Moose Hunt

I survived my encounter with the moose. That the good news. The bad news is that the children have found out about it and are now all hysterical.

“Da-ah-ahd, you promised us we would see a moose.” Michael.
“Mo-ah-ahm, how come you didn’t get us?” lsabel.
“We’ll never see one now.” Sarah.
“It’s OK. You’re going to see a moose. I promise.”
“That’s what you said yesterday!” Michael.
“When?” Sarah.
“Yeah, Dad, when?” Isabel.
“Tomorrow.”

Tomorrow has arrived. It’s early in the morning. Michael, my roommate at the hotel, has bounded out of bed.

“Dad, dad, wake up. When are we going to see the moose?”
“Later.”
“What time?”
“I don’t know what time.”
“Lunchtime?”
“After lunch.”
“Dinner?”
“After dinner.”
“Dad, after dinner it’s dark.”
“I meant before dinner.”
“What time before dinner?”
“Six.”
“Six PM?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Before dinner. Six PM. I’m going to tell the girls.”

Six PM comes. We drive up to Highlands. Maggie, the young beer cart lady, sees me, waves.
“How’s Carl?” she asks.
“Fine. I mean, last time I saw him, he was fine.”
“He got in a bit of trouble after you left.”
“He did?” Why am I not surprised?
“Oh yeah. He was chasing a bull moose with his golf cart. A big bull moose.”
“And what happened?”
“The moose turned on him.” Yikes. “And he drove the cart into a bunker.”
“No.”
“Oh yeah. He didn’t look too happy either. Thought he might’ve broken a rib.”
“Ouch.”
“What happened to the moose.”
“He trotted up to the bunker edge, then walked away. They don’t like bunkers.”
“Have you seen any today?”
“Oh my, yes. Just saw a mother and calf on the 16th hole.”
“Really!?” Isabel.
“Dad, dad, let’s go.” Michael. “Where’s the 16th hole?”
“I know where the 16th hole is, son.” Then, to Maggie, “Is it safe? I mean, for the kids.”
“Oh, sure it is.” Then, Maggie to the children, “As long as you keep your distance. It’s a mother and calf, and the mother is very protective of her calf. Okay?”
“Okay.” Isabel.
“Got it.” Michael.
“We’ll keep our distance.” Sarah.

The kids all hop into the Durango. Their excitement, palpable. We park near the 17th tee, walk through the woods to the 16th green. In the distance stands a foursome in the middle of the fairway. One of the men motions to us, points in the direction of the woods adjacent to the second fairway. We look over there, and, sure enough, see a mother moose and calf.
“Dad! Look! A moose!” Michael, in a whisper.
“Oh my gosh!” Isabel, “Look at the baby!” Also in a whisper.
“Don’t get too close.” Sarah, as exicted as the others, exercising appropriate caution.

I take out my camera, which I finally remembered to bring along, and snap a picture of the calf standing on the cartpath, nibbling on a shrub.

“Did you get it?” Isabel.
“I think so.”
“Will you put it on the blog?” Michael.
“I’ll put it on the blog.”
“Put it right at the top, Dad.”
“I will, son.”
“Promise?”
“Yes. I promise.”

Moose hunt, a success. Children, happy. Life, good.

Perfect Alibi

Today is a good day. I am playing Highlands Links. Highlands Links has been named one of the 100 best courses in the world by every major golf periodical in America. It is, hands down, the most challenging and spectacularly scenic course I have ever laid eyes on. I’m playing with Carl, a newlywed who is here on his honeymoon, staying at the Keltic Lodge, and already dodging his wife (I love him).

“What a week.” Carl.
“Fabulous. What a course.” Me.
“Man, I need this. I can’t believe I need it, but I do.”
“What?”
“We’ve been married five days.”
“It gets better.”
“You think?”
“Yes. Weddings and honeymoons are the problem.”
“She gave me a look when I left the room.”
“Well, it is your honeymoon.”
“Did you play golf on your honeymoon?”
“No. But only because there were no courses to play. Part of her plan, for sure.”
“Well I don’t feel bad about this.”
“You shouldn’t. If it makes you feel any better, my wife is back in the room with three kids who’ve been in the car for six hours, all of whom had candy and soda for lunch.”

Hey, I’ve got it good. Laura lets me play. Welcomes it. Though she does question why I play.

“Why do you want to play this course?” Laura.
“Because it’s one of the best in the world.”
“It’s windy. It looks hard. You get very crabby when you don’t play well. And you haven’t been playing well on this trip.”
“I’m going to play well today.”
“Okay. Just don’t get upset if things don’t work out the way you imagine. I don’t want a crabby dinner companion.”

We’ve made a deal, of sorts. I play this afternoon, we dine sans children this evening (I’ve arranged a babysitter through the hotel).

“Where’s the win for me there?” Laura. Then, “Just kidding. Actually, I could use a break from the kids.”
“Me too.”

The first six holes on the front nine at Highlands play due west. Today, the wind is blowing steady from the west at about 25 miles per hour. “If there is such a thing as a prevailing wind,” says the course guidebook, “it is into the golfer on the first six holes.” That’s a two club wind on any given shot. Carl and I are paired with a couple from Hamburg. The four of us are teeing off at 3:20 PM.

