Maine, Nova Scotia, New Brunswick: Day Four

Tuesday would finally have us hiking in Cape Breton National Park, but first there was a bit of a problem that we needed to address. Our initial plan was to camp in the park, but the one campground reservable in advance, and the one I therefore reserved, turned out to be at the opposite end of the park in Chetticamp – a 113 km drive around the tip of Cape Breton. We would then have to come back early the following morning for our whale-watching cruise on the Ingonish end of the park. A bigger issue, however, were bears. Perhaps out of thoroughness, but quite possibly out of the high likelihood of an encounter, Parks Canada provides exceptionally detailed information about bears and handling an encounter with them, all the way down to recognizing the signs of a bear's aggression and how to behave during an actual attack. J. was instantly petrified, and I, frankly, was none too keen either on the idea of having to play dead in the tent in the middle of the night, while the cuddly-looking 300-pounder dined non-chalantly on some of that tasty Trader Joe's trail mix pried from the trunk of our car. Luckily, the minimalist but perfectly situated Island Inn where we were staying had a room available Tuesday night, and a very reasonably priced one at that, so the decision to wimp out was a no-brainer. The following night's lodging secured, and the Inn's miserly, unsatisfying complimentary breakfast consumed, we were off for the trails.

Our first hike was the Franey trail, only 7.4 km, but with a 330 m elevation change. We climbed steadily as the old-growth mixed hardwoods of the Acadian forest gradually gave way to the shorter, more uniform black spruce of the taiga ecosystem at higher elevations. Challenging to be sure – rated “moderate” by Parks Canada, it would no doubt be classified as “strenuous” in the US – but, not surprisingly, well worth the effort. The views from the top were nothing short of breathtaking – two of the highest peaks on the island – Cape Smokey in the east and Money Point in the north – framed the Middle Head Peninsula jutting out into the ocean directly below. Deep green of uninterrupted pine transitioned abruptly into the calm but forbidding steel gray of the ocean waters. A microscopic white speck of a church on the peninsula reminded you that everything here is far bigger than you would like to think. Far bigger than you, or anything your ilk is likely to build. The weather was overcast, but it only added to the gravitas of the landscape. We sat on the flat granite rocks, replenishing our reserves with some Cliff bars and water, contemplating the vastness of it all and enjoying the intense solitude of the spot. Eventually, some footsteps roused us from our reverie – a family of German tourists, in excellent English, asked us whether they needed to go back the way they came. Telling them that they didn't – the trail was a loop – we waited until their voices receded in the distance before starting down ourselves.

It is on the descent, the trail now wider and more open, that the wisdom of that morning's decision not to camp was painted for us in stark colors. Just as we were expressing disappointment and not having seen any of the supposedly abundant wildlife, the rustling of an obviously large animal came from the shrubs on our left, followed by a growl and a rattling kind of sound. J., contrary to everything she has just read in the brochures, froze dead in her tracks, her face ashen with fear. Telling her to keep going and not make eye contact, I tried to see the animal out of the corner of my eye. I never did. Realistically, it was probably a moose – we were seeing countless piles of moose scat all along the trail – but it will forever remain etched in our memories as a near-encounter with a bear.

Similarly to Acadia, our second hike was, though not completely flat, far less challenging. We hiked out to the tip of the Middle Head Peninsula we saw from the mountains a short while earlier. Starting at the Keltic Lodge resort – the only hotel on the peninsula and the ne plus ultra of luxury lodging on Cape Breton – we walked along the rolling green hills that gave Nova Scotia its name. Canopies of pine periodically opened up onto gorgeous views of the coastline. Here, you were one with the ocean. A small fishing village had once been located on the peninsula; it was abandoned when the once plentiful salmon was no longer a viable catch, its disappearance nominally blamed on acid rain but never definitively diagnosed. Today, no trace of the village remains. We reached the meadow at the end of the trail and cooled off in its plush grass for a while – it had become sunny and unseasonably warm by this time – listening to the seagulls and cormorants clamoring for their favorite perch on a giant rock just off shore, before returning by way of more beautiful views of the coast.

Showered and changed at the inn, we were faced with the prospect of finding dinner, now that the camp-appropriate instant noodles and canned fish were no longer an option. The Ingonish area of Nova Scotia, though officially incorporated into four towns – Ingonish Falls, Ingonish Beach, Ingnonish Ferry and Ingonish itself – is really just an ongoing chain of widely-spaced houses and businesses along the Cabot Trail. There is no town center or “main drag” of any sort, and restaurants are few and far between. After consulting the dreaded AAA Tourbook – a tome which, when it comes to restaurant recommendations, appears to be willfully ignorant of the very concept of good food, we decided to try The Atlantic – the more casual, less expensive of the two restaurants at the Keltic Lodge resort. The choice proved to be serendipitous, not because of the food but the view. We arrived to discover a full dining room and a patio that was completely empty despite the peak dinner hour. Puzzled initially, we realized, not without some shock, that the 25 or so degrees centigrade was simply too warm for the locals. Eventually, several outdoor tables were filled with some Americans and Germans, but by then we were already seated at what I am convinced is the absolutely best dinner table in the whole world. The entire coastline, now completely bathed in the softening glow of the setting sun, unfolded before us as we leisurely sipped on glasses of Ontario-brewed Sleeman, cool (to us) ocean breeze gently rippling the canopy of the table's umbrella.

The meal itself was satisfying if not particularly memorable. The highlight was the mussels – truly local, they were raised an at aqua farm a few kilometers away in Cape North, and tasted it. Small but intensely flavorful, they were easily the equals of the ones we had in Maine. Steamed in some local beer with no other embellishments, they made me question the whole garlic and white wine school of shellfish cooking for a moment. Skeptical of dishes that aspire to be creative at a restaurant I have not researched, I opted for fish and chips, made with regionally, if not locally, caught haddock. The fish was good – fresh, and not overloaded with batter, but not particularly distinctive. The fries, utterly forgettable. J. opted for a haddock sandwich and some seafood chowder, a Nova Scotia-wide specialty. She praised the chowder and, like me, was ambivalent about the haddock.

The cumulative effects of the day's activities would have precluded any late-night revelry even if there was any to be had in Ingonish, and by ten o'clock we were asleep, mercifully free of any threat of an ursine invasion.