Jedi-run Ferries

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Deciding to vary our route from land to sea, we choose to take ferries back to the states, via Deer Island and Campobello Island. My lost sunglasses delays our departure and we arrive at the pier just as the ferry pulls away from shore. Not to worry, the experience is the journey not the destination right? So we pull out our books and folding chairs, oh wait, no folding chairs, we took those out at home; we pull out our books and sit down on rocks by the shore to read in the sun.

We are first in line (obviously) for the next ferry, so when it arrives we have no example to follow. The outbound cars quickly unload; we start our car and pull forward. The car behind (which not surprisingly has local plates) doesn’t follow us. Interesting.

Okay, so we’ll wait.

No sign comes from the ferry. No movement behind. Three minutes pass. Still no sign. We inch forward to ensure we’re seen; no one in line behind us moves. Hmm.

Then a loud horn blast. Ah ha—a signal. Cars behind us start up and move. We head down the long, steep ramp (after all this is the Bay of Fundy and it’s low tide).

I think that the ferry operators are all Jedi. They use no words, only subtly outstretch their right pointer and middle fingers to our left (their right as they are facing us) to indicate stay to the left. Their two outstretched fingers raise slightly which we interpret as stop. When we land on the opposite shore the two outstretched fingers move ever so slightly forward—proceed. Men who have discovered an economy of motion.

One of the benefits of taking two ferries is that it supports my newly hatched plan to do things in twos when on vacation. Or pretty much anywhere. You see, rather than try a large variety of places, hikes, restaurants, and events while traveling and remembering few if any, I am trying to work with my memory I find that the more times I visit a place, see a person, eat at a restaurant, the better I remember the occasion. So if I eat 2 times each at 3 different restaurants rather than at 6 different locations, I will actually remember all 3 restaurants rather than have no memory of dining out at all. This is a new plan, so I'll see how well it works.

Working with my memory, we visit both the West Quoddy and East Quoddy lighthouses. Both are set in spectacular and quite remote locations; both are red and white. The West Quoddy lighthouse has nearly deserted hiking trails along the cliffside with stunning views. Both are worth the journey.

Tidal Duet

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Driving along a two lane “highway” in a fog so compact the visibility was no more than 20 meters, I was beginning to think our outing to Hopewell Rocks would not be worth the journey. Then the rain fell—hard—cascading down our windshield. Our progress slowed considerably, but the tide’s did not. We were racing time and as in all races against time, time always has the last laugh. We were hoping to get to the famous rocks near low tide—near enough in any case so that we would be able to walk along the beach around them.

I had suggested this day trip on a bit of a whim, having done no research, only quickly scanning a web page of no particular claim, that mentioned the rocks as an interesting sight. This excursion was pretty much following the same pattern as our family trip to the Desert Tortoise Natural Area or that no-tortoise place as we now affectionately refer to that particular destination. Our tortoise outing yielded not a single sighting of a desert tortoise, not even one in captivity. At least today the rocks were huge and stationary I reasoned, surely we’ll be able to see them. On the other hand, as I knew little about where we were headed other than world record tides flowed in the area, what if they were consumed by the tide by the time we arrived?

“Hey,” my husband offered as he voiced my concern, “maybe the fog will be so thick we won’t even be able to see the rocks.”

The radio DJ confirmed our fears—showers continuing throughout the day, tapering tonight.

Working on a positive spin I ventured, “But photography is enhanced by fog.”

“Not when there are raindrops on the lens,” my husband countered dryly.

Nevertheless we drove on. The sky lightened as we turned south from Moncton. Cautiously optimistic, my husband lowered the windshield wipers to intermittent. So far so good. By the time we reached the (nearly empty) parking lot we were much encouraged. Putting on our raincoats as insurance against more thunder showers, we headed into the park. Whether due to low expectations or a phenomenal natural setting—most likely both—our outing was excellent.

For starters, there is a good 3+ hours available to be on the beach after low tide ( a fact my husband had reminded me of while driving, but which I had chosen not to believe). We arrived in plenty of time for a leisurely stroll along the entire rock frontage, admiring the rock carvings from the flower pots to arches. The unrelenting abrasion of the ocean’s waters have worn away the rock, creating unusually shaped, free-standing 15 meter high rock sculptures. On the tops of most grow an assortment of flora, decorating their tops like a giant with bed head.

Of course we wanted it both ways and having walked the beach we were then eager for the tide to come in so we could see the difference between the dry and wet views. We stood by a large rock arch and literally watched the tide trickle up the beach as we slowly stepped backwards.

The tides in the Bay of Fundy routinely rise and fall by 40 or more feet due to both the physical shape of the bay with a wide, deep mouth and narrow, shallow basin and perhaps more importantly, the length of the bay which amplifies the effect as the time it takes the water to fill the bay is equal to the length of time from low to high tide. Like a wave in a bathtub, subsequent waves are amplified.

Watching the water steadily trickle up the beach was mesmerizing in both its gradual, patient flow and in the power of time to continually pull the water up against the rocks and then draw the water back into the ocean depths, day after day, eon after eon. The immense and the minuscule paired together in a ceaseless duet of which we could only stay for but a brief phrase. Without question the effect was worth the journey.