“Rounds here average about four hours, forty-five minutes.” Starter. Young Irish gal.
“Five hours?” Me.
“You’re going to be walking eight miles. Up and down hills. Long jaunts between holes. And you’ll be spending time in the woods.”
“Why is that?”
“Because the fairways are narrow and even very good golfers hit shots in the woods on this course.”
“Any advice?”
“Keep an eye out for moose.”
“Moose?”
“Yes. And don’t get too close if you see one. You’ll be playing in twilight, the last few holes, and that’s when they’re active.”

Carl and I turn to look at each other, smile.

“Moose! Can you believe it? You think we’ll see one?” Carl.
“I don’t know. Not sure I want to. I hit a cow last week.”
“Really?”
“Antigonish. Fifth hole.”
“Jeez. That must’ve sucked.”
“It wasn’t as bad as it sounds. I made bogey on the hole.”

The first hole at Highlands, Ben Franey, is a 405 yard uphill par four. Contoured fairway. There’s not a level approach from anywhere, with the possible exception of the tee box. I stripe a tee shot straight down the middle and am feeling good about my prospects until I arrive at my ball and discover I am still 175 yards from the green.

“It’s a four club wind.” Me. Disgusted.
“When it gusts.” Carl. Who I out drove by about 25 yards. He’ll need a cannon to get home from where he is.

I take out a three metal, smash it, then dash up the hill to see the shot flight, thinking, it’s gotta be going for the green. Just as I get to the crest of the hill I see my ball trailing into the woods on the left. I know then that it’s going to be a long day.

Fortunately, the German man we are playing with has some kind of supernatural ability to track balls in the woods. Doesn’t matter where or what line you hit the goddam thing. He tracks balls like a short-haired pointer tracks birds. His name is Helmut. His wife’s name is Liesel. They are a nice couple. Both play well. But it is Helmut’s supernatural ball hunting abilities that make him so appealing as a foursome partner. Helmut walks into the forest, and, ten minutes later, he’s got your ball. Never seen anything like it.

“Yah," he shouts, "Dah bol he-ah. Yu plah-ink a Tie-tah-veest Pwo Vee Vun?”
“Yes I am.”

All you can see is his head and bush hat, the rest of his body is obscured by brush. You walk over to where he’s standing, and, sure enough, he’s got your ball. It’s sitting on a thatch of moss, behind a log. The chances of anyone finding it there are one in a million. You’re thinking: there has to be a television opportunity for a man with his talent.

At the turn, you’re doing better than expected: eight over par (this with four balls hit deep into the woods, every one of them found by Helmut, the wunder-ball tracker).

“What do you make of this guy?” Carl.
“I don’t know. I do know he’s saved me about ten shots on the front.”
“His wife is a good golfer.”
“Yes she is.”
“And very attractive.” Carl. The newlywed. He’s been married five days.
“I’ll say.” Me.
“I’d like to hit one in the woods,” he says, “make her go find it.”

Overall, the round is progressing well. Carl and I are betting beers and I am winning, collecting brews on just about every other hole. Carl is becoming intoxicated, edgy, leering at Liesel, making glum faces at Helmut. I hit one into the woods, Helmut finds it, Carl challenges me on the next hole.

“OK,” he says, “double or nothing.”
“That’s four beers.”
“Right. Four beers.”

I hit five good shots, make par. Carl hits four bad ones and three good ones, makes double bogey.

“You play a weird game.” Carl.
“I only play well for money and beer.”
“I see that.”
“No worries. I’ll hit one in the woods on the next hole.”
“And then that fucking goat Helmut will find it and you’ll make bogey.”
“Probably.”

It’s getting late and I am still playing well, though worried about our dinner reservation at 8:15 PM. It’s 7:45 PM. I’m on the 16th tee, about two miles from the clubhouse. Truthfully, I’m having one of those rounds where I can’t imagine stopping. Then again, if I’m late for dinner, Laura will kill me. I really have no choice. I apologize to Carl, tell him I have to leave.

“You’re quitting?”
“Yes.”
“Jee-zus.”
“Listen, it’s been great. Really. Stop by the hotel when you’re finished. I’ll buy you a beer.”
“It’s the least you can do.”
“And behave, OK? Don’t do anything you’ll regret later. At least on your honeymoon.”
“Like taking Liesel into the woods and shtupping her?”
“Precisely.”

Carl is a recent graduate of Northwestern (their MBA program) and has just accepted a job with Sun Trust Bank. I’m sure he has bright future ahead of him.

I begin walking in. The scenery is incredible. The light at this time of day, unimaginably beautiful. Over my shoulder I have a view of Franey Mountain, and in front of me, Ingonish Harbour. As I’m approaching the 18th hole, I hear some whoops coming from the tee box. One of the men in the foursome has his camera out. They see me coming and are waving me up.

“Hey bud, get a load of this.” One of the guys in the foursome.

I give a start. There’s a large mammal with a rack on his head standing in the middle of the fairway. It’s the biggest moose I have ever seen.

“Ever seen a moose in the middle of the goddam fairway?” Same guy.
“No.” Me.
“Something, eh?”
“Wow. You guys mind if I walk it in?”
“Hey, no problem. Just be mindful of the moose.” Laughter. “Don’t want to piss off the big guy, eh?”

