Canada; Nova Scotia; Baddeck: The Telegraph House

Day 22
Miles so far= 1728

The Telegraph House, Baddeck.

 

The RCMP Trooper was telling me to lay back, the ambulance was on its way. I didn't understand. What on earth was happening? I looked around, I seemed to be laying in the middle of the road. A little way off a neatly dressed lady was standing by the open door of her car and between her and me my 'bike lay on its side with both panniers off! One was on the road, the other on the grass verge. Had she rear ended me? I couldn't remember. The Trooper enlightened me.

“From the look of things your chain snapped, wrapped itself around the rear cog and threw you off. The lady says you went quite high.” he grinned, “ but you don't seem too badly hurt, get you to the hospital though for a check.”

I must have passed out because the next thing I knew I was in the back off an ambulance with a paramedic shining a torch in my eyes.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” he asked holding up three fingers.

“Three.” I replied.

“You took quite a fall there buddy,” he said, “we're taking you to Baddeck Hospital to make sure nothing is ruptured or broken, or that you don't have concussion.”

“My 'bike?” I enquired with a feeling of dread.

“Canco Ford will pick it up I expect, there's always an emergency tow truck on duty somewhere, and Canco are the biggest garage around here. It didn't look too bad to me from what I saw.”

I relaxed a little and let the siren waft me back into a light trance, God but did my shoulder hurt though!

Baddeck Hospital

 

Compared to St Anthony's Hospital, Baddecks is relatively small. The 'out patience' surgery doubles as the Emergency Room. There were several Native Americans sitting there and it became clear that this 'idiot English 'biker'' was well down on the list for attention. I don't blame them for that, too often Native Americans get the raw end of the deal I found out. The duty nurse was nice enough though and fetched me a drink of water and did the paperwork. The doctor gave me a once over, cutting through the sleeve and shoulder seam of my favorite tee shirt in the process I might add, and sent me for an x-ray on my right shoulder. Ironically I had almost complete mobility in my left arm now. After a while the RCMP Sergeant appeared and took my details, and yes my insurance would cover the bill for the ambulance and hospital treatment, and since no one else was involved he closed his notebook and wishing me luck, left. Phew, another narrow escape, I must try and get some 'bike insurance, but where?

The day wore on and morning became afternoon, and afternoon evening. The Doctor reappeared looking tired and clipped my x-ray on the wall mounted lightbox. Apparently I now had a broken right shoulder. He and the nurse removed my tattered tee shirt to strap me up with what became known to me as my 'brassier'. This pulled my shoulder back so the bone could knit together, as this is all they can do for broken shoulders.

“You must keep this on for six weeks, and no motorcycling during that time. Understand?”

I said that I did and he left. The duty nurse, now an attractive blond in her middle years asked me if I had anywhere to stay. I told her that I didn't as I was just riding through, and she said she would ring around, although chances were slim as there was a regatta on. A short while later she returned and said that only one hotel had a room, The Telegraph House, and the owner was on his way to pick me up. That's when I met one of the nicest men you could ever wish to meet, Shawn Dunlop, a real gentleman. We went to his car together and he asked me if I had any toiletries with me, I answered that all my stuff was with the bike at Canco Ford, for the RCMP Sergeant had confirmed that they had indeed picked my 'bike up from the highway.

It was dark outside now, which surprised me a bit, but the local pharmacy was open and he waited while I went inside and bought toothbrush, toothpaste and a razor. Anything else would wait until morning.

“The cabin I have for you was closed for redecoration, but we did a quick tidy up and laid the bed, so I hope it will be OK for you.”

I told him I was just grateful that he could put me up at all otherwise I'd be sleeping rough.

“I'm afraid the TV is not very good, the original one has been moved to another cabin and the one there was due to be thrown out.”

