travels with janne

How bittersweet it is to be welcomed to lovely and friendly Canada, but not travelling on a Canadian passport. The Danish parliament finally passed a bill this month that allows dual citizenship but that is, alas, too late for me. If I want my Canadian citizenship back I have to apply for it from scratch like a foreigner.

Anyway, back to my travel tales: My friend Bente and I arrive in Victoria on Vancouver Island in the dark, late at night and leave again, in the dark, very early the next morning. We drive north steadily for hours, stopping only to grab a takeaway breakfast once we find a place that is open. The dawn lightens the sky and exposes the landscape. Trees, trees and more trees. About halfway (three hours into the journey) things start feeling decidedly remote.

By lunchtime we arrive in the tiny, secluded settlement of Telegraph Cove, population 20. It lies nestled snugly among the rocks and trees at the entrance to the Johnstone Strait. The landscape here is coloured in various hues of blue and green – the clean water, the clear sky, the sombre fir trees. It all seems so fresh and vibrant, fluid and organic compared to the stoic stones and rigid rocks we have been seeing for the past two weeks. Trees and water – they are more my cup of tea. This feels like home.

The village, if you can call it a village, consists of about 30 wooden buildings, many of which are built on stilts. There are cabins for tourists like us, the Killer Whale Cafe, where we eat all our meals, the Old Saltery Pub, a general store and coffee shop plus a whale watching outfit and a grizzly bear watching outfit. The buildings are connected by a boardwalk. Originally, in 1912, Telegraph Cove was the northern one-building terminus for the telegraph line from Campbell River – hence the name. It then got a lumber mill and salmon saltery and then, during World War II, became a military relay station. Now it is a whale and grizzly bear watching mecca.

After a scrumptious clam chowder lunch we head for Lukwa, the whale watching boat owned by Stubbs Island Whale Watching – an outfit I highly recommend (and no, I am not paid to write that). In the language of the local indigenous people, the Kwakwaka’wakw (I won’t even try and pronounce that), Lukwa is the word for “place in the forest”. We board the boat for three fantastic hours of marine wildlife adventure. We see sleek and shiny killer whales (orcas), humpback whales, Steller sea lions, Dall’s porpoises and seabirds.

The humpbacks blow with huge snorts. The vertical mist from their blowholes reflect the light and create rainbows in the air. The enormous animals slap their barnacle-encrusted fins on the water. They breach, lifting their upper bodies out of the water. They show us their two-metre wide tails and then disappear into the cold blue depths.

The orcas are in fishing mode, circling about in groups, their dorsal fins gliding through the water, shark-like. Sometimes we spot their clear white side markings. The guides lower a microphone into the water so we can eavesdrop on the orca conversations. The party line is humming!

Dall’s porpoises also make an entrance on the scene. They are like aquatic puffins – tubby, black and white, and fast. They can travel up to 55 km per hour. On this day, they take the time out to tease a humpback whale, bothering and worrying it. The giant responds with a snort and a breach.

Steller sea lions interact with another humpback in an apparently more friendly way. The humpback is lolling about very close to shore and seemingly rolling in the bull kelp. Speaking of which, the bull kelp is a pretty sight in itself, swaying graciously in the waves. This nutrient-rich plant can grow 60 cm (two feet) per day and up to 24 metres (80 feet) in a season (spring to fall). Birds also abound here and we see bald eagles, seagulls, red-necked phalaropes and surf scoters, among others.

All told, I have spent 10 days driving along the coast of the Bay of Fundy and a week at my cabin, “Nature’s Nest”, enjoying nature, visiting friends, and going on forays in the local area. Every time I am in the Maritimes I bond ever more closely with the place, get to know it better and love it more.

There seems to be an unlimited amount of enjoyment to be had from exploring the nature and the history of the Maritimes so don’t think this is the last you have heard from me about this lovely area. In the meantime, I cannot resist showing you a few extra pictures from the trip, including a rare (for me, at least), perfectly clear view of Greenland’s glaciers from above. Thank you for following me this far.

Living the primitive life is good for the soul. I have no electronic contact to the rest of the world but close contact to nature. I have no power, no running water, no telephone, radio or refrigerator. The cabin is not insulated and my cell phone does not work out here. I only need to think about the basic needs: eat, drink, wash, sleep. I can focus on enjoying nature to the full and not paying civilisation with all its complications a thought. This is how I like it.

One morning I canoe out to a beaver lodge that lies east of my cabin. It takes about 20 minutes to get there if there is no breeze. I paddle around the lodge for a bit before starting to head home and almost sail headlong into the beaver that is returning home after a morning of foraging.

On another morning on the lake I spy a painted turtle sunning itself on a rock. It slips into the water when I approach. It’s kind of fun to think that when I swim in the lake I am sharing water space with turtles and beavers.

One day I drive out to Kejimkujik National Park. “Kejimkujik” is a Mi’kmaq name meaning “tired muscles”. (You know you are a real Canadian when you take pronouncing these First Nation names in your stride.)

Kejimkujik is one of my favourite places. You can hike and canoe for hours or days. You can camp in the back country, or spend a day swimming, or touring on a mountain bike. You can enjoy woods, lakes, bogs and the beautiful Mersey River.