There’s another foursome in the middle of the fairway. They’ve got their cameras out, are whispering to one another. The moose is now approaching the green and clubhouse, where there are about a hundred people on the deck, a few of them drunk, many of them loud, most of them making moose calls. I wave and walk past the foursome, heading towards the clubhouse. Then, rather abruptly, the moose turns, begins moving in my direction.

“Hey.” One of the guys in the fairway, talking to me. “Be careful. He sees you.”
“Got it.” The moose is looking at me.

I make a detour, begin walking up the left side of the fairway. The moose again moves in my direction. Clearly, he is pissed off, blaming me for the entire hullabaloo. I stop, move a few steps back. The moose rears his head, groans at me. I am thinking: this could get ugly. I jog across the fairway to the road leading to the lodge. The moose trots with me. Every move I make, he mirrors. I turn to the guys in the fairway, hold up my hands in a “what to do?” gesture. The moose isn’t going to let me pass.

“He’ll move on,” one of them says. “If you just stand still.”
“But I’m late for dinner.”
“Late for dinner?” The guy rolls his eyes at me. “You’ve got the perfect alibi.”
“I was being chased by a moose.”
“There you go.”
“She’ll never believe it.”

Sometimes, however, the gods are smiling on you. Like today. You’ve been hitting more good shots than bad. You’ve won some beers and some money. You’ve been playing with a great guy whose marriage will last maybe four or five months. And now, as fate would have it, you’re wife has arrived, unbeknownst to you, to witness your stand off with a moose. She’s sitting on the clubhouse deck with all the others, every one of them laughing at your uncertain predicament.

“That’s my husband.” Laura.
“Ain’t he the lucky one.” Someone on the clubhouse deck, followed by raucous laughter.
“If he wants to get by,” another person on the deck, “He may have to shoot it.”

Laura has come to pick you up; knows you are late for dinner. And the best thing about it: she couldn’t care less, is enjoying the moment as much, and possibly more, than you are.

No Gel

My mother-in-law is flying home from Halifax today. She just watched a morning news conference with Michael Chertoff. Right now she is upstairs, emptying her carry-on bag and pocketbook of everything except Xanax. Those, she’s keeping. I believe she may have already inhaled a few. Grim situation, hers.

Middle Head

We’ve arrived at Middle Head, a famous peninsula on the Eastern coast of Cape Breton, upon which sits the Keltic Lodge, a stately hotel situated at the crest of a narrow isthmus, and a golf course, Highlands Links, the crowning achievement of legendary architect Stanley Thompson. That we arrived here is nothing short of a miracle. The road to Middle Head is one of the most spectacular (and terrifying) highway drives in the world. It is called the Cabot Trail, and it traverses the rugged terrain of Cape Breton Highlands National Park.

Twenty-three years ago, the summer I left Montreal and life in Canada for good, when I was a much younger man and had nothing to fear, when I was on the road trip of my life traveling with other young men, three college buddies whose passions were limited to booze, fishing and women (in that order), our itinerary uncertain but heading in the general direction of Newfoundland (North and East) with stops along the way in just about every provincial bar Canada had to offer, I remember arriving at the Cabot Trail in Cape Breton and thinking, well, this is it. We’re not going to make it to Newfoundland. We’re not even going to make it to the crest of the next hill.

“Hey. Guys. Check this out.” Me.
“Holy shit.” Jit. A nickname. Don’t ask.
“Oh my god.” Doober. Another nickname. You know why. Later was arrested in Manhattan for “clinging to a motor vehicle” (the car was moving at a good clip down Second Avenue. Doober was on the roof). Now works for the Nassau County Health Department.
“Where’s the road?” Scott. Real name. Later become a doctor, graduating from Stonybrook. Looking out the car window and seeing only sky and water.
“We’re all gonna die!” Jit. Laughter. Some whooping. The sound of beer cans being opened.

My present circumstances are somewhat different; the passengers on this journey more risk averse, attuned to the nuances of driving off a cliff and plunging into the deep blue sea.

“OK. Everyone stop talking. Dad needs to concentrate.” Laura.
“Woe.” Sarah.
“Where’s the road?” Michael. Maybe he’ll grow up to be a doctor.
“Da-aha-aad.” Isabel.
“Sarah, my dear. Help me look for a little blue box.” My mother-in-law has dumped the contents of her purse onto her lap, is fumbling for a Xanax.
“Everything will be fine.” Me. Thinking: could use a beer.

Put simply: there are stretches of road on the Cabot Trail where you are a jerk of the wheel away from plunging 1,000 feet down into the open waters of the Atlantic Ocean. Specifically: the drive north over Cape Smokey into the town of Ingonish (the photo that precedes this blog entry is a view of Cape Smokey from the Keltic Lodge at Middle Head). When you are driving on that section of the Cabot Trail and you look out your car window, all you see is sky, and water. Nothing else. There are moments when it seems as if the highway in front of you does not exist because it doesn’t (that’s how sharp the turns are). That’s Laura, for example, standing at the edge of the highway (after I successfully navigated to the top of the Cape).



