Happy Trails

Posted on September 3, 2014 under Storytelling with no comments yet

The Colindale Road, Cape Breton

 

 

“Happy trails to you, keep smilin’ until then.”

Happy Trails – Dale Evans Rogers

When was the last time that you had a day to call your own?

I decided to take a trip around the Cabot Trail.  Alone.  My wife had to work; otherwise she would have jumped at the opportunity.  No kids, grandkids, brothers, sisters, cousins, distant relatives, ghosts of relatives.  You get the picture.

I reckon I have been around the Cabot Trail well over fifty times in my life, but never alone.  I travelled to Ingonish every weekend of the summer back in the late 60’s with the family band, The Escorts.  I have made the trek with my own family, and like many Nova Scotians, have played tour guide to friends visiting from out of province

Only once have I ever regretted being on the Trail, and that was a trip I took in winter.  A snow storm descended on Cape Smokey.   Luckily, the vehicle in front of me was a snow plow; otherwise the outcome of that expedition could have been very different.

My ultimate destination on this voyage was Ingonish, to attend the wake of an old university friend.  The wake was scheduled for 6:00 p.m. at the church in Ingonish Beach.  I left Antigonish  early in the morning, crossed the Causeway, made the sharp left turn onto Route 19 and headed up the west side of Cape Breton Island.

And for once in my life, I wasn’t in a big hurry.

The early part of the journey was drenched in sunshine as I made my way through the small communities that dot the coastline.  I drove through downtown Port Hood and took the back road to Mabou, via the Colindale Road.  Like so many places in Cape Breton, the scenery along this stretch of road is awe-inspiring.  As I passed through West Mabou I felt the urge to get out of the car and start dancing.  I feared that the sheep in an adjacent pasture might call the authorities and report me, so I cancelled my performance and carried on.

I stopped in Mabou for a few minutes.  The Red Shoe was closed.  A little too early in the day for a pint anyway.   I decided to go to the graveyard and visit my dear friend Raylene, who rests peacefully in a quiet, sun dappled corner of the cemetery with the mountains keeping watch in the distance.  There was mist in the hills and a bit in my eyes as well.

I rolled into Inverness mid-morning.  Four years ago I could have navigated Main Street without meeting too many people.  On this morning, it was like Times Square in New York … minus the glitz.  The place was buzzing, with every parking spot occupied and the sidewalks alive with people.  The adjacent golf course, Cabot Links, is the magnet for all of this activity.

I spent two hours at the golf course.  They employ close to 200 people and once the new course, Cabot Cliffs, opens next year, that number is sure to rise.  I’m not usually one to hang around gift shops but the one at Cabot Links is unique as it is housed in a yurt.  I spent just about an hour chatting with Ann, one of the managers.  We hit it off immediately; kindred spirits for sure.   This was surprising when I found out later in the conversation that she is a Campbell.  We MacDonalds haven’t forgotten Glencoe yet.

When I’m away from home I like to keep in touch with family and work, so my cellphone is always nearby.  Inexplicably, my phone stopped working during my visit to the gift shop.  Initially I found this disconcerting because, like most people, I have become dependent upon technology.  When I realized, after a visit to a cell phone store in Cheticamp, that the problem couldn’t be fixed quickly, I tossed the phone on the seat and decided to enjoy the luxury of being “out of the loop.”

The drive through the Highlands did not disappoint.  I pulled over several times and simply enjoyed the majesty of it all.  I didn’t see a whole lot of wild life.  I saw a couple of Cape Breton screaming eagles … these ones weren’t wearing skates.

I hadn’t been to Meat Cove in 35 years and had this on my list of places to go.  I reached the intersection at Cape North and turned left.  My recollection was that Meat Cove was just a hop and a skip from there.   I drove and drove and drove.  I reached Bay St. Lawrence.  Desperate for coffee, I went into the Co-op and treated myself to a decent cup for the princely sum of $1.00.  I even bought a few “pull tickets”.  Lo and behold I won a buck, so I headed off with a cup of free coffee.  How good is that!

And then I drove some more.  After passing through Capstick, the pavement ended and I drove some more on a dirt road for 8 kilometers.  It was extremely windy as a storm was passing through.   A few of the corners, with very steep drops down to the ocean on my right, reminded me of navigating the narrow roadways of Ireland a few years back.   I was tempted to move to the opposite side of the road for old time’s sake.

When I reached my destination I disembarked and chatted with Rhonda MacLellan, an eighth generation of MacLellans who run the campground.  I discovered that Meat Cove got its name from a time when sailors would come into the cove to pick up meat and other supplies.  Besides their world class chowder, the other must do things in Meat Cove are whale watching and hiking.  Rhonda said that there are days when the whales come right into the cove and you can hear them from the campground.  Best of all, there is no cell phone service to spoil nature at its finest.

I stopped in at Country Crafts to buy my wife a beautiful pottery coffee mug.  I met two lovely ladies running the shop and confessed that my wife may be suspicious when I show up at home with a gift.   This is definitely out of character for me.

I had a few quiet moments in St. Peter’s church as I paid my respects to my old friend, Bobby.  It felt good to be there with his family.  I saw some old pictures on the memorial wall and spotted some long haired freaks from the bad old days at St. F.X.  I was amongst them with the world’s largest afro.  Bobby’s sister had a difficult time believing that this was the same person as the nearly bald man in front of her.

I had a bowl of fish chowder at The Clucking Hen, one of my favorite spots to eat on the Trail.  “No Fowl Moods” is their motto.  After consuming a piece of freshly baked butterscotch cream pie, I told one of the women that , should I die on the way home, she is to tell my family that I had a piece of heaven in my belly and a smile on my face.

It was the perfect ending to a beautiful day.  Thanks, Bobby.

“Happy trails to you, until we meet again.”