St Andrews, New Brunswick

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Having gotten into the ridiculous habit of taking tea with breakfast (something I only do when I’m not at home) and then taking a walk, I find I need to find frequent rest stops along my route. So I have found numerous available restrooms throughout town including the eco-friendly, if not olfactory-friendly port-o-potties at the back of Centennial Park.

Of course, part of the reason it’s been a necessity to find restrooms around town is due to the friendliness of our inn staff. One always seems to be waiting just inside to open the door as we approach. And then quite congenially, he will ask about our outing and not in a cursory manner. No, multiple questions and further suggestions to enhance our stay will ensue as I slowly back up the stairs while attempting to maintain eye contact. In fact he is a superb host, I simply don’t value his engaging personality when I have consumed a full liter of liquid in less than an hour!

As I’ve walked about St. Andrews I have found this friendliness pervasive. We’ve only been in town 2 days and we’ve had fabulous strawberry blueberry cobbler offered to us twice (we accepted on both occasions), found a coffee shop and later been greeted by the owners while walking through town, and learned the ups and downs of retail in a seasonal tourist town from an artisan shopkeeper. St. Andrews is a compact town with all of the necessities for a relaxing vacation – great places to walk, natural features to explore, a coffee shop with lattes, a fabulous lunch café with a local following and the aforementioned friendly locals. There is even a water spigot and bowl just for four footed friends. I have learned the job and the etymology of wharfinger. I have watched a ship’s hull being painted while beached at low tide and seen the same vessel surrounded by water 6 hours later. There is always an available parking space on the main street, although we have always walked into and around town. Enchanting gardens are found at the top of the hill (I could write an entire blog on the gardens alone). And the daily rise and fall of the tide, 5 1/2 meters at a time, is fascinating in its consistency and grandeur. I highly recommend St. Andrews, New Brunswick for a visit of a day or a week!

Nearly Downeast

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We are looking for a post office. One of the oddities I enjoy in rural areas of the country is that every town, no matter how small, seems to have a post office. Well, either we’re not on the main road through these towns (which we are as it’s the only road on the map) or, more likely, the postal clerk wanted to shorten his commute and set up the post office in his living room. There couldn’t be more than 10 people living in some of these towns. Although from the looks of things they each have owned about 3 cars a piece. And at one point, this must have been a well traveled route, for we pass more than a few boarded up motels.

My family has made a game of finding rusty machinery around the country. There’s quite a bit out there and today is no exception. We definitely saw Mike Mulligan’s steam shovel’s cousin and the tractors posted on poles were a highlight for well-displayed rusty machinery.

Clearly the Lupine Lady herself came through here; the lupine bloom in profusion all along the roadside. Lupine and rusty machinery, no post offices. And no gas stations. We’re looking for one to fill up before the border. The one large sign we pass ‘GAS’ sports no price-- obviously a gas station for the desperate, which we’re not... yet.

The border town, Calais, bustles with activity. Could the border truly require this much human support? Apparently they’re not making effective use of the significant quantity of potential employees as the Canadians have chosen to open exactly one customs lane and the line of cars snakes all the way back and through a traffic light. We are at a standstill. Is the border closed? How is it that no one is moving? As we are behind an RV we have no view of what’s happening up ahead so I get out walk up the line a bit. I even find a pizza shop and buy an iced tea before heading back to the car. Sufficient drivers have exited their cars to raise the attention of the border guards, and 2 more lanes are open. The line of cars glides slowly ahead.

Ways to arouse a border guards suspicion:
o wife drives, husband rides shotgun
o solidly dented rear panel and busted taillight
o large suitcase visible in rear seat even though you appear to have an ample size trunk

and the coup de grace, when the border guard asks you to confirm that he is reading your license plate, say no, that’s not it and tell him some totally random string of numbers and letters (okay, not totally random, it was a license plate from another car I drive). Somehow I must have thrown in one comment that removed suspicion; we were allowed into Canada.

The Violin Recital

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Church basement, fluorescent lights, frayed red rug, metal folding chairs—a timeless setting for a violin recital. This is my daughter’s 4th (or is it 5th?) recital with the same instructor. The same cohort of students have grown along with her—literally, student whom I didn’t think could grow any taller, stand up to perform 4” taller than last year. And as the years passed, each student progressed, playing more challenging and therefore longer (and longer) pieces. Consequently the recital length has extended from one year to the next.

Scanning the program I notice the mother-daughter duet has returned. Last year they played a 20 minute concerto. Sigh.

I watch the students waiting nervously in the “on deck” chair. Black flat shoes tap in time with the current performer. Sweaty hands distractedly tap on the instrument.

The accompanist, from her black flats, black pants and black tank top to her long white arms, blends in with her grand piano. She has an uncanny ability to match the drifting tempo of each student.

My daughter proudly announces her piece, grinning broadly. Her performance is flawless to a parent’s ears, although she claims a few missed sharps.

We near the end of the program—the mother-daughter pair step to their places. My husband looks at his watch. My daughter rolls her eyes. Just 4 short minutes later they take their bow. What a pleasant surprise.

And then, like the fat lady singing, the instructor (who is actually tall and thin) performs to conclude the recital. We retire to lemonade, fruit chunks on toothpicks, brownies and chips. Another successful year of violin lessons concludes.