And yet, there are all kinds of drivers who make this journey. Younger versions of ourselves, though fewer of them (thank god). And tourists, pilots who are unsafe at any speed, people who are driving and observing the scenery at the same time. And tour bus operators. I mean, that’s just crazy. Truthfully: given the mix of characters and stretch of road, I’m surprised at the scarcity of deaths on the highway. I should note that there have been a few deaths, one recently in Neil’s Harbour (this from the Halifax Chronicle Herald): “A Nova Scotia man has died after a vehicle he was a passenger in hit a moose and continued down the Cabot Trail for almost 60 metres with the animal on the hood before it skidded to a stop. RCMP said the man, who was from Dingwall, was 60 years old. His name has not been released.” Okay, so he didn’t drive off the highway into the Atlantic. He hit a goddam moose instead. It should be noted that the moose herd, while dwindling in southern Nova Scotia, is prospering in Cape Breton (I will detail my and my children’s encounter with these Herculean beasts in another blog entry). Anyway, you get the picture. Dangers lurk everywhere abroad. You can drive off the highway or hit (or be hit by) a moose. There is also this possibility: death by ferry crossing (I’m telling you, it has been a bad month for tourism in the province). Yesterday’s Chronicle Herald reports that the Englishtown ferry – the ferry one uses to access the Cabot Trail - become unmoored Sunday with both cars and passengers aboard, running aground in St. Anns Harbour. The ferry is tethered to both shorelines via an underground steel cable (the currents run hard through the narrow slip of water). Short version of story: the cable breaks and the ferry starts listing to the shoreline. What makes this story somewhat unsettling is the fact that we rode the ferry Sunday morning and it become unmoored on Sunday afternoon! Talk about luck. Ours, good. Everyone else’s on Sunday – very bad. The cars and people on board were, needless to say, stranded for hours and had to be rescued by the entirety of English township (Laura is convinced it was the weight of our Durango that caused the ferry to become unmoored – a possibility for sure with all the fish and chips I’ve been eating). The ferry was still not operating yesterday and the province hoped to have it up and running today (they were waiting on a new steel cable from Halifax).

Oh, and by the way, years ago, never did make it to Newfoundland.

Tatie Bogle

I am an average golfer. I hit more good shots than bad. Occasionally, I score well. I have colleagues I play with and over the years we have had some good laughs at the spectacularly bad shots we are capable of making during a round. At Camelback, I hit a ball into someone’s pool while they were swimming. A heated exchange of words followed:

“What the hell is your problem?”
“Sorry about that. Shot got away from me.”
“Away from you? They shouldn’t allow guys like you on the course.”
“Listen: I said I was sorry. Can I have my ball back?”
“Up yours.”

At Crystal Springs (New Jersey), I hit a tee shot that ricocheted off a Weber Bar-B-Cue kettle onto someone’s roof. That ding sounded like a sonic boom and was about the loudest noise anyone has ever made on a golf course. And at Montclair, where I am a member, I hit a tee shot that smashed into a car windshield in a distant parking lot, shattering the glass. Of course, I am not the only one in my group capable of poor shot making. One of my partners, John Adams, once shanked a three wood, driving a ball into a Mexican groundskeeper while playing a course in southern California. John speaks a little Spanish, and put it to good use that day.

Today, however, I did something I never have done before during a round of golf. Today I hit a cow. A fucking cow, in a field of cows, adjacent to the 5th fairway on Antigonish golf course. My playing partners were Lochy and Tom:

“Oh my.” Lochy.
“Sweet Mother Mary.” Tom
“I believe he hit a cow, eh.”
“Yup.”
“Ever seen anyone hit a cow before?”
“Nope.”
“Well, Paul, I believe that’s a first.”
“You think so?” Me. Pissed off.
“Yes I do.”
“A first for sure.”

There are moments when you regret not having your camera readily available and this was certainly one of them. There we were, the three of us, standing in the 5th fairway, looking at a pasture full of cows, one of them angry.

“Is that out of bounds?” Me.
“Oh my. Must be.” Lochy.
“Well I wouldn’t want to have to play that shot in any case, eh?” Tom.
“Oh no. That could get messy, eh?” Laughter (not from me).

So you take a penalty, drop a ball in the fairway, hit again. This was not a round where you were scoring well, so it doesn’t make that much of a difference. This is the second course you’ve played in Nova Scotia, the first was Digby Pines, and both tracks are enormously appealing, if you like wind, narrow fairways, tiny greens, trekking up and down hills like a big horn sheep, and the possibility of having shots trail out of bounds into a meadow full of livestock (or woods full of bear and/or moose). On the other hand, the people you have met at both courses could not have been nicer, and seem to enjoy your company and especially your curious ball flight.

“Not sure I’d hit a driver here.” Lochy.
“No?” Me.
“Well, you see, that last hole, the landing area was a site bigger than the one here.”
“Umm.”
“And you’re a basher, for sure.” Tom.
“I hit a long ball.”
“Mostly in the wrong direction, eh?” Lochy. More laughter.
“You’ve already hit a cow.” Tom.
“Maybe you’ll hit the tatie bogle next.” Lochy.

Then you remember: this sabbatical was not about playing golf.

Due East

This province has rugged, unadorned beauty, abundant color (the houses are wonderful), and there are moments when there seems to be water everywhere you look, water very good for swimming, even if a bit cold (the kids have gone swimming everyday). Today, we had our eyes fixed on the Atlantic coast, and set out from Antigonish to Guysborough, and from Guysborough to Canso, where we picked up the northern terminus of Marine Drive (Highway 316) which all the literature suggests, and indeed did turn out to be, a truly spectacular drive. Highway 316 runs through tiny coastal hamlets like Port Felix, Whitehead, Cole Harbour, and Larrys River, a village where horses roam freely on the streets and front lawns and every house has a view of the water and the woman who runs the general store comes out and pumps gas for you (it’s the only fill station – one pump – you will run across for miles and miles).



