.........................................................Canada in 30 Fays..........................................
My high school buddy, Arnold and I planned a trip back to Maine To pick up 2 motorcycles that I owned and were already in Maine. We were going to drive them back across Canada from the eastern coast to the western coast.
.......................................................Here's the Travel log.......................................I flew into Boston. My friend Jason picked me up at the airport and took me to his house for a day before we rode our motorcycles to Zimbob's house 50 miles west of Bangor.
The scene at Zimbob's house on the lake was to ride bikes and party with 50 other bikers that would spend Labor Day week together at Zimbob's home. This was a once a year event spent working on motorcycles and drinking beer and telling lies.
I spent the night at Jason's.
While we were at Zim's a group of us made a day trip on our motorcycles to St George Ca. There were 10 of us that crossed the border to Canada. I was the only one who was singled out to go inside the guardhouse for interrogation. Go figure.
The trip across Canada and Back to San Diego started out with a few twists that are too funny to be ignored. Just to bring you up to date on the plan of how I was going to get Joshua Coohms' V65 Sabre back to Calif from Maine....I would fly into Ma to get The Taco Wagon, V65 Magna. My friend Arnold (who flew in with me) would pick up The Joshua bike, that I'd bough 6 moths earlier, and we would do Canada on the return trip home to California.
The Joshua bike lives near Bangor Maine. Since I can't register the Josh bike in Maine if I don't live there, and I can't register it in Calif if I don't have the bike in Ca. Well, beyond the call of duty, Joshua offered to pay his registration fees for another year so the tags would be current while I rode the bike to Calif. I would then send Joshua his personalized license plate.
I got liability insurance on the bike, and thought that I had things pretty well covered. Well, not so, As Arnold is running around visiting his relatives on the Josh bike near Bangor and I'm having fun at Zim's, Joshua's Dad just happens to spot Arnold on Joshua's bike at a convenience store. He, being a concerned dad, noticed that the personalized license plate was still on the bike, and was worried about the liability issues of someone using Joshua's license plate.
I don't fault him for that. The dad calls the cops, and after some investigation, and a call to me at Zim's, and calls to Joshua, they figure that the bike is not stolen, but that I can't use the plate to ride the bike to Ca. So Arnold is sitting at his relative's house with the Josh bike and no plate. At first I was panicked about the situation...oh woe is me....
Zim had the solution. We simply went to the Abbot Cove, Maine town hall on Friday, and talked the official into letting me register the Sabre in Maine to be stored at Zim's to be used by me when I visit. That was probably what I should have done in the first place. Now we were really good to go.
Well on Monday, after Zim's party, Jason, who has decide to camp with us for a few days as we travel the Gaspe Peninsula, and I go to Pick up Arnold at around noon to start the trip. Arnold Has had 6 days to pack the Sabre with his gear. I'm expecting that he will be ready to go, and chaffing at the bit.
Not so, again, Arnold has waited till the last minute to Pack his stuff on the bike. Since I cheaped out and wouldn't buy Joshua's rear rack Arnold had to pack a hugh bed roll on the rider's seat. This required some cinch down straps to hold the roll on, and as he pulled down on one of the straps hard, it compressed the rear suspension and then the kick stand pushed the bike over to the right, and down went the bike.
63 year old Arnold and his wife and female cousin, of similar age, eventually got the bike upright. The damage amounted to a shattered windshield and a cracked Tach lense. It's all part of the business of growing up. I was kind of looking forward to a set of guages that was pristine, as my old Sabre has a cracked Tach lense, but...sigh... oh well.
Looking at the big picture, Arnold has been the person to teach me what I know about computers, and has nursed me through virus attacks and countless hours of other help. He will never be behind in the help department.
.............................................................To the Canadian East Coast..................................
Sometime around 3pm on that Monday we did get underway. Jason had been to Nova Scotia, so we opted to do the Gaspe circulation. Norm and Zim had both recommended it as they had done a third of it. It was worthy of their praise as it is 500 miles of road that runs 90% along the oceanfront. The traffic was light, and there was one beautiful, quaint village after another for a Day and a half.
