Radiohead

Our steadfast traveling companions have been PBS and CBC. In the wilderness of radio religion, nutso news briefs and godawful music, these two fine institutions have linked themselves, mile by mile, to enter our world with thought provoking and entertaining tidbits. The news is scary but the balance is in the art, music, humor and philosophy of being human. One such show about sacred places spawned miles of supercharged thinking—watching North America change from orchards to mountains to plains to the north country to the Great Lakes to rivers and lakes and hardwood trees slowly turning color. This earth, this continent is sacred, of that I am sure.

We turned around at the tip of Cape Breton Island, Nova Scotia. With wistful reluctance, we decided against the expensive journey to New Foundland. When we gray out Canada in our thinking of distance coast to coast, we think it is about 3,000 miles. We forget there is so much more of the continent to the east north of the border. “Another time”, we agree, though with the tumbling economy, all the environmental reasons against wandering as we have and our age, I feel the jaws of the wolf snapping at our backs. There may not be another time. So, on a day so foggy we could barely make out the Cape North road sign, we pointed our van Roosevelt to the west and began the journey homeward.

All trips are buffeted by the winds of travel—the cold rain, the missed ferry, the lost credit card, and worse, the “you should been here yesterday or come next week”. We have had our share. Still, you can’t go too wrong in the Canadian Maritimes. Stop and ask for directions and get an invitation to camp in the back yard by the old barn. Arrive at the Cape Breton Glenora distillery at noon and get an impromptu lecture on the fine art of distilled spirits and the state of the world from the young bartender (along with a wee dram and coffee). Blow into the fishermen’s coop and walk out with 2 caps gifted along with your purchase. At the Red Shoe Pub in Mabou, the former premier of Nova Scotia rises to clog along with the fiddle and piano and later takes out his own fiddle. We sleep in the parking lot, welcomed to do so by the pub staff. The next day, in Cheticamp, we snug up the Visitor’s Center to “borrow” some wifi and cook dinner. When the janitor spots us, he does not shoo us away, but rather, sits on the curb and talks stories. As the rains come down, we are in the DoryMan Pub, and when we request “The Jeannie C.” by Stan Rogers, the balladeer takes it up. Everyone sings along while we dance a slow one, two battle-scarred travelers in a tender moment.

We have so far spent about $200 in 17 days of travel on overnight accommodations. About $11.75 a night. And Rick Steves would be proud of our back door cheap picnic style eating. Um, of course, that’s with $1400 in gas.

We made the trip into Halifax to see our friends Ayla and Martin. Yes, that’s Chalifax or Halalifax ala Jon Stewart . After a great dinner and Irish/Maritime music at the Old Triangle, we peacefully slept in the van again on the streets near the harbor.

Thanks to our guest writers and for thoughtful comments. The immediacy of the elemental is playful (mostly) connection with the Divine, it’s true. How is it different from when we first came this way? In short, it is tamer, and more crowded. The wilds have become golf courses, the fishing villages get tour buses with digital camera snapping tourists. On the other hand, the towns recycle, many open spaces are protected. We have talked now with enough 20 somethings to sum up the dilemma of being young in this frightening time. “The times are scary but I am not afraid. I can’t be.” To that, I would echo: Ditto.