Again I told him that the TV was the least of my worries. We reached the Telegraph House and he escorted me to the furthest cabin and let me in. The room was cosy, about 15 foot square, and sported a big double bed, chest of draws, wardrobe, two bedside cabinets and a bathroom/toilet off in the far corner. A TV stood on the chest of draws along side an electric kettle and coffee making stuff, and there were also a couple of armchairs with a coffee table and an upright chair in the far corner. Shawn asked me if I had eaten and I suddenly remembered that my last meal was a couple of maple syrup pancakes I had made for breakfast that morning outside my tent at Whycocomagh Provincial Park. Although the kitchen was closed, he said he would see what he could rustle up and soon a waitress returned with a plateful of salmon sandwiches.

I sat on the bed, clumsily took off my boots, ran my fingers through my hair and though, “Now look what you've done you silly bastard,” and polished off the sandwiches before turning in for the night, carefully positioning the pillows around me so as not to roll onto my broken shoulder during the night.

Miles so far= 1733

Next:Grounded in Baddeck.

Canada; Nova Scotia; Murray and Angel.

Day 20 cont.
Miles so far= 1661

Murray and Angel.

As I stood back on my heels, admiring this mobile mountain in front of me, the little black dog came to my feet and stood on his hind legs with his front paws on my motorcycle boots, tongue out, tail wagging. Well, what can you do? I just had to bend down and make a fuss of him.

“She likes you,” said her leather jacketed owner, “and she doesn't just like anyone.”

“I get on well with dogs,” I replied holding out my hand, “I'm Derek and much admire that mountain of stuff you've managed to pile on your bike.”

“I'm Murray and that's Angel, yeah I do seem to have overdone the camping stuff.” he grinned. “I've been visiting friends in St. Johns, now I'm heading back home to Vancouver. I've been on the road all day, so now I need a toilet and a cup of coffee.” He grinned and scooping up angel walked off into the Ferry Terminal Building. I went off to find a bench to sit on and wondered how long I would be stuck here.

A little while later I noticed Murray going to his bike, clipping Angel into her harness and riding off. “Must be going into town.” I though.

A few minutes later he appeared on the ferry road and parked his bike almost in front of me. There was only one way he could do that because I knew he didn't have a ticket when he arrived!

“Hey Murray, did you just buy a ticket for the ferry?”

“Yeah, they said next one will be about 5am tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” I said turning towards the terminal entrance. There was a lot of confusion in the ticket area, people milling around and stuff, and an anxious looking supervisor talking on her mobile radio. I queued, bought a ticket and hurried off to the car park. A few minutes later I was parked next to Murray’s bike and wondering what to do with the next 9 hours.

I tried the lounge with its aircraft style recliners and found the giant TV so annoying, and the seats so uncomfortable that I went back outside. I found Murray and Angel sitting on a bench and we talked for a while. It seems Murray had quiet a sad tale to tell. He was in his late twenties, early thirties, with black curly hair and a square jawed face of the type that always has a dark '5 o'clock shadow'. He had been married and had a well paid job in a nuclear reprocessing plant just outside Vancouver. Then there had been a radioactive spill and he and the crew in his shift had received a dose of radiation. This had made him sick for nearly two years, but the company denied liability and with their multi-million legal budget just kept delaying the court hearing. In the meantime he couldn't work, so they fired him. He couldn't pay his mortgage so his wife left him and the bank repossessed his house. He became suicidal and alcohol dependent. His doctor referred him for counselling and he met a 'hippy-chick' who introduced him to her circle of friends and he began a long climb out of despair. She bought him Angel as a present to give him a life that needed looking after, and apart from a little arthritis in his joints was getting back to normal again. She lived a couple of blocks from him in 'social housing' (council estate), if I remember correctly, and introduced him to herbal medicine. Due to the high dose of radiation he often had skin complaints and the herbal ointments and potions had been remarkably successful in curing them. So much so that he was now an agent for them and beginning to make a reasonable living selling them. He also had a part time job as a cook. Always a motorcycle fan, he had bought a small Harley Davidson rather than a car when he had saved enough cash. He told me that the court case was for many millions of dollars, but the 'no win, no fee', lawyers would get most of that if it ever came to court. Meanwhile some of his co-workers had died from cancer. So now he had taken time off to see relatives and friends in St. John's having taken the 'pretty' way across Canada, but now he was due back to work soon and so would scorch along the 'Trans-Canadian' Highway to get back to Vancouver.

