Chapter 78: Veni, Vidi, Vici

"Veni, Vidi, Vici."
-Julius Caesar

Translated, the above means "I came, I saw, I conquered." At the end of my Canadian epic, that's kind of how I feel. I've traveled more than half the circumference of the globe. That's how vast this country is. So...how to sum it up? Superlatives won't do, so here are some highlights.

-days: 50
-kilometres: 20,628
-provinces: 10
-territories: 1
-national parks: 6
-UNESCO world heritage sites: 5
-best places to wonder at the beauty of it all: Tofino and Cape Breton Island
-best place to kill your liver: Halifax
-most likely to make you feel like a rock star: Montreal
-best surprises: Alberta badlands, and Saskatchewan's Great Sand Hills
-best place to get lost and never found: the Dempster Highway, Yukon
-best views from a car: Icefields Parkway, Alberta
-quirkiest place: Newfoundland
-best place to feel like a foreigner and love it: Quebec City

And the best part is, there's still so much more to explore. Here's to next time...who wants to come with?

Chapter 77: The best kept secret in Canada

I'm sure I'm biased, but before setting off on my cross-country epic, I was pretty sure the west was the most beautiful part of Canada. There have been amazing sights along the way, but I left Newfoundland more convinced of that than ever, particularly Tofino.

Suddenly a new contender entered the ring. Cape Breton island is stunningly beautiful, teeming with wildlife, both land and water-based, and compared to Tofino, it's relatively easy to find accomodations on short notice.

When explorer John Cabot arrived in 1497, he must have thought he'd stumbled on the world's best kept secret. The trail named for him winds around the top of the island, with sweeping coastal viewpoints accessible by car or hundreds of kilometres of hiking trails, overlooking waters teeming with lobster and whales.

I camped on a grassy plateau above a beach which was only accessible by a rope ladder. Being that I was the only one brave, or maybe foolish enough to climb down, I had the entire beach to myself. I took a swim, nearly stepping on a live lobster, and saw a few more at a glance. Looking out at the horizon, I spied a dozen pilot whales under a golden sunset.

It's the kind of place that would get much more acclaim if more people knew how special it is.

I'm glad they don't. It was a fitting end to an amazing trip.

Chapter 76: Near death experience

Prologue:

-Wild animals sighted: Buffalo, bears, deer, foxes, coyotes, caribou and a beaver
-Near death experiences: 1

Foreshadowing!

I have seen dozens of animals during the last seven weeks, but the moose have been invisible. I've seen a female, but not the more impressive male. Insert joke here.

Upon entry into Gros Morne National Park in Newfoundland, I was greeted by this sign depicting a massive and apparently mange-ridden, homicidal moose crushing a car.

Also, a sign saying there have been 23 moose-vehicle accidents in the park this year. I've driven through dozens of moose territories without incident, so I didn't really pay much attention.

After seeing evidence of continental shift in the mountains of Gros Morne Park that proves Europe and North America were once one, I decided to embark on a crazy day of driving to see North America's first Viking settlement, to the north in L'Anse Aux Meadows, then a mad dash back to the ferry for Nova Scotia by 7am the next morning. That's about 400 km one way, then another 700 or so in the opposite direction.

That presented the problem of driving in the dark, when most moose encounters happen. This time, the decision to risk it resulted in a split second of sheer horror, followed by several hours of paranoia.

I got back to Gros Morne about 10pm. I was thinking about the long stretch of driving, and looking ahead for animals on the road. All of a sudden, a monstrous THING with long legs and massive antlers materialized out of the dark in my peripheral vision. No warning, no nothing. Thanks a lot Bullwinkle. I yanked the wheel to the right, and avoided it by maybe a foot.

I'm embarassed to admit that there's just the slightest possibility I may have screamed like a girl. I'm not sure. I stopped and looked back to see the thing trot into the woods. It was way bigger than Silken, and would have absolutely demolished her, with me inside. I can say without a bit of exaggeration that it was one of the most sudden and terrifying things I have ever experienced.

After allowing myself a brief sobbing spell, I calmly got back on the road. And spent the next 6 or 7 hours going roughly the same speed as a Conservative government tackling climate change.