The amazing thing about this province in the height of summer is that there is absolutely no traffic on the road. Might be bad for the economy, I realize, this absence of traffic and tourists, but it certainly makes for splendid driving and a truly relaxing vacation.

Our final destination was the provincial park, Tor Bay, which boasts a beautiful white sand beach, one of the few in the province. We arrived late in the afternoon and were surprised to discover that we were the only people there. Give this to Nova Scotia: their provincial parks are jewels. They are well-managed and impeccably maintained. And of the sites we have visited: all breathtaking.



Tor Bay has a network of boardwalks that direct you through dune grass and to the ocean, as well as to a series of glacial tarns where you are likely to view giant rabbits nibbling on the local fauna (we saw one that was as big as that fucking dog Titan). Anyway, once you arrive at the beach, you’re flabbergasted, because it’s expansive, full of neat little coves, and has stunning vistas everywhere you look. Also: it’s all yours.

“Our own private beach!” Michael.
“I’m going swimming!” Isabel.
“Let’s go boogie board.” Sarah.



I don’t imagine Nova Scotia will stay this way for long. This pristine, this beautiful, this uncrowded.



So if you’re thinking of coming, I might suggest getting here soon. Laura and I, we’re already looking at the “For Sale” signs posted on properties as we journey through the province. Sure it’s a long drive, getting here. But you know what: worth the effort.

Clothesline Culture

Everyone in Nova Scotia hangs their laundry out to dry. Everyone. It’s as if dryers do not exist here. This makes sense, as much as anything here makes sense, I mean, the air is clean and the wind is always blowing (this morning it is gusting 56 kilometres out of the SW) so what the heck. It’s efficient and has the halo effect of adding color to the countryside.



Hard to imagine developing an appreciation for well hung laundry but the truth is some of it looks absolutely magnificent, especially when set against the backdrop of a red barn and hayfield. In Nova Scotia, there’s so much of it flapping in the breeze that they have a name for it, clothesline culture, and in Antigonish, the nearest town to where we are staying, a local bookstore has a sign in the window promoting an August 12th appearance by Cindy Etter-Turnbull, author of Fine Lines: A Celebration of Clothesline Culture. Honestly, you can’t make stuff like this up. A description of the book, from the flap copy: “Fine Lines will revolutionize the way you look at laundry.” Jeepers! “While other books pin their success on airing dirty laundry,” (titles at Knopf, for sure) “this volume is a refreshing change. It's a book about clean laundry hanging in a gentle summer breeze as well as winter laundry frozen stiff as boards on the line in the backyard. Mrs. Etter-Turnbull examines in every detail the different kinds of lines, the various hanging methods and the personality profiles of those who participate in this age-old daily ceremony. Once you've read this engaging book, you'll never look at a drying line of wash the same way again.”



In Canada, it would seem, the simple things do not go unnoticed (or unpublished). There are numerous examples of this kind of largesse, including the recent announcement by our sister company, Random House Canada, that they will be publishing a book Kyle MacDonald, a 15-year-old internet blogger/barterer who successfully traded a paper clip up to a house is Kipling, Saskatchewan (a town famous for harboring both Kyle and pedophiles – log on to any Canadian newspaper and you’ll see stories about the latter). The book deal was front page news in the Halifax paper (next to a story on bootleg lobsters). Note for my return: suggest someone check the water on Toronto Street, make sure our Canadian colleagues are not being poisoned. And if anyone in the Knopf publicity department is reading this blog, just be thankful you don’t have to promote books about laundry or kids bartering with paper clips (sympathies to my colleagues in Canada who do).

Canoeing the Sissaboo

The lower Sissaboo is a tidal river that runs west from Sissaboo proper to a local highway bridge in Weymouth Mills where it opens wide into an expansive cove that eventually narrows and makes it’s way to St. Mary’s Bay. Today, we will be canoeing the lower Sissaboo and have hired a guide from Hinterland Adventures to make the trip downstream with us.

Hinterland operates out of a beautiful home and property situated right on the river, about 4 miles from Weymouth. The house is a yellow Victorian with a wrap-around porch surrounded by old growth fruit (cherry, plum, peach) and nut trees. Upon arrival at the house we are greeted by a trio of fierce, short-legged, wide-bodied, large-headed, frothing-at-the-mouth barking dogs. They look like monsters. I consider turning around, leaving. The children, however, love dogs.
“Da-aha-ahd! Look! Dogs!” Michael.
“They’re so cute!” Isabel.
“Don’t get out of the car. They could be rabid.”
Everyone is staring out the window, looking at the dogs.
“Hon, do those dogs look normal? I mean, look at their fucking heads.”
Laura shoots me a look.
“Language,” she says.
“Right. Sorry.”
“They’re Welsh Corgis,” she says, “They’re adorable.”
A man steps out of the house, gestures at the dogs.
“They’re yappers. Won’t hurt yah. Pawk over he-yah, eh.” The man points to a space near a back terrace under a grape arbor, walks to the car, extends his hand through the driver’s side window.
“Hanford.” he says.
“Paul.”
“Nice to meet yah. Going to be a beautiful day on the ree-vah.”
“Can we get out of the car?” Sarah.
“Can we pet the dogs?” Isabel.
“My Dad used a bad word.” Michael.
“Shu-ah. C’mon out. The dogs love kids.”