I got a little ahead of myself last post. We entered NB on I-95 where we stopped at the welcome visitors site. Seems these Maritime provinces have free internet computers for us travelers. That was cool. We got a free map and a bit of advice about a secondary road that went north along the St John river from Hartland.
We were heading for a provincial park that the map showed on the way to Gaspe. We didn't get that far when night approached, so another provincial park was selected near Plaster Rock.
Labor Day is the end of Canadian tourist season as it is to many places in the USA. These parks weren't manned any longer, but their shower rooms still had hot water. We enjoyed the hell out of that.
Jason made friends with another cat there. It spent the night with him in his tent. He pondered how to get the cat back across the border with him. Days later he still talked of going back to get the cat. I don't think that happened as Jason was in Quebec City when he left Arnold and I for his rainy ride home.
After a one pot dinner From the kitchen of Jason, we slept the night, only to see a nice day greet us in the morning. It was only a 150 miles to the Gaspe coast. Now don't get me wrong Maine and NB are beautiful also, but tree lined roads do eventually leave one looking for a change.
The Gaspe coast starts with Campbellton at the mouth of Chaleurs Bay. You ride into the area some 500 feet above the city so the view is stunning. We immediately stopped for a looksee/break. It was about 10am their time. The sun was shining. It was a great day to start our Canadian tour.
The road around the peninsula from Campbellton to Matane is about 450 miles or so. It is all two lane (mostly twisty) along the seashore. There are prolly 30 or 40 town in that distance, none bigger that 5000 folks and most being 1000 or under. I lied, Gaspe on the east end is bigger, but my point is, there were very few locals on the road and almost no tourists.
We rode for half a day, just not busting it, and enjoying ourselves. Our stagger was normal. Jason was in the lead, near the centerline. I rode road edge so 30 0r 40 feet back. Arnold was back of me near the centerline. There was so much to see that we were all gawking at the ocean.
That is when Jason decided to pull into a parking lot for a break/rest. Knowing Jason I'm sure he signaled and did all things correct. I wasn't watching. When I saw that he had slow and was pulling across my line it was too late for me to stop. I of course, hit the brakes and was on a collision course. Jason had enough time to hear me sliding the rear wheel, then see what was happening, and alter his course some 10 feet more down the road which was all I needed to avoid the collision which was imminent. Arnold was gawking as well, and he blew by both of us in the lane near the centerline.
If it had been damned near anyone but Jason, there would have been a slow speed accident. If there had been an accident there is no way that it wouldn't have been my fault. That was a sobering thought.
There is a Natl park out on the east end of the peninsula, Forillon Park, just the other side of the town of Gaspe. We pulled in there at about dusk. Hot shower and all, no one at the gate. There was probably only 5 or 6 campers in the whole place. Jason and I took a walk in the morning down to the beach. It was nice.
It would have been even better if Jason was plumbed a little differently. :) Well, you can't have everything.
After finishing the beach reconnoiter, it was again on the road. Arnold was getting the cinching of his load down pretty good. My load was still shifting when under way. I needed to improve my 'aggressive bungy' technique.
It was just more great seascapes after seascapes as we continued around the east end of GP, and then west along the south side of the Saint Lawrence waterway. I realized then that I was truly going to do a coast to coast from the extreme eastern part of Canada. Woo, hoo. That was a lofty thought at the time, but we never completed the western portion of that C to C.
Later that morning, the boys were skeptical as I loaded our last 4 hotdogs and some macaroni into a plastic grocery bag with some water to cook up some hot lunch in the V of TW's V4 engine. As well they should be, because some 15 miles later Jason saw the package fall out, and then watched Arnold run smack over the center of it, almost nailing a car coming the other way with the contents as they shot out of the bag.
The country is so clean up there that, besides losing lunch, it made me cringe at the thought of throwing a plastic bag on the ground.
Jason had put a nearly new tire on the TW before we left, and we noticed that it was wearing fast. I was worried about finding another so I began looking for bike shops that we might pass. Most motosport places that we passed were centered around quads and snowmobiles.
We stopped at one such place after we had had lunch at a cafe. There were 2 brothers running the show. It was my kind of place. Let's just say that there was no woman involved. No new carpet in the showroom (no showroom either), and you would have to look a while to find anything. Before you ladies get your panties in a bunch, that was a compliment to your set.