The park is also a national historic site that includes the traditional canoe routes between the Bay of Fundy and the Atlantic Ocean. These waters were plied by the native people for thousands of years. In the park you can see petroglyphs – drawings etched in soft rock – depicting Mi’kmaq life in the 18th and 19th centuries.

The mornings on the lake are peaceful. The water is still and the neighbours asleep. I slide the canoe into the water and go for a morning paddle for about an hour. I visit a beaver lodge west of my cabin but it doesn’t look like there has been recent activity.

Back at the cabin I do practical, housewife-y stuff, then go for a swim in the lake. Afterwards, I wash myself in a primitive, outdoor shower enclosure that is basically just a tarpaulin wrapped around some hemlock trees. I have placed a couple of boards on the ground so my feet don’t get covered with wet pine needles and earth.

Taking a bath entails boiling a large portion of water, bringing the hot water and a pail of lake water down to the bath enclosure along with soap, shampoo and a wash basin. It is a rather bracing process to stand wet and nude in the great outdoors. Brrr!

Afterwards, I explore my little patch of Canada. Down by the edge of the lake the water slaps lazily against the rocks. The tiny sundew sparkle stickily in the sun. The cranberries are plump but not yet ripe. Further inland there are lots of ripe huckleberries, some tiny blueberries and a few juicy blackberries to snack on. The wind rustles through the trees. A woodpecker knocks in the distance. A squirrel chatters. A blue jay screeches. A hummingbird whizzes by.

I bring the air mattress down to the water and lie down for a good read in the company of my trusty canoe. Later on, I go for a walk and spot a porcupine. It waddles across the road right in front of me, completely unperturbed, probably feeling safe inside its coat of quills. It lumbers along slowly, taking shuffling steps as if wearing slippers that are a couple of sizes too large.

Soon it is dusk again and I cook a simple meal of baked acorn squash and a pork chop, with fresh Canadian blueberries for dessert.

The days pass this way. I read, I write, I swim. I canoe, and hike, and listen to the silence and the sounds. I dream and dawdle and enjoy. I empty my brain and fill my heart.

After 10 eventful days on the road, covering more than 2500 km by car, 28 km by foot and who knows how many by boat, it is time. Time for solitude, serenity, reflection. Time for staying in one familiar and cherished place, time for falling asleep at night to the wail of the sad and crazy loon calling in the darkness, time for waking up to misty mornings and still, dark water. Is time for cabin life.

Would that I could share with you the smells and sounds and not just the photographs and stories! The fragrance of the pine, the evocative call of the loon, the quiet of lake mornings, when the mist rises mystically from the still water, the humming of the hummingbird’s wings outside my window and the noisy chatter of an upstart squirrel.

I arrive at my cabin in the early afternoon. The gravel driveway is completely overgrown and I accidentally drive right by it. I back up the car, turn down what I think must be tire tracks and proceed downhill. Large branches that have fallen during the two years I have been away make menacing crumbling sounds under the car.

At the bottom of the driveway sits my haven: almost one acre of lakefront property with a 12 m2 cabin. The rustic cabin is nestled among hemlocks and maples facing the water of Lake Molega, which is situated more or less smack in the middle of Nova Scotia. I have called the place “Nature’s Nest” and have posted a wooden sign on a tree with the name and a picture of a loon drawn by artist and close friend Trine Jensen.

Two years have passed since I last stayed in the cabin, so a bit of work awaits before I can settle in. First I have to remove the canoe from the cabin. It’s a bit like removing the first piece from a Chinese puzzle, because the canoe pretty well takes up the whole of the diagonal. Once I have manoeuvred it outside, I have to drag the canoe down to the water’s edge, but I meet with a hurdle. While I have been away, a beaver has chomped its way through two birch trees and they are now blocking the canoe path. I leave the canoe where it is until I can find my saw and cut the felled birch tree in two and lug it to one side.

Back up in the cabin I sweep and dust. Spiders scurry away. Mouse turds roll. I fetch water from the lake and wash the windows and the kitchen table. I unpack the air mattress and inflate it, unpack the bed linen and make the bed. Things start to look cosy. I turn on the gas, light the pilot lamps and bake some rye bread with the home-ground flour I was given by the hosts at one of the Bed & Breakfasts I visited. The cabin starts to smell cosy.

By now, dusk is falling. I light the kerosene lamp, filling the cabin with a homey, orange glow. I go outside and look in the window, enjoying the sight. Back inside I eat the freshly baked bread and some powdered pumpkin and carrot soup. After washing the dishes I sit down and read for a bit before going outside in the darkness to brush my teeth. I go to bed and read some more.

Finally, I blow out the flame in the kerosene lamp, turn off my portable reading lamp and snuggle under the comforter. I lie in the total, muffling silence and darkness, eyes open, listening to the quiet. Then I hear the evocative call of the loon echoing along the lake. Now I know that I have come home to Canada and fall happily asleep.

If you want to imagine what it is like at night in my cabin, then follow this link. Close your eyes and listen to the sad, lonely, haunting and eerie sound of the loon.