And they do. The dogs are incredibly affectionate with the children. This is good ju-ju because the children and I have long been angling for a dog and Laura’s resistance to this idea has to be lessening as she has observed the kids in their company on this trip (this is the second time on our trip that the children have spent time in the company of a trio of dogs). In East Boothbay, where we were guests for an evening, our hosts had three Brittany Spaniels, including one puppy (Louis) and the kids were absolutely in love with them. Truth is, they didn’t want to leave East Boothbay (at least without the dogs).



One of them, it turns out, will be making the trip with us. His name is Titan. Titan is cute in an Arbus-esque kind of way. As for Hanford, well, every bit the guide you imagined. Has a thick Nova Scotian accent, which is frankly hard to understand. It seems to be a hybrid of thick Boston accent with a bit of French Canadian patois mixed in. Hanford is wearing a bush hat, long camouflage pants, and a black tee shirt, and is tanned in the way of men who work outdoors all their lives are. He has a large, Indiana Jones-ish knife affixed to his belt. He could kill the entire family, chop us into small pieces, feed us to his trio of dogs, and no one would be the wiser. But few American families have gone missing in Nova Scotia (at least this summer) so you are not overly concerned.

Once we put it, the water is wonderful. There is little wind on this section of the river and the tide is going out, making our paddle downstream effortless. Michael is in a canoe with Hanford and Titan.



Sarah is in a canoe with me. And Laura is in a canoe with Isabel.



About a half mile downstream, we see two juvenile bald eagles perched on deadwood hanging over the river. They are big birds, out for a morning hunt, unfazed by our presence as we paddle closer to the shoreline. We are within 20 yards of the birds when they take flight over the river.
“Wow!” Sarah.
“Oh my gosh.” Michael.
Isabel just smiles.



So there you have it. We are a family that travels for beer, pie, pizza, seafood, country back roads, cannonballs into cold salt water, the company of friendly Nova Scotians, peregrine falcons that land on your car, and bald eagles flying so close that you can hear their wing beats as they take flight over the open waters of the Sissaboo.

Digby ER

The people in Digby are friendly. They are unfailingly polite. And they like to talk. Everyone you meet greets you with a smile and Hello.
“And where are you from?”
“New Jersey.”
“New Jersey, eh? Well you’ve come a long way then.” One of the boat captains stationed at the wharf.
“Yes we have. Been driving for three days.”
“And what have you seen on your long trip?”
“Axe murderers!” Michael.
“What’s that then?”
“He meant chainsaws. He saw some men working with chainsaws.”
“Oh, you don’t say. Well, that’s a sad story, you know. I mean, those men used to work for the timber company. But those jobs are gone now. To Alberta and Saskatchewan. Course the people all stayed. And there’s not much for them to do, eh? ‘Cept fiddle around with chainsaws. Chop wood. They could join us on the boat. There’s work there, eh. But some of these men, they don’t like the water.”

Everyone in Digby seems to work on the water or at our hotel (or is out of work, fiddling with chainsaws). Digby is just as you imagined: full of working scallop vessels in the harbor, shorefront restaurants, and a picturesque Main Street with a used bookstore and, yes, a Chinese restaurant (I went in and the man who owns it speaks French -- go figure). Digby has the largest scallop fleet in the world, so if you are eating scallops and they are from the sea there’s a very good chance they had their origins not far from this harbor, in the northern Bay of Fundy, which is great body of water for mollusks and mink whales and seals, less so for people and their cars on large catamarans.

Digby, however, is not without problems. A headline from the local paper reads: “Doctor shortage disrupts Digby ER.” Digby has a hospital without a functioning emergency room because they can’t find anyone to staff it. This is a big story in and out of town, having made both the local news as well as CTV and CBC. “The emergency department at Digby General Hospital is closed today because of a shortage of doctors, says the South West Nova district health authority.” I mention this to some people at the hotel and they do not seem terribly concerned.
“Closed, eh?”
“Yes. Says so right here on page one of the paper.”
“Well, you know, it’s not where I’d go if something went wrong.”
“No?”
“No.”
“Where would you go?”
“Halifax.”
“Halifax is three hours away.”
“Well, if I had time I’d go to Halifax. If I was real sick I’d go to Yarmouth.”
“Yarmouth is an hour away.”
“Yes it is. But you can make it there in 45 minutes on a good day.”

Digby is lovely, but I’m thankful our stay here will be short. And franky: I wonder about all those men and their power saws. Do they realize how dire their situation would be if something were to go awry?

Canada: Closed

Everything in Canada is closed. And not just closed but shuttered, boarded up, gone out of business, and now for sale. This is the first observation one makes driving North on the 340 Highway out of Yarmouth. A few exceptions: filling stations are open. As well as Chinese restaurants (more on those later). Other than that, nothing.

The 340 runs away from the coast, is an inland route to Weymouth first and Digby later, our destination for the evening. The other routes run up the coast and, you guessed it, are crowded with bad drivers from Quebec and Massachusetts (when everyone exiting the ferry goes left, you know to go straight, and straight gets you to the 340). So we’ve found our first blue highway in Canada, and this one, like its kin in America, finds few travelers on it, and the few we spot are all local (we drive over 200 kilometers on the highway and see 6 cars coming and going).