I've seen enough moose now, thank you.

chapter 75: Alison in Wonderland; the Hali-Fax of life

"You take the good, you take the bad, you take 'em both, and there you have, the facts of life, the facts of life."
"The Facts of Life"

I know, cheesy. But this is my blog, deal with it.

Halifax is another one of those unique places that punches way above its weight class in the culture and creativity department. It's a small city with an angsty, artistic vibe, fueled by a mix of youthful disillusionment, underemployment, and beer. It has six universities, by far the highest per capita in Canada. Not surprisingly, it also has one of the highest concentrations of bars. The city's motto may as well be "fuck it, let's get wasted."

Anyway, I rolled into this tempest in a beer glass looking forward to re-connecting with my long-lost Africa colleague and partner in clumsy, drunken falls, Alison Lang. She lives in the gritty north end among idealistic twenty-somethings and down-and-outers whose ideas are pretty much limited to their next bender.

Unlike many Haligonians, Alison has a pretty decent job, but she still embodies the energy of her surroundings. She sings, er, screams, in a hard rock band named Peeler, with a guitar player named Mingus who likes to spit whiskey at the crowd. He looks pretty much exactly like you're imagining. I saw them at a bar called the Seahorse, which is fittingly decorated with demonic looking, red-eyed seahorses. Typically, locals decry the renovations that transformed it into the dingy rock dungeon it is now. Apparently, its previous grimy incarnation was way cooler.

Alison has an anchor tattoo on her shoulder and a scene from Alice in Wonderland on her back. Fitting, because as soon as I arrived, she pulled me down into her rabbit hole. I stayed at a hostel the first three nights, quickly meeting a typical cast of characters, ending the first night drunk at a neighbourhood dive bar. The next day, I met Alison after work, and we proceeded to drink in the park and catch up. She, somewhat like me, seems to have an unquenchable thirst to complicate her life. Basing a fictional character on her would almost be too easy.

Anyway, the week went by with drinking while relaxing in Halifax's many parks, drinking in bars, drinking at Alison's house and a trip to the famous lighthouse at Peggy's Cove. Legend has the town is named after the sole survivor of a shipwreck in a storm in the 1700's. The locals named her Peggy after she couldn't remember her name. Today, the lighthouse is a major tourist attraction. But wicked storms are a constant threat, and despite warnings posted all over the place, rogue waves typically drag several foolhardy visitors a year to their ultimate, watery demise.

I also got a chance to meet ex-Global National colleague Ross Lord for drinks, and another friend who offered me the use of her apartment for a couple nights.

So no, I didn't go to Lunenberg, and I didn't see this church or that Celtic band. But I did meet the locals who showed me the Hali-fax of life. It's a small city with deep cultural roots, boundless creativity, and a mild stench of fatalism that drives its people to live in the now.

Carpe diem, Halifax.

chapter 74: Uncharted waters

"Burning every bridge that I cross,
To find some beautiful place to get lost."
"Let's Get Lost" - Elliott Smith

Working the rat race can really make you misplace your perspective, and sometimes the only way to find it again is to get lost. And my much-anticipated first visit to the comparatively small Maritime provinces offered ample opportunity to do that.

I slashed my way into New Brunswick on Friday, August 13th, ironically leaving my horrifying French behind. I've made a point of avoiding cities, except where I have friends to reconnect with. At the risk of becoming a cliche, the land and the open road have really become my companions. It's as close to a spiritual experience as I come.

I'm not a great tourist as far as seeing specific landmarks; I prefer to watch people and check out the landscape to really get a feel for what that place is like. I've always believed going without a plan is the best way to get somewhere you've never been.

I dutifully checked out Hopewell Rocks along the Bay of Fundy, home to the world's most active tides. A hundred billion tonnes of water flows in and out every day, a differential of four stories.

At low tide you can walk on the muddy ocean floor and see fossils, and hours later the tides erase any evidence you were ever there. It's a pretty amazing sight, but you do fight the crowds.

After leaving, I drove around aimlessly for a while, checking out this dirt road or that viewpoint, and this where I started to see the true Maritime character. Most of the time, when you tell people you're lost, they'll help - but you have to ask. Not here.