Now at nearly midnight I left them to doss down and found a quiet bench over near the lorry compound then stretched out to try and sleep. A group of back packers had the right idea, they had pitched their tents on the grass and were comfortably tucked up in their sleeping bags. Why didn't I think of that!

Day 21
Miles so far= 1662

Bikers waiting at Port aux Basques

 

Very early the next morning, after I bought myself a breakfast at the terminal café, we all joined our machines again and pulled into a queue on the terminal apron. As usual the motorbikes were in their own section at the front and we waited as the ferry docked and discharged its cargo of trailers, campers, cars and motorbikes. That done we were ushered to be the vanguard of our contingent returning to the mainland. By now I was beginning to get a little movement in my arm, just as the osteopath had said I would, but I still had to grit my teeth in order ride up the steel ramp and down into the steel bowels of the ferry. I just have this vision of sliding on the polished steel floor and ending up in a heap in the corner. Everyone knew the drill having used the ferry at sometime, and we all retrieved the deck straps and shackled our 'bikes to the cleats welded to the deck.

 

'Bikes strapped down on the ferry

 

Murray popped Angel into the front of his jacket and striding past the notice saying that all animals must be placed in the ships kennels, said “I did that once, she was terrified, now she stays with me.” Seeing some of the ships crew on the stairs ahead he zipped the jacket up and held his backpack in front of himself so the bulge wasn't obvious. We found a couple of seats at the back of the TV lounge where there were dozens of rows of those awful reclining aircraft style loungers, and made our way to the middle of a row where we were less likely to get into trouble. Soon the ship sailed from the dock and I went on deck for a last view of Newfoundland in the cold misty morning.

It didn't seem that long before we were called to rejoin our machines and Murray and I shook hands saying goodbye. I was going to make my lazy way to Quebec and he was burning across Canada in two twelve hour stints to get to Vancouver.

Taking the main road from North Sydney I started to look for camp-sites. It was still early in the day, but I hardly slept at all during the night and reckoned that a good camp ground where I could cook a descent meal and get a good nights sleep would be the best way forward. The road passes the large Bras d'Or Lake and then passes through the Indian reserve at Whycocomagh. There was a signpost to a camp-site, but I was almost past it when I noticed it, so kept on going. Whycocomagh is just a little village so I was through it in no time and suddenly recognised that the junction coming up, with its distinctive barn, was the one I had turned off at when I followed the wrong road from the roundabout at Canso Causeway. How many years ago was that? Oh, three weeks ago. So with a feeling of completeness about it I swung back to Whycocomagh and sought out the camp ground.

 

 

I think I've been here before?

 

I'm sure the lady at the site office thought she was doing me a favour when she assigned me a pitch 'with a good view of the lake', but it was up on the hillside, and apart from the small circle of grass designated for the tent, there wasn't anywhere to stand the .bike without the danger of it toppling over. I left the 'bike on the road and walked up the slope to the pitch. Beyond it was a wood and I went into it to search for stones with which to construct a small flat ledge that the 'bike side stand could rest on. There was nothing to be found since the soil was clay and I could see no stones among the leaf mulch. I went back to the 'bike thinking, 'there's more than one way to skin a cat,' and untied my hand axe from where it nestled out of view behind the panniers. With this I reshaped a six inch square of landscape and was able to park the bike leaning it into the slope. Just for luck I tied a piece of rope to the front and rear and pegged it down lest a gust of wind should catch it and topple it down the slope. That done I unshipped the tent and set up my tent. After my meal that evening I went and did some necessary maintenance on the 'bike. The chain was a little loose, probably stretched a little in the crash, so I lubricated it and re-adjusted the tension. That evening, sitting by my tent, watching the osprey circling above the lake that was spread in a beautiful panorama before me under clear blue skies, now turning red and purple, I felt a deep contentment despite the travails of the last week. My arm was gradually healing, I'd had my sacrificial accident to appease the gods, the weather was perfect, what could possibly go wrong now?