The 340 traverses boggy pasture and glen, a few inland lakes, and abuts the Tobeatic Wilderness Preserve, a famous refuge for bear and Nova Scotia’s dwindling moose herd (like everything else in the province, the moose are going out of business). The drive is scenic in a lost world kind of way – if the car were to breakdown there is no doubt the entire family would be shot, dressed for a good bleed, and then cut up and stored in someone’s freezer for a winter meal.

The handful of towns we pass through on the highway all look deserted. The only people we see are men doing yard work, mostly with chainsaws. We see one man sitting on his front porch, cleaning a rifle.
“Dad! Look! That man has a big gun!” Michael.
Laura looks at me, concerned.

I do not remember Nova Scotia being quite this way. During my first visit here, 23 years ago, I was struck by the simple beauty of the place. Rugged coastline, blueberry barrens, wildflower meadows – all these vistas seem absent from our present schematic. Memory is faulty, that’s for sure, and life then was spent in a cheerful, boozy haze, but this still defies explanation.

The children are staring out the truck window, looks of concern on all their faces, though Michael less so (he’s a boy, as you know, and the thought of guns and chainsaws excite him). The children are looking for something friendly, something familiar, signs of life.

“Dad, where are we?”
“We’re in Nova Scotia.”
“Where is everyone?”
“Well, this seems to be a remote part of Nova Scotia. Not too many people live here.”
“Dad, are you sure you know where you are going?”
“Absolutely. We’re on the road to Digby.”
“Are there people in Digby?”
“Yes there are people in Digby.”
“And restaurants? Are there restaurants in Digby?”
“Yes there are restaurants in Digby.”
“Will we be able to get something to eat there?”

Finally, just as the children are pondering the possibility of a province without people, restaurants or food, we arrive in Weymouth, a town of substance, with a white-steepled Presbyterian Church and a down-in-the-pants Victorian hotel (“Goodwin’s – We Are Open for Business”) sitting on a bluff overlooking the Sissiboo River. Driving through town, we pass a restaurant with a conspicuous sign out front that reads: “Eat In, Take Out -- Family Restaurant -- Chinese, Canadian & Seafoods.” The children are elated.
“Dad, dad – look! A restaurant! Can we stop?”
A dilemma, for sure. Chinese Canadian Seafoods? An immediate red flag, in your mind, and possible trip to the hospital (if there is one).
“Da-aha-ad. Can we stop?” Isabel.
You’re driving faster, away from the hazard.
“What happens if there aren’t any other restaurants in Nova Scotia?” Michael.
Laura, you sense, is smiling. She is enjoying this.
“Why can’t we stop?” Sarah.
“Because the parking lot is empty,” you explain, “and anyone who eats there will likely die of some hawkish intestinal parasite.”
You glance in the rearview mirror and the children are huddled, grim looks on all their faces. You’ve silenced them for the moment, bought yourself some time.

Digby, upon arrival, is beautiful. First of all, there are people.
“Dad! Look! Kids!” Isabel.
And there are houses. Nice houses. And there are boats in the harbor. Working scallop trawlers as well as pleasure craft with names like “Pea Soup” and “Local Knowledge”. There’s even an ice cream parlor – Oliver’s Dairy Bar – a sweet-sounding place with a neon sign hanging over Main Street across from the town dock where the scallop fleets and whale watching boats run. You can’t miss the sign, the place, the location, and of course that’s the beauty of well chosen spot for an ice cream parlor when you are traveling with children and the children are hungry. Oliver himself runs the joint. Oliver sells 42 different kinds of ice cream, as well as cigarettes, X-rated movies and condoms. The former one expects upon entering the establishment – the latter items come as somewhat of a surprise.

“You sell ice cream?”
“Yahw.”
“And cigarettes and condoms?”
“Yawh.”
“And dirty movies?”
“Yawh.”
“Is that unusual?”
“Naut shaw. Gawta make a livin’ up here, eh.”

In Canada, or at least in the province of Nova Scotia, it seems one must do, or sell, a little bit of everything to make ends meet. The ice cream is cheap, 75 cents for a small scoop, which actually turns out to be a pretty big scoop. 75 cents! One of the problems with the province, you later come to realize, is that they haven’t updated their prices since 1975. Perhaps you will write a letter to the premier, after your trip, let him know about this. Anyway, the children are sated, for the moment, and you, thankfully, now know where to buy smokes and condoms and dirty movies.

Everyone gets back in the car. You head up the road to your hotel, Digby Pines. You park. You get out of the car and realize you are tired. A bird swoops down from a white pine above, makes a beeline for your head. The bird lands on your car windshield wiper. Not just any bird but a peregrine falcon. You think you are imaging this, perhaps still feeling the effects of that heinous boat ride. But you are not. He’s there, staring at you. You take a picture, just to make sure. The children are breathless. This is a strange place, Canada.