A typical exchange:
"Are you lost?" a friendly local inquires.
"I'm trying to be," I grin.
"Oh. Okay." They smile, and back away slowly.

It sounds silly, but this is how I've been able to see some amazing, secluded spots that aren't on a map. I drove down an unmarked gravel road, and came upon a beautiful private beach.

Unlike much of the country, I wasn't warned about the risk of prosecution for trespassing. A sign simply said "Enjoy our beach, but please, take nothing but pictures and leave nothing but footprints."

And that's the kind of thing a tour company can't sell.

Chapter 73: Escape from Montreal

After a week of debauchery in Montreal, I made it out alive and headed to Quebec City. If the former is stylish, sexy, and slightly tacky, the latter is the wise matriarch of French Canada.

Beautiful, but older, and much classier. Inside the walls of 400 year-old Vieux Quebec, you still get the same feeling of protection from an attack that might come from outside. She's a beautiful sight all lit up at night, and unlike Montreal, still looks good in the morning.

The history is amazing, and once you've been there, it's impossible not to understand how Quebec could be its own country, and why we should continue to do whatever it takes to prevent that from happening.

After Quebec, I spent a day driving around the Gaspe Peninsula. It's rural, struggling economically and very Francophone. If you live here, you speak French first, last and always. There were vineyards, for sale signs and little fromageries everywhere. Despite economic hardships, they aren't giving up on the old standards.

I spoke to one woman who was so serious about her cheese, the fromagerie had actually funded research at the University of Laval to engineer cultures that are not only delicious, but also help your digestive tract. I made a lame attempt at a 'cultural' double entendre. She didn't laugh. Apparently, good taste also applies to humour.

Signposts:

-Kilometres driven: 16,000+

-free cheese samples eaten: 4

-French phrases butchered: countless

chapter 72: the greg johnson reality tour

1)Saskatchewan, reunion with friends, and a less scary picture of Regina than the one painted by Macleans magazine? Check.
2)Manitoba and a beery visit with former GN colleagues in Winnipeg? Check.
3)Ontario, long distances, speeding ticket (no longer down with OPP), expensive camping at Lake Superior, Toronto friends and business connections? Check.

I rolled into Canada's coolest city last Tuesday feeling pretty good. After picking up my pal Greg in Toronto, we jumped in Silken and made for la Belle Province and Montreal, leapfrogging the 13,000 kilometre barrier in the process. I hadn't been there in 20 years, and to fully OD on Montreal's cool, it helps to have a knowledgeable tour guide. Greg spent six years in Montreal going broke while partying too much and working too little, so he seemed like the perfect man for this challenging job.

I started calling it the Greg Johnson reality tour, and it's been as disgustingly, delighfully, drunkenly debaucherous as I could have hoped.

The living situation has been interesting to say the least. We stayed one night in a half-room in a tiny apartment while the regular tenant slept on a mattress in the living room. We've been at an empty fraternity house the rest of the time. And my bike got stolen. But I've seen a few of Montreal's hottest spots, basically been drunk and smoking (bad!) for five days straight, while eating things like poutine and huge smoked meat sandwiches. The city is what a doctor would prescribe for a patient with square-itis.

It's a whole different world than healthy-image conscious, rule obsessed, no fun Vancouver. You can buy beer at a corner store here. People eat poutine and fast food regularly. They go out practically every night. They drink way too much. They defiantly continue to disregard all sensible reasons to stop smoking. They litter. They park almost anywhere they want, and drivers will run you over if you step into the street without due care. They don't substitute work for having a life.

Nightlife is practically a career for a lot of people here. The streets are alive with good-looking, fashionable people from different age and income groups who stay out all night at stylish clubs. Then they go to the same cheap diners for all-day breakfast the next morning, looking much less stylish, much more haggard, and determined to do it all again. Montreal is like a sexy stranger who keeps you up and makes you wanna take chances with your health, rather than do the sensible thing and miss a night out.

After that, making the sensible choice doesn't seem to make much sense at all, does it?

Places I have slept:

-sandy beaches

-my tent at various camgrounds

-my car at a rest stop

-a hostel

-a gravelly driveway

-a luxury hotel

-a University dorm

-a mattress sized bedroom

-a frat house