Not a Ferry Good Day.

Tide you over: the Hopewell Rocks, at low tide.

Calais, ME – Actually, it wasn’t that bad.

Here’s a pro tip, though: when travelling through time zones, be sure to change the clock in your car, lest you err on the timing of something important.

Like a ferry schedule. (Bonus points: especially after a long day of driving.)

Having just driven through mountains cloaked in fog, we pulled onto the ferry at l’Etete, NB. We had planned to catch the next ferry to Campobello Island after the half-hour trip to Deer Island – while hopefully seeing some whales and seals along the way.

As we settled in between a truck and a bus, we were told the last ferry was to leave at 7 p.m. – a couple hours earlier than anticipated.  The clock on the dashboard flashed 6:30.

The keen reader, of course, will have already figured out it was really an hour later locally.

Thankfully, the ferry back to L’Etete was free – but we saw no whales or seals.

As waves of ink spilled across the sky and bright sparks forked to Earth, we finally pulled into the border town of Calais, ME. Pathetic fallacy, methinks. The Calais Motor Inn seems stuck in a 1950s time warp – and that may also be the last time the floor was cleaned, too. But, it's home for the night.

Despite the later setbacks, however, our morning flowed with the timing of a tidal schedule. Literally.

Several hours after leaving our home base in New Ross, we stopped at the Hopewell Rocks and its distinctive flowerpot rock formations. As with other sites along the Bay of Fundy, the region is home to the world’s highest tides, leaving miles of red clay-filled mud flats stretching out in front of you. Six hours later, they are covered by more than 50 feet of water each day.

It was a day filled with good times, just not always accurate ones.

Miss Direction.

Like in my brain, fog fell fast in Halifax.

New Ross, NS – Sometimes, the GPS lies.

After breakfast at Becky’s Diner in Portland, we set our course and marvelled that there were fewer hours to go than anticipated.

On second look, I noted the GPS had us crossing the Bay of Fundy. While this may indeed have been the shortest route, there were no ferries to be found and I had not set the directions for an amphibious vehicle. I shook my head and recalculated. Somehow, we still made it.

Climbing into New Brunswick, I kept my eye out for the ever-elusive (to me) moose. At a distance would be fine. A blurry vision of a head poking out of the trees would do. Alas, my quest to see one of these big, dumb animals in the wild remains unfulfilled.

Thankfully, though, the coastal air has finally cleared the allergies that plagued me for most of the drive. We’re still so exhausted, though, it feels like the fog that rolled in over Halifax harbour tonight has settled into my brain.

I will, at least, use that as an excuse for my confusion at the toll bridge leading into the city. It turns out that when you seek change from the attendant, you will actually receive the full amount back – just in smaller denominations. I had not realized I was still required to drop the toll into the bucket.

As I pulled forward, the bar bounced in the breeze, but remained lowered authoritatively across my path – as though it were wagging a finger at me. The lane was too narrow to open my door and run back, and I eyed the motorcycle cop idling behind me.

The bar finally rose in a shrug.

I blame the GPS.

Knuckles, White Like Mountains.

Lebanon, NH – The border guard at St. Stephens, NB, held my passport up, looked at it, then me, and said, smiling: "There's a striking resemblance." He added: "You riding with the guy behind you?" "He's my father; you'll notice a striking resemblance there, too," I replied. He chuckled in a way you don't usually see at larger border crossings in Ontario.

We had been on the road for a couple hours, traveling south in New Brunswick past some spectacular views of the Bay of Fundy, and had just stopped for breakfast. Our return home will include secondary roads through the United States until we get within striking distance of home.

From a bumper sticker pro- claiming "10 Out of 10 Terrorists Prefer Obama for President" to two guys sitting on a lawn covered in crossbows, long swords and other weapons for sale, it was obvious we were somewhere different. A lawn sign proclaimed "The Obamanure is Getting High" beside another with the old standby: "If you can't stand behind our troops, feel free to stand in front of them." I resisted the urge to comment on the irony that, as Commander-in-Chief, Obama is the head of troops for whom they were seeking support.

The winding roads, like veins, brought me energy as I challenged the switchbacks that wend through the White Mountains in New Hampshire and Vermont. Centuries ago, shoulders of rock shrugged, forming the magnificent hills we rode through today.

In their immensity, they remained indifferent.

Vitals:

• Time: 11 hours, 32 minutes
• Distance: 708.7 kilometres
• Weather: Sun, Warm
• Provinces/States: New Brunswick, Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont
• Wildlife: None

Strait to PEI.

St. John, NB – The fog hung like lace and not yet a minute out the driveway, I already wanted to take a photo of it hanging over a church in New Ross. Bundled against the cold, I resisted the urge.