Anyway, they had some 5 or 6 mc tires, and damned if one of them was't right for the Magna. Of course I had a 150/80/16 on the rear so that is what they were looking for at first. He had the 130/90/17, and was astounded that I had the 150 on there when the 130 was the right size.
We haggled over price. and he settled for 160 Canadian, and that he would install it. That price hurt, but it was bite the bullet time. My hand shook as I signed that VISA card receipt.
Now the rub. They said that they would put the tire on in an hour as soon when they got back from lunch. So we said no thanks, and that we would put it on up the road a ways. They thought that that was incredulous. We would change the tire??? They tried a couple times to talk us out of that insanity. It was just as well, because I got nearly 2000 more miles out of the 150 that was on there. Carrying that other tire for that far was a pain in the ass, though. It was good that I bought that tire because shop in Canada don't carry many tires in stock. Mostly tires have to be ordered.
We made it to the Jack Cartier campground a few miles north of Toronto. There was a threat of rain from Charlie, or Francis, or a storm coming from the west. Jason called a friend in Ma and had him read the computer weather map. he was having difficulty deciding just where the rain would come from, only that it was definitely going to be wet soon.
If I had known this I would have put up the tent, but I was already asleep in the blue burrito. We awoke to still dry condition, though rain was imminent. In fact, as we rode away that morning light rain was upon us. At the park entrance Jason turned south and headed back to reality, and Arnold and I turned north toward Chicoutimi and Lac St Jeanne.
It was a little unsettling to see Jason leave us. He is such a competent person that I tended to dwell on all the problems that could crop up without his ingenuity to fall back on.
That lasted for a few moments, and then the idea that we were finally headed to the north, and the remoteness that I love, took over. What was up ahead? Whoa boy, Now the trip begins. Some 30 years ago A friend of my dad's (he was 50 years old at the time) retired and went to northern Canada. He said he was going to canoe some rivers up there. We learn of his death some six weeks later. Some of these old tales make you think.
So in the rain we started toward Chicoutimi, Metabetchouan on the lake, and the last gas station in La Dore where we spent the night at a motel. It was only 300 mile but with our sight seeing it was a full day. I love those Cree indian name. On the morrow we would strike out for Chibougamou. I like that word. It took me a month to learn how to say it easily. Chibougamou is at the end of pavement for 350 Kilometer before we hit the James Bay road that will take us to Raddison and Chisasibi on the southern edge of the Hudson Bay. Some photos at:
It was good that we moteled it that last night as it rained on and off all night. When we got up it was clearing. We had breakfast at the motel cafe, and talked to the 50 year old wife of a 3 quad group who also stayed the night. She was the only one who could speak English.
Seems that they had come from down Chicoutimi way on Four track dirt roads. They were going to try to work their way around St Jean lake. Remember I couldn't see across the lake, so they were on to something big. I wished them Luck, and got a luck wish in return.
It was a Magna tank of gas distance to get to Chibougamou. Lots of places were one tank of gas to get to them. I wondered if they hadn't layed the country out with a Magna. I was getting lousy milage with the TW. I would get from 30 to 35 mpg depending on speeds. There were stretches where we could hold it in the 80mph area, but if l was worried about gas, 65mph would get me up to 155 miles per tank. That rarely happened.
We dispatched the road to Chibougamou, and hunted down the tourist info joint. They were at lunch so we went to lunch across the street. When we got in the visitor center we got ahold of an ex biker (he worked there) who had a glint in his eye as he talked to us about where we were going on our bikes.
I felt sorry for him. He had just recently sold his bike. There really isn't enough good weather up there to warrant having a bike. I could see his point, but you could tell it hurt him to have given up biking.
He told us that the 300 mile road was generally good and to watch out for the semis because they 'haul ass' out there. He said that there was intermediate gas at 180 miles, at the Indian village of Nemiska. We eventually took our leave of him with many thanks and a few new maps of the local area.
we filled Two of our gas cans. That would be at least a gallon more than I needed, and Arnold could Make it on his primary tank.