Carved Osprey at Whycocomagh PP

Day 21
Miles so far= 1728

Next: The Telegraph House, Baddeck.

 

Canada; Newfoundland; Back to Port aux Basques.

Day 19
Miles so far= 1232

Back to Port aux Basques.

I did a couple of laps around the camp-ground roads just to see how I managed, not well would be a fair assessment I think. However the tracks were bumpy and rough so if I could manage them then perhaps the roads would be easier. I packed and loaded up the 'bike and left my little 'dell' only to be faced by a grazing moose, I'm not sure who was most startled or surprised, but she turned and disappeared into the bushes. Riding gingerly along gravel tracks I made my way to the Ranger Station where once more I thanked them for their help. Without that help who knows what sort of mess I would have been in? Then out of the main gate and turn left, past the scene of my accident and the open road beckoned.

The roads in northern Newfoundland are virtually empty. I see another vehicle about once every ten minutes, and a lorry about once every half hour, if that. As a nursery back into the world of motorcycles it is ideal and it wasn't long before I became comfortable with my dead arm, although I wasn't looking forward to crossing the bridges with metal gratings for a road. I guessed that they allow the snow to fall through in the winter but in the summer the metal becomes polished and slippery, you can see the polished sheen glistening in the sunlight from way off. Some have steel sheets as an apron leading onto the gratings, you just grit your teeth and keep as straight and level as you can, I hate them more than gravel. I knew I was about a mile from one of these bridges when I saw two motorcycles coming towards me. As we approached I automatically raised my left hand slightly in brief salute. A small gesture, but a big mistake. The slipstream caught my hand and with no muscle control in my arm, it was left dangling and flapping at my side like a wet fish. Now this was a big, big problem. I needed that hand on the handlebars so I could pull in the clutch lever to change gear. The BMWf650 has almost linear gear ratios. This has many advantages but it also means that you have to be in the correct gear for the speed you are going. In top gear, which I was in, the engine kicks and bucks like fury at under 35mph, causing the 'bike to lurch and sway uncontrollably. So how was I going to stop? Switching off the engine was no good because it would still be connected to the gearbox and result in the same 'bucking bronco' scenario. And I was approaching the slippery bridge fast. Maybe I could do what the early racing 'bikers did before synchro' gearboxes were available on motorbikes, that is juggle the throttle so the engine was matching exactly the speed of the gearbox. Neither driving it nor slowing it down. In that 'sweet spot' where there is no pressure either way on the gear wheels in the gearbox, you can change gear without using the clutch, it works in cars too. I just needed to find that 'sweet spot', and I was approaching the slippery bridge fast. I slowed as much as I dared, about 40mph, and then decided on an alternative solution. I swung my whole torso round violently and as my arm dragged across the petrol tank I grabbed at my map case which was strapped onto it. Then, spider like I used my fingers to walk up the tank and across the handlebars. Negotiating the wing mirrors proved difficult and I lost my grip and was back where I started, and I was approaching the slippery bridge fast. I tried again, and with the bridge now in sight finally got my hand in place, pulled in the clutch and dropped down a couple of gears. Oh how I whooped as I crossed that bridge, elated with my success and not worrying at all about how slippery or not it was. This killed my ghost about this type of bridge; and ferry ramps too I might add; but I vowed that any approaching motorbikes would just have to put up with a quick double flash of the lights, or the continental greeting of sticking your leg out.