It was still there by the time we reached the Shubenacadie River, which is fed by the Bay of Fundy, and somewhere you can raft on the tidal bore. It burned off during our walk from the parking lot, though.

Winding through the trees and past fog-covered lakes, the temperature dipped as low as four, and climbed as high as nine. My father reminded my aunt, uncle and me that his bike was equipped with heated grips and seats. For the hundredth time. We groaned. Then shivered. He grinned.

My nose welcomed the scent of a thousand Christ- mases as we passed through pine forests on our way to the ferry that would carry us across the Northumberland Strait to PEI. While we did not spend long exploring the province, I found it surprisingly underwhelming. I imagine my impression would have been different had we ventured more places and visited some of the beaches. It didn't help that I lost everyone in Charlottetown.

Crossing Confederation Bridge – the longest in the world over water that freezes – took all of eleven minutes, and so began our leisurely return home. We bid adieu to my aunt and uncle on the New Brunswick side and made tracks toward St. John. Still no moose.

Tired, we descended upon the largest city in New Brunswick – and oldest incorporated city in the country – during Exhibition time. Naturally. The dearth of rooms led us to cross town and end up at Hotel Courtenay Bay. Not so recommended, but it was a (dusty) bed on which to rest my weary head. Yes, that rhymes. I'm tired.

Vitals:

• Time: 12 hours, 12 minutes
• Distance: 619.1 kilometres
• Weather: Sun, Warm, Fog, Cold
• Provinces: Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island, New Brunswick
• Wildlife: None

Home at the Cross.

New Ross, NS – The day awoke to ghosts of conifers bristling against the morning chill as we prepared for the long day of riding ahead.

Yesterday’s rain lingered and the temperature dipped as we climbed north in Québec – an average of 11 degrees is particularly cold on a motorcycle, especially when it’s wet. Set into a valley outside Lévi, an Ultramar refinery was lit up like a Christmas tree, with large balls of light covering each surface. It was incongruous with the natural setting surrounding it.

Even the mountains were wrapped in scarves of fog, but we started to become moderately warmer as we descended from Rivière-du-Loup, which was the northernmost point on our trip.

My highway peg fell off immediately after crossing into New Brunswick and I had to hike back down the highway to retrieve it. Naturally, an 18-wheeler had run over it. As I reattached my crippled peg in the visitors’ centre parking lot, a young couple from Ontario came up and asked if we needed some tools. “Mechanic?” my father asked. “Tire guy,” came the reply, accompanied by the right-sized ratchet. By this point, I had discovered the importance of being able to shift sitting positions while riding long distances.

Even New Brunswick refused to welcome us with blue sky, except for a 10-minute stretch lined by moose fences in the Appalachian mountains. In fact, it rained all the way to Fredericton before simply shrouding us in grey. Still, the scenery was like a Bob Ross painting on PBS. Only real.

I was nearly run over by a pickup truck pulling a trailer whose driver decided the left lane at a toll booth would be faster. It would have been, except I was there and had to remind him so with an angry blast of my horn. All in all, the drivers haven’t been bad, though.

As my gas gauge started blinking, chiding me for letting it get too low on a stretch of road that did not have much around, we took an impromptu side trip into Florenceville. On the plus side, we got to ride through a covered bridge – four times. Turns out the roads we were on were remote enough the GPS could not pick them up.

All day long, the road unfurled before me like film: each scene similar, but altered slightly and saved in memory for posterity. A girl took our photo as she passed, people gave us thumbs-up and other bikers waved from across the highway. It was pretty cool.

We had started to disbelieve in the existence of the sun, yet it was beginning to set beautifully as we crossed into Nova Scotia. We had expected to be hit by the remains of tropical storm Danny as we arrived, but, while 1,000 mm had fallen earlier in the day, it was clear this evening.

The end of the ride was particularly tough as we wove through the trees, knackered and so close to our destination. This area is the Balsam fir Christmas tree capital of the world and the winding and hilly roads were as dark as I wanted my eyes to be. It was my first legitimate 1,000-kilometre ride day.

At 7:30, we finally pulled up to Cottage at the Cross, which is managed by my aunt and uncle and is next to their house – and my father’s childhood home.

“Welcome home, boys,” my aunt said. Considering my dad grew up here in a house his father built, it was particularly fitting.

Vitals:

• Time: 13 hours, 41 minutes
• Distance: 1,094.9 kilometres
• Weather: Cold, Rain, Cloudy, Sun
• Provinces: Québec, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia
  
• Wildlife: None (Where, oh where are you, moose?)