Days 47 to 50: Nova Scotia's Eastern Shore

I'm in Halifax, land of functional library computers, reliable internet access, and no excuses. Which means we're offering a four-posts-for-the-price-of-one deal today. Days 37 to 50 are all here:

Day 47

Kilometer 4115

Boylston, NS

Back across the Canso Strait to mainland Nova Scotia today. It goes a lot faster without mountains. (Not to mention the person whining in my ear all day long about the mountains.)

Day 48

Kilometer 4219

Stillwater, NS

I have a tendency to ride on the very edge of the road, between the white stripe and the end of the pavement. If there's anything I've learned from this trip, it's that this is apparently the international trucker signal for "Please Drive As Fast And As Close As You Possibly Can To Me; I Like Playing Fast And Loose With My Safety." I've learned to sometimes claim my place in the lane to avoid giving this signal. Today, I was riding just to the left of the white stripe and a semi truck, still a few hundred feet back, started honking at me. I moved to my natural place, right of the stripe. Seeing my signal, the driver enthusiastically obliged, and the sheer force of his wake knocked me off my bike and into the gravel. New rule for Sam: stay in the driver's way until you've forced him to slow to a safe passing speed.

Day 49

Kilometer 4321
Sheet Harbour, NS

My first conversation since Dad left (at least, first one that didn't start with "welcome to..." or end with "have a nice day"): I got stopped by an older man who asked if I was "one of them crazy bikers that cycles all around the province?" Indeed. He'd totally do that, if he were younger, he says, but he's too old now, and I'm young enough that I can do stuff like that, but he's much too old. He's sixty! And by the way, this is the cold side of the province, and if I go to the other side, that's the bay side, it's warmer there, but this is the ocean side, so it's colder here, and where was I from anyway? When he learned I was American, I got a rambling speech on the virtues of Donald Trump and was I voting for him, well, of course I was! I should be anyway! I had to quickly dip my fingers into my pouch of holy water and cross myself as I hightailed it out of there.

Day 50
Kilometer 4412
Lake Echo, NS

Thunderstorm last night. I seriously overestimated the portion of this trip that would be spent dry.

I feel a lot like I'm riding through a Norman Rockwell painting recently—perhaps if Norman Rockwell had studied in the Hudson River School and painted beautiful natural landscapes. Or maybe this is a Stephen King novel. (Only time will tell, though I'm somewhat hoping for the former.) Everyone here knows everyone. For the past several days, I've passed about one town per day (and my definition of "town" is a very liberal one: if it's got at least one establishment—be it a gas station, a grocery store, or a café—that serves food of some kind, it counts as a  town in my book), and in every town I've stopped in, it seems that I'm the one clear outsider. People (even ones that haven't me on my bike) ask which way I'm headed, as if I couldn't possibly be staying here more than an hour or two. I suppose they're right, though.

I was lucky enough to find a grocery store today. This is what I bought: a twelve-pack of plain rolls, an eight-pack of Twinkies, a quart of juice, and (I couldn't believe my luck when I found it) a 64-pack box of Nature Valley granola bars.

Since places to stop around here (and in a lot of places in this country) are so few and far between (I didn't pass by a single business of any kind until 3:30 pm today), I've got my bathroom routine down to a science: first, the obvious, whether I need to or not, then fill up my three water bottles (doubtless all empty by now), then, if it's the first or last stop of the day, and occasionally both will be at the same place, brush my teeth (I'm lucky if I get a single stall bathroom; if it's five pm in a crowded McDonald's bathroom and I'm brushing my teeth, I generally get a few stares), then assess what else (hair, body, clothes) needs cleaning and do my best to clean it in a sink. One time in Québec, I took so long in the visitors' center bathroom, that the woman running the place came to check on me.

The map of the Eastern Shore of Nova Scotia is a splotchy mess of lakes, streams, inlets, and coastline. And the road shows it. I'll get miles and miles of nothing but trees, and then suddenly a postcard-perfect view of a harbor and the sea behind. (At least, what I'm sure would be a postcard-perfect view if it weren't foggy.)