I passed by Flowers Cove where I had spent a night in the B&B a week before. I passed St Barbe where I originally planned to catch the ferry to Blanc Sablon in Quebec. Unfortunately the road south comes to a stop about 20miles along that shoreline, otherwise I would have crossed there, if the road was paved, which it probably would not have been even if there was one. At last I arrived at Green Bay where I had camped before in the 'perfect camp-ground'. Unfortunately that spot was taken this time so I camped a little further up. With my wounded arm I had no intention of going through the whole rigmarole of putting up my tent, and since the weather was fine, I just threw the fly-sheet across the picnic table like a giant table cloth, pegged the edges down and decided that I could sleep under the table just fine. After cooking my dinner on my little multi-fuel stove, I didn't fancy trawling the rocky beach for flotsam, I went to check the bike over to see how my repairs were standing up to the rigours of my days riding. Everything looked exactly how it was that morning before I set out, so I felt pleased with my one armed effort. As I stood to return to the table/tent, I noticed a man who, out for an evening constitutional, had noticed my 'bike parked on the little driveway leading to my tent site. I had not wanted to drive it all the way onto my plot as it would be more difficult to manage in a small, tight space on grass.

“It's a BMWf650”, I called out, “not imported into Canada as far as I know.”

“It looks like a fine 'bike,” he called back.

“From your side, yes,” I replied, but from my side it looks like Frankenstein 's monster, come and see.” I invited, always ready for a chat with people sympathetic to 'bikers.

He came over and viewed the damage and the repairs that I had made while I told him the tale of my misadventure. He held out his hand to shake mine, but unusually used his left hand.

“Take it and squeeze it as hard as you can,” he instructed.

I did so thinking that maybe he had suffered a similar injury.

“Can you do this?” he said, touching each fingertip to the tip of his thumb.

“Yes,” I replied showing him, “my arm is dead from shoulder to wrist, my fingers work fine but I need to put them in place with my right hand first.”

“Almost certainly you will get most if not all the movement back, maybe a small stiffness at the full extensions, I'm a chiropractor and so should know. What you are suffering from is temporary compression damage to the nerve fibres when they probably got trapped between your neck vertebrae as you hit the rocks. How you didn’t break your neck is a miracle.”

I grinned and said “You are not the first doctor to tell me that I'm lucky not to have broken my neck, but the others didn't seem to know about the mechanics of it.”

“That doesn't surprise me, after all they would not be specialists at St. Anthony's, but I've seen a similar condition before.' he grinned reassuringly. “Good luck,” he called over his shoulder as he left me wondering how long it would take me to get back to normal following this woodland consultation. What a brilliant coincidence he was passing by. One of many coincidences on my trip, or was it 'synchronicity' at work?

Day 19
Miles so far= 1367

 

I was up at first light, being keen to get started and back to civilisation following last nights good news about my injury. Before long I was again heading south towards the ferry port of Port aux Basques. I passed both Deer Lake and Stephenville without stopping as I wanted to catch the evening ferry. Twenty miles further on and I had to switch over to 'reserve' and wished I had at least stopped for petrol. I knew there were various small ports dotted along the coast to my right, and coming upon a road that went in that direction and was paved, I turned off in the hope of finding a garage. About half a mile on and the tarmac ended so I faced gravel. “Forward or back?” I mused, “Oh well now I'll see how I can manage the gravel.” I thought as I moved off towards Robinsons. There were houses dotted about here and there beyond the hedgerows and I reached a tee junction. Left didn't look promising for some reason, and right had a signpost pointing that way for the school. Maybe that was where the centre of the community was, it was too spread out to be called a village. Yes! A small garage with two pumps. Unusually it was 'serve yourself', everywhere else, even the most remote places, either the owner or a college kid would be there to serve you. I put the bike on the stand and began filling. Like I said it was very hot, but while you are moving you don't notice. While I was stopped the sweat started pouring off me. Along the gravel road I saw a young man on his motorbike wearing shorts and a tee shirt. Riding pillion was a girl in a bikini. I shuddered at the thought of them falling off on the gravel and the painful abrasions they would suffer as a consequence. No helmets or shoes even, must be locals then, and done it a thousand times. My thoughts were interrupted when a blue sports car drew up with a pretty young lady at the wheel. At her side was a ruddy faced man in his mid to late twenties sporting a thick thatch of shoulder length blond hair, who leapt out and began to fill the car with petrol.

