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.