We were very apprehensive about the dirt road. Hell, we were scared and thrilled all at the same time to be out there. Once we found the correct road, we were a bit relieved to find it was at least a three laner of gravel surface which was in good shape with no washboard surface.
It was built so that semis could go 50 miles an hour to the hydro electric operations that they have up there. The semis have worked that speed up to 70mph, I'd guess. All the curves are very mild. The semis roll along just at the speed where they are starting to drift in the turns. They are carrying some heavy artillery ( as in gravel) in their wind blast as well. I soon learned to slow down and get the hell over as far as I could. When they first passed there was 3 seconds of blindness from their dust. A lot can go wrong in 3 seconds.
The good news was that there were only about 20 to 25 trucks the whole 250 miles. We started out slowly, but soon found that we could hold a 60 to 70 mph speed. That was cool. I also found that about every 4 or 5 miles I wished that for some reason or another that I wasn't going that fast.
The road was hard packed in the tracks where the semis ran. It was 2 to 3 feet wide, but a wind gust would push me out of it, and then I was in the marbles a couple inches deep. That was skittery as hell. More than a few deep breaths were taken in that skittery stuff.
There were also patches of the road surface that would be 3 inches deep and 12 feet long or longer. That would give me quite a jolt when I hit one of those. Do you think that we were smart enough to slow down? You guessed it, hell no.
Sometimes a truck would catch me in a curve and force me into the loose stuff while I was still making the curve. That wasn't good either. I think if you survived a few trip on that road you would soon come to the conclusion, to hold the speed to 50mph and stop when you saw a truck coming.
Of course. if you survived a few of those trips, you might conclude that you were getting good, and just increase the speed a touch.
We started that dirt road at about 2:30 that afternoon. We seriously enjoy the romp. The scenery was 20 foot pines with a lot of old burn from previous fires. Not too impressive, but we didn't have time to look at the scenery. It was pretty much nail biting time the whole time on that gravel road.
We made our portable fuel stop just fine, and rolled on in to what we thought was the indian gas village. It turn out to be the company project sight of 'Canadian Electric'. They would sell us gas, but it wasn't the indian village. We would have to wait for the gas pump man to return from dinner. It was going to cost us 1.08 C per litter. Most gas was 80 to 85 cents/litter.
While there we got to talking to a Cree indian about gas, and he told us if we didn't want to wait, we could run on down to the Indian village of Nemiska and get gas. It was a hostile big business where we were, so we said sure we would go to the Indian village. It was only about 15 kilometers away.
When we arrived there it was probably 7pm (light outside til 8:30). We gassed up from a 16 year old, indian boy who spoke damned good English. we were told that if they went to school it was in Ontario province where they spoke English. Nowadays they were being taught here at Nemiska, and they were taught three languages, French and Cree as well as English.
We had seen an area down by the lake (that we passed on the way in) That looked like a nice spot to spend the night. There was a shade there with a picnic table. We asked the kid/gas man if anyone would mind if we nighted there. He said, sure no problem.
That was ear music. We were tired and didn't want to look for a place to camp. A few minutes later we were unpacking the bikes. There was already a fire ring there with lots of firewood already cut. Turns out it was Friday night and there was fixing to be a low grade party there tonight.
Arnold and I were making a fire when a couple of the village school teacher gals drove up. They couldn't believe that a couple motorcycle had come there. They were French girls under 30. I think they would have rather seen a couple Bronsons on those bikes than us old coots, but....
Then another couple came along. more teachers, 35 or so, the guy had traveled by mc in Central America. He wanted to talk. They even offered to let us shower up and stay with them at their place. I couldn't believe the hospitality. We were down right celebrities.
Then out of the bush some 50 feet away came a 21 year old college girl from Vt. It turns out she and 6 other guys were camped over there. They were on a field trip. The professor (a 38 year old guy) had been coming here for 6 years bringing student to do summer biology classes. She was the only one still in camp since the others had gone somewhere in the village to watch the Canadian soccer team play Finland. All their troupe was to go out with an indian the next day to run trap lines and the fish nets that the indians had in the rivers. They were going to be gone for a few days.
