Newfoundland Road Trip

Colorado to Cape Breton, Days 1-16

With time (and a nod to Annie Ernaux), the memories will fade.

—the excitement planning our Newfoundland road trip: plotting the 8,000 miles, packing the van, curating my little library, buying snacks, whittling my shoes down to five pairs (Blundstone boots, hiking shoes, slippers, flip flops, ballet flats).

—the first day, the first 691 miles across Colorado and Nebraska into Iowa, a ribbon of asphalt streaking across the heartland, endless blue sky above, golden green cornfields below. We eased into the trip, staring out the windows, settling into our next six weeks. Towns came and went in a blur of diners and gas stations, names I don’t remember, but places that have always been. Our conversations blurred, too, marked by the hum of the engine and the quiet companionship of being in motion. We moved east, crossing the Mississippi River in Iowa, where humidity greened the fields. We spent the first night at a state park in Des Moines, the lightening bugs and crickets of my Kansas childhood sending me to sleep.

—the first book of the trip, The Water Knife by Paolo Bacigalupi, a dystopian thriller about water scarcity, survival, and civil war that felt plausible since we’d taken a road trip across the southwest the year before, seeing for ourselves the drying Colorado River.

—day 3: the Detroit-Windsor Tunnel to Canada. After reviewing our passports, the immigration official asked about plants and animals and guns then wanted to know how long we’d been married. We stumbled… looked at each other wondering who would do the math faster. A long time? Thirty years? 1992. Thirty-two years! She waved us through.

—Ontario had neat and tidy family farms that looked prosperous and were all mowed, every 5+ acre yard, every strip along the highway, every bit of grass the cows weren’t consuming. We stopped for fresh tomatoes and corn. I discovered Tim Horton’s.

—We left Lake Erie and headed to Montréal. The road signs spoke French. We strained our brains to remember phrases from high school and college. Though I scoured Google maps and Yelp and Reddit to figure out parking before our arrival, we spent hours driving around and around and around the Plateau Mont-Royal neighborhood trying to find a spot where Millie (the van) fit, was allowed overnight, and wouldn’t get broken into. We arrived at dinner stressed and cranky, but P’tit Plateau was a neighborhood gem and cassoulet and wine soon worked magic.

—what I want to remember about Montréal: rosemary and sea salt bagels, pot pies and beers, cortados and croissants, tacos with Siena and Martin, popcorn and wine at Cirque du Solei.

—Quebec City was founded in 1608 and to commemorate, we bellied up to Bar 1608 at the Le Château Frontenac to drink Canadian whiskey. French voices greeted us. My brain and mouth responded in Spanish. The Forty Creek Double Barrel Reserve tasted of butterscotch and caramel then finished dry and peppery.

—repurposing old churches into libraries might be my favorite thing about the Québécois

—a farmer in New Brunswick welcomed us to park on his land and brought us fresh tomatoes. He then told us about the Halloween when he was a kid and ignited homemade explosives in the world’s longest covered bridge (which suffered no damage. We drove through it the next morning on our way out of town.)

—the charming seaside town of Saint Andrews by the Sea brought us our first lobster roll (disappointing!) and our first bowl of seafood chowder (amazing!) Definitely eat at Char & Chowder. The bookstore stocked a lot of Stephen King. Standing at the harbour looking over to Castine, Maine, I smiled at the story about how the Tory loyalists, not wanting to live in the new United States after the American Revolution, dismantled their houses and sent them floating across the water to found Saint Andrews.

—bumping down Goose Road in the rain to Martin Head for an epic camp site and sunset completely to ourselves, sipping whiskey while watching the Bay of Fundy tides seep in.

—coffee and sticky buns in Alma, a small village near Fundy National Park, and then the coastal road drive past rugged cliffs, forests smelling of pine, lighthouses, and ultimately, the Hopewell Rocks. The dramatic formations were created by erosion from the massive tides of the Bay of Fundy (the highest tides in the world.) At low tide, we walked the ocean floor, exploring the towering flowerpot rocks, marveling that at high tide, they’d be covered. The afternoon brought crossing Confederation Bridge, an 8-mile architectural wonder connecting New Brunswick to Prince Edward Island. The evening ended with fresh Malpeque oysters and PEI mussels, a front row campsite facing the Gulf of St. Lawrence, blueberry pie that we’d bought in Alma that morning, the waves roaring us to sleep.

—beach walks, writing inspiration from Lucy Maud Montgomery (I will succeed!), oysters, lobster rolls, gorgeous wool blankets from MacAusland’s Woolen Mills, drawing sand dunes, lovely landscapes but too much driving (though we were only some 2,500 miles into this epic Newfoundland road trip), a lobster supper in Charlottetown; I think my favorite place so far.

—reading The Dog Stars by Peter Heller, a beautiful blend of poetry and philosophy. This story will stay with me a long, long time—Hig hugging the tree, smelling its scent, savoring its life, longing for connection.

—meandering around Cape Breton, the Freya & Thor Gallery & Cafe made an oatmeal date bar worthy of duplication, and the villages with their church spires (and also a Buddhist stupa) beckoned around each curve of the road. We stretched our legs on Middle Head Trail, a finger of land past the Keltic Lodge, where dense pine forests and rocky hills met the gulf. We found an abandoned RV park to camp for the night, ate mediocre pizza from across the road, sipped wine, dreamed of the next day’s ferry to Newfoundland, certain we’d see moose.

Which memory resonated with you? Where will you road trip next? What will you read next?