded by motor mansions, fifth wheel and long, long trailers.
Three nights gave us two full days to explore the island. Our first mission was to drive the famed Cabot Trail. The 185-mile-long “trail” is really a motorway that circles the top half of the island.
It ventures close to the coast in places, nearly touching rocky shorelines and sandy beaches, and it winds over hills and through interior forests. Spur routes connect the Cabot Trail to fishing villages and summer home enclaves. Exposed drop-offs in places cause some flatlanders to find the route too scary for comfort. We pray these people never come to Colorado.
We drove the entire Cabot Trail and nearly every one of its spurs our first day there. While the scenery was exquisite and fellow travelers constantly raved about the drive, we both found it a bit underwhelming. Maybe that’s the result of becoming jaded after spending 2½ months on the road.
Dianne has been constantly harping about wanting to spend a day at a beach. Up the Cabot Trail a few miles from our campground, we found a gorgeous arc of sand at Black Brook. My lovely wife suggested we spend our second full Cape Breton day there, and even though I knew I would be visually assaulted by a host of cute young things in skimpy beach wear, I agreed to go.
It proved to be a delightful day. We sat in the sun, toes in the sand and listened to the surf gently roll ashore. It reminded me of Cancun without the monokinis, Maui without the mai tais or Jamaica without the ganja. But it was still nice.
Maybe Cape Breton Island is a pretty neat place after all.