A massive brown wave crashes in over the boat and washes me overboard. Although I have been holding on tightly to a rope on the Zodiac, I am helpless against the power of the warm and muddy water. Within seconds of my involuntary plunge, I feel hands reaching out to haul me in. With lots of help I slide and clamber back into the rubber boat, and land like a newly caught fish with an unceremonious clunk in the bottom of the boat. The raincoat and rubber boots I am wearing keep the wet in instead of out.

Remember I told you about the tidal bore in a previous article? A tidal bore occurs when the flow of the river meets the incoming tide head on, forming a wave. Every day, when the tide comes in, the Shubenacadie River in Nova Scotia fills up with 60 million tons of water. It takes only about three hours and the water moves in at 12-20 km per hour.

On the Shubenacadie River it is possible to ride the tidal bores in Zodiacs. I have chosen a day during the new moon because this is when the waves are at their highest. To top it off, Hurricane Irene, that was downgraded to a tropical storm by the time it reached Nova Scotia, whipped up the waters all through the night before my tidal bore rafting trip.

Children and adults alike squeal with delight every time we bash headlong into a wave. Up and down we fly through the waves that break and crash over the boat. We get soaked through and through. In the boat the water sloshes up to our knees and sometimes I think we must sink.
The rubber boots I am wearing are filled with salty and muddy water but it is pointless to try and empty them.

We pass through waves, ripples and eddies. Our guide sets us off on a sand bar so we can watch how quickly the tide comes in. Before long, the sandbar disappears under water and we are in the boat again. For some reason, there are numerous bald eagles in this area. We count seven of them during the three hour trip. There are probably many more, but much of the time we are focused on bracing ourselves against the waves and closing our eyes against the salty and muddy water that sloshes in over us.

(By the way, the name “Shubenacadie” derives from Mi’kmaq and means “the place of the red potatoes”, which goes to show that the native Canadians were farming the area before the Europeans came along.)

Needless to say, I have no photos from this hugely wet river rafting trip. I do, however, have a couple of pictures of tributaries to the Shubenacadie River at low tide.

On a more peaceful note, and back on dry land, I drive onwards to Blomidon Provincial Park. Here I hike for 2½ hours through woods and flower-filled meadows, often stopping to catch my breath as the climb is quite steep. Unfortunately, the mosquitoes are out in full force. They home in on me like a miniature air force every time I stand still for more than a second.

There are more mosquitoes than normal for this time of year – certainly more than I expected. This may be due to the fact that many bats in North America are succumbing to white-nose syndrome which kills them off. Bats are eager mosquito munchers, so with fewer bats around there are bound to be more mosquitoes.

Nova Scotia has all the major rock types in the world. The red rocks at Cape Chignecto Provincial Park have been formed and rounded by aeons of changing tides, sculpted into soft shapes and curves. I hike for three hours in the park, starting at high tide. By the time I make my way down to the beach the tide is out and I can return along the water.

For rock hounds and those interested in life as it was 315 million yeas ago, the Bay of Fundy area is the place to be and visits to the Fundy Geological Museum in Parrsboro and the Joggins Fossil Cliffs (a UNESCO World Heritage Site) in Nova Scotia are a must.

I must admit that rocks don’t rock me and that I am more interested in living species than long-dead dinosaurs. However, I do think it is pretty neat to know that the world’s oldest reptile fossils are found here, that you can see 315 million-year-old fossilized ferns the size of trees sticking out of the sea cliffs, and that fossils from both before and after the great extinction 200 million years ago (end of Triassic period and beginning of Jurassic period) are found here.

The sea is never far away when you are in the Maritimes, but the land is also pretty wonderful. The more than 2500 km I drive on this trip take me past endless forests, marshes and other natural landscapes. Birds abound. There are songbirds, raptors, and water fowl; some majestic, some tiny, some plain, some funny.

Fortunately, Canadians cherish their natural wonders and have created numerous national and provincial parks in which Mother Nature rules. The parks contain paths and boardwalks, backcountry campsites, interpretive signs and the occasional toilet, but otherwise nature is allowed to follow its own course – even to the point of letting parasites ravage trees to allow for new and different growth rather than trying to control the parasites. Here, Nature is natural.

I spend hours hiking. The terrain is very hilly, and sometimes the paths are rough with plenty of tree roots and rocks over which to stumble. My senses are bombarded. Like a dog, my nostrils quiver to take in the smells. In Fundy National Park, I breathe in the rich humus smell of the moist forest and the raised humus peat bog.

In the solitude of the woods, a leaf falls to the ground. The silence is so deep that I can hear the soft landing of the leaf. Later on, the babbling of a brook becomes the rush of a waterfall. The air cools, the water refreshes. Bunchberry (also known as dogwood) and wood sorrel (looks like a big shamrock) grow among the mosses and pine needles, decorating the forest floor.

Occasionally, the dense and dark fir forest opens to vistas of more forest or views of the bay. A peregrine falcon soars by. A black and white warbler – a bird which sounds like a squeaky wheelbarrow – lands on my shoulder and perches there for a few seconds before realizing I am not a tree. This makes me feel ridiculously happy.

I connect with nature, drawing new energy.