Then that last mentioned indian came along and asked if he could build a campfire next to ours. He had a group of people that he wanted to bring along for an evening of mild merriment (no booze). We realized that we were kinda squating on their firewood and such, so we said to come on in we would move over. They did, and we did. They were all very pleasant and friendly folks.
That group was a five man (one woman)team of brush clearer that were clearing all the brush from the land that was going to be flooded by the Hydro project going on where we had first stopped for gas. About 800 acre.....hummm...or was that 800000 acres, I guess I'm not sure. They were using heavy equipment though.
The fire was soon roaring, and What with the school teachers that came back, there were soon 12 to 15 folks standing at the fire ring. I was learning as much local culture as I could assimilate. It was a 'bitchen' experience.
I wandered off about 10pm and went to sleep, and left Arnold to mop up all the girls. It turned out that I was talked about around the fire. Something about snoring...
My story is bogging down a bit so let me hurry along down the rest of the 70 miles of Dirt, plus the 70 more miles to gas on the Chisasibi Road or James Bay road, and then the last 150 miles of road north to Raddison.
Once you get to the 53rd parallel (same as Edmonton) there is an east west road that goes about 200 miles. It is there to service the 4 Hydro electric plants up there. The water starts at the dam 200 miles from James Bay and flows through 4 Dams/electric plants as the water drops from probably 1500 feet to sea level.
The hydro project down by the indian village, where we camped overnight, is a project to divert the Eastman River's water so that it will flow through the dams up by Raddison. Same generator but more water means more power with no extra dams/equipment.
Most folks in Raddison work at the Hydro works. Most folks at Chisasibi work there as well, but they still hunt and fish. They are the Cree of the area.
When we got to Raddison it was afternoon. We rode in with light rain. It was a miserable day, as days go, but we had a stroke of luck. Town is hardly a couple blocks long, and sitting there on Main St was a late model Triumph 750cc loaded down with more crap than I carry. No really.
We introduced ourselves to Don Summerville, a 73 year old geezer, who had also just pulled in a little earlier. At a cafe we had some coffee, and got to know Don a little.
He was from Timmons, Canada, and had made quite a few trip into the Northwest territory, but had never been to the Hudson Bay up here yet. We instantly liked him, and decide to ride down to the actual bay tomorrow, together. It was 100 klms down there and we could buy gas at Chisasibi.
Don was a crusty feller and would normally have camped with us, but he had gotten cold and was a little worried about his health. It is better to be safe than sorry in those parts. He invited us to share the room and the costs ($103). We declined as there was a campground just a 1/4 mile away that was free since it was closed for the season.
That worked out pretty well, but it rained most of the night, and our waterproof bottomed tent was now a swimming pool. That wasn't quite true, but I don't think we wouldn't have been any wetter if we had just use the blue Burrito method. My down sleeping bag was 25% wet down at the feet. It wasn't too cold, but the whole ordeal was a pain. I'm sure you easterners and PNWers can relate, but this wet crap was new to me being from the desert southwest of San Diego. :)
We got out of there and made our meetup with Don at 8:30 for coffee, and then headed out for the bay. It was early, and the day was colder than the day before. We followed Don, and he held a cautious 55 mph. It was slow going but we eventually arrived at the bay.
There were 20 or 30 each 24-26 ft sea going skiffs with big outboards, and just as many Seadoos with sleds behind them. Don said that they catch fish with the boats and haul it to town on the sleds during winter. Don knew quite a bit about what goes on up there. He was handy to have along.
We fooled around there for an hour taking pictures, and talking to some Cree folks who were there. A guide named Bruce came over to jabber with us. A totally friendly place, and it was a big reward for our efforts.
Damn, it wasn't warming up either. It was probable in the high 50s, but there was no sun to help. We had enough coats, but it wasn't pleasant outside either. On the way back we stopped at Chisasibi's Boogoom Kitchen Cafe for lunch. The cafe was located in the same large building that was having a truck load sale.
They were selling Seadoos, TVs, quads, right on down the line to hot plates and boom boxes. Up there things are done quite differently. That was their verson of Wallmart.
We finished out the day by returning to Raddison, and getting ready to leave tomorrow which was Monday. I had left home one day short of two weeks ago. It had already been some duzy of a trip.