“Nice 'bike,” he called over the clattering whir of the pumps. “Would you like a cold beer or juice? We're just in the next house along.”

I said that I would and followed them about 100yds up the road where we sat on the porch drinking, me with my orange juice, him, his younger brother and two cousins clutching their cans of cold beer. The young lady disappeared into the dark interior of the house. We were next to a small warehouse and wharf, alongside which an ore ship lay berthed.

“What do they ship from here?” I asked.

“No one knows,” he replied, “the truck drivers don't talk to you either. Curious thing is that they dump the piles of ore, it's like a dark brownish purple sand, in the warehouses while it is waiting to be loaded on the ships, because it mustn’t get wet. We think the Newfoundland government has sold a whole mountain somewhere, but no ones talking. I'm only back for 'homecoming week', otherwise I'd maybe try and find out.”

Time was getting on so I had to make a move if I was going to catch the evening ferry. I said my farewells and left to search for Highway 1 and the route to the ferry port.

Approaching the ferry port gates I reflected on my time in Newfoundland, on the one hand I did have that bone jarring accident that left my 'bike scarred and me with the full use of only one arm, but on the other hand I had met some smashing people and seen some lovely places. Although I was now on a different route to that which I planned, all told I think I came out the better for my visit here, if my arm was going to go back to normal that is.

It was about 4pm when I stopped at the gates and told the lady at the booth that, no I didn't have a ticket but intended to buy one. She told me that the ticket office was closed and there would be no more sailings today because the port was closed due to industrial action. That floored me. I knew there was a terminal building there and asked if I could go there to get a meal, she pointed out a road running parallel to the dock road told me to follow it to just beyond the trees where I would find the terminal building. I did as she directed and after parking the bike walked into the chaos that awaited there. After getting a coffee and a bun, I walked around the building, on the grass that surrounded it and found a seat to sit on and enjoy them in the late afternoon sun. A lorry drivers mate joined me and gave me the whole picture. Apparently some of the men at North Sydney in Nova Scotia were on strike for better pay. Someone over there then said a bomb had been planted in the dockyard. This meant that the ferry in port there couldn't sail, and the one on it's way over from Newfoundland was not allowed to dock until the 'all clear' was given. Even so, that meant both boats were in Nova Scotia and it would be a while before they could sail. He and his driver had been waiting since that morning for their trailer with its container. He told me that in order to save money the goods vehicles sent only the trailers over, to be met by a tractor unit this side, and a Provincial Statute required all vehicles over a certain length to have both a driver and an assistant. He was pretty sure it was just a ploy to get the employment rate up, and as a retired driver had plenty of contacts to land such jobs. He told me he usually hooked up the trailers at the port while the drivers went for a coffee, meal and pee. He ate while they drove and then slept most of the way back to St. Johns, Newfoundland’s capital city, Newfoundland’s only city. Today was different though and he reckoned that it would be tomorrow morning before we would see a ship. After finishing his coffee and cigarette he strolled off toward the lorry park, and I wandered back to my bike. As I reached the car park I saw one of the smaller Harley Davidson motorcycles emerge from the terminus road, as I had done. The rider had his feet stuck out in the laid back 'Easy Rider' position that those style of 'bikes have, but behind him was a huge mountain of luggage that made my mouth drop open. Up until that moment I had never seen such a load carried on a motorbike in the flesh. It has a completely different effect on you than that of seeing it in a picture. I don't often use this word, but it was awesome.

Day 20
Miles so far= 1661

Next; Murray and Angel.

Sorry no pictures, my laptop is playing up