Don had come to camp next to us. I forget how we spent the evening, but it wasn't one of those cozy evening with a camp fire. I think it was a camping night, hang out at the cafe where we had dinner as long as you can, and then bolt for the campground and get in the sleeping bag as quick as you can.
When I woke in the morning, my sleeping bag was frozen to the sweating tent roof. The seats and windshields had frost on them as did the grass and picnic tables. We had seen enough of this place. It was time to go. We had heard a weather report from someone that there was snow overnight in Edmonton, and a cold front was coming our way. Don was predicting snow before the week was out.
We put the program into pick em up and move em out. Don was going that route as well. He suggested that we ride south together, but we had done one day at 55mph, and we didn't want to go there again. He understood, and we shook a fond goodby handshake of three friends in a land far away.
I'd been watching the tread on the TW's rear. It was showing areas of no tread. It will need to be changed out for the one that I was carrying soon. I'll be glad to get that tire off the top of my load. The Sabre had a couple thousand left on it, but we noticed a couple flat spots on the front rims from not running enough air pressure over that dirt road.
The road south has a 150 mile section without gas on the north end and then 240 miles with no gas on the south end. My Magna will need four extra and the Sabre will need one or two. So we filled the cans and took all eight gallons on board to give us a good safety margin.
The Canadians used to make roadways where they would make a section that was 50 to 100 yards long. They would end that piece and start another section. It resulted in a seam/bump that went perpendicular across the pavement. It becomes a hell of a bump in time. The hwy dept keeps smoothing them out, but they can't keep up. Well those bumps on that road started killing me.
I developed a tight point in my high shoulder blade that burned all the time, and would sting when I hit the Bigger ones. I was really missing my extra handlebars. I was doing ok with the stock Magna's seat, but that twinge in my shoulder was really getting my attention on that 400 mile road down to Matagami. I figured that there were 6400 of those bumps over that 400 mile stretch.
We pulled into Matagami at around 6pm. Then stopped to ask questions from the first guy who we saw. He directed us to a local motel. He also wanted to talk bikes. He had just converted his 6 cyl GW to a three wheeler and he pulled a swoopy little trailer. That made a lot of sense up there.
The couple weeks on the road had tired us out. I noticed less enthusiasm in myself when thinking about what's next. I suggested that we take a rest day tomorrow. Arnold was all for that. We designated the next day would be a tire change day.
In the morning after a leisurely breakfast, with temps in the 60s and predicted to be 75 later, we went for a ride about town to find someone to change that tire. There wasn't much of a town. Of the four or five possibilities, it was no dice on getting out of doing it myself. We went back to the motel to work this out.
I had my bike's tool kit and other small sockets and such. I had a fairly large screw driver shaft for a tire iron. I was forced to go after the axle nut with the bike’s tool kit box wrench. Let me tell you that, if you have to take it off with that wrench, then it would have been a good idea if you had tightened it with that wrench. After jumping on tha liyyle short, wrench it eventually loosed the axle nut.
Now breaking the bead was next. I lusted after Jack Hunt's portable bead breaker, but he was nowhere in sight. I had meant to buy a 6 inch C-clamp for this purpose, but hadn't gotten around to it. During the trip to Montana a couple months ago, I had heard that breaking the bead can be done with a kickstand. Laying the tire down and rocking Arnold's Sabre over on it worked slick as hell. I suppose it could be worked out to do it with just one bike, but I don't know.....I was thankful to have Arnold's bike and his help.
I made another sad attempt at blowing the tire up with exploding gasoline. Again no dice. I'm going to offer an award to the first 'Maggot/rider that accomplishes that trick successfully. So far it has whipped my ass in a half dozen tries over the years. Luckily there was a good air source around the corner at a service station.
So after that we just laid around and ate. We prepared for tomorrow, and a renewed vigor. We would be heading west in earnest, and looking forward to the Canadian Rockies. Of course there was nearly 2000 miles of great plains and prairie to contend with first.
We were still 700 miles and a speeding ticket away from home when we finished Breakfast at Field Station Oregon. It seemed like being in the USA was kinda ho hum. We polished those miles off in a couple days. It was the end of a once in a lifetime bucket list trip. Thanks for listening.
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