The Salty Dog

I come from a family of fishermen. My father, my father’s father, his father – three generations of Bogaards, all were experts on the water and the ways of fish, and every one of them spent at least some of their life at sea. One would think, with this resplendent history, that I would be an able and ready seafarer. I certainly thought so, at least until this morning, shortly after boarding the Cat Ferry in Bar Harbor bound for Yarmouth, Nova Scotia. Alas, seaworthiness is not in my genes. The Cat is a big boat – with room for over 250 cars and trucks and over 700 passengers. There are even tour buses on the lower deck. Aside: when your daughter inquires about why they allow tour buses on the ferry, the wrong response is this one (my own): “to see if the ferry will sink on the open ocean, far from shore, you know, like the Titanic.”

Anyway, this boat, traveling across the Bay of Fundy, is a “wave-piercing” catamaran made from “about 32 million soda cans” (says so in their brochure, not very reassuring) and supposedly pierces the waves as a way of reducing “passenger ocean fatigue”. Nonsense. This thing tilts and whirls like one of those cheap rides at a condemned amusement park. So don’t believe all the crap they send you in the brochure. And if you must travel to Nova Scotia, do it by air or car. Or swim (across the Bay of Fundy). All of those would be better options than this one, my present, which involves trying to maintain stasis as the world around me deteriorates into a miasma of nausea (see picture above of fellow passenger, out on the deck for a breath of “fresh air”).

I should add that I am attributing only part of my illness to motion (read sea) sickness. The larger issue for yours truly is the smell of the goddam boat. It is absolutely ghastly. I mean, what a rest home or hospital or morgue, hopped up with diesel, would smell like. One breathes and the only smell is that of ammonia and fuel. There are stewards on board running around with spray bottles of ammonia cleaning up after passengers, who are, well, sick. There is that, and the smell of freshly made popcorn. There is also the clang and whir of slot machines. Canadians want it all, or so it would seem. I used to think hell was Chucky Cheese’s. Not anymore. Hell is the Cat Ferry to Nova Scotia. AVOID AT ALL COSTS.

My Navigator

Listen: there are some husbands, I know, who would not entrust a road atlas to their wives. I am not one of them. Laura has been riding shotgun with me for twenty-two years. We have traveled extensively and almost exclusively by car. She, like me, understands that the shortest distance between two destinations is always the worst option. So we travel back roads. Blue highways. With the car windows open and the satellite radio on. Laura is such an able navigator that I have almost completely ceded this ground to her. Case in point: our trip to Bar Harbor yesterday afternoon. She got us there on roads others could not find or would not find fit for travel. And the route was beautiful. Hills, farms, blueberry fields, lakes, saltwater estuaries, everything one comes to Maine for, all on view in one long afternoon drive inland and up the coast. Not only that, she got us there in time for an afternoon swim. And for that, her children and husband worship her.

Signaling an Option

The time you put in matters. The planning pays off. Vacations may be work, but the rewards of a carefully considered and well thought out trip are plentiful. Of course, the significant rewards come when you throw the game plan out the window, option off the grid. Which is what we did today, and which kind of makes you wonder why you went through all that planning in the first place.

Our itinerary called for traveling from Boothbay to Bar Harbor in the morning and spending an afternoon in the crowded vacation mecca. Bar Harbor is study in contrasts: breathtaking natural beauty - tidal bores, coastal mountains, sea fog, sheared granite sea stacks sloping straight into the open ocean waters – set opposite French Canadian tourists wearing flip-flops and thongs (we will not be posting any of those pictures). So that’s one problem with Bar Harbor – the inherit contradiction of being there – the best and worst of America, on display everywhere you look. The other problem is getting there. And, truth be told, in summertime, the problem is pretty much getting anywhere on the Maine coast, because one must, as if deigned by some evil travel god, spend time on Route 1. Route 1 is a Mini-Me offshoot of I-95 in Connecticut, with the escaped inmates of that uniquely American autobahn replaced by aging tourists from sun belt states, all of whom seem to be three steps removed from death, moving at a crawl through scenic villages, stopping (without signaling) at every candle store and souvenir shop along the way (and there seem to be thousands of them).

So what does one do, knowing the perils of said itinerary? Well, the first thing one does when one wakes up in the morning and the sun is shining anywhere on the Maine coast is to recast the itinerary and park, at least for a little while, because that warm sun on your body may not stay warm for long – the fog can roll in at any time – and so you make the most of the moment, and the moment is truly glorious, one of peace, quiet and splendor. It is early and the children are out and about happily combing the sand for beach glass, and you are sitting in an Adirondack chair watching them, remember similar moments from your own childhood, long vacations when you loved the company of your siblings and could not imagine a world without them, and you hope that they too will remember this morning, as well as the days and nights to come, because that’s why you do it all in the first place, vacation, for times such as this morning in East Boothbay, after a magical evening in a cabin on the water, waking up to the sound of working lobster boats on the harbor and the kir of an osprey out for a morning hunt, no television, no radio, no DS2s, no distractions whatsoever, and, best of all, no clock ticking and no destination in mind other than the beach, dock and cold ocean water, which beckons, and for which the children and their lissome young bodies are made. All as a way of saying, we travel for more than beer, pie, pizza and seafood: we travel for solitude as well, and cannonballs into cold salt water (Go Izzy!)

Vacations are work. A lot of work. They are like marriage in that way. Expectations for both are extraordinary. There is much planning involved. The planning and expectations create a certain amount of tension. Frequently, someone gets sick. Relatives arrive, invited and otherwise, often with their children.

Everyone copes with this tension in different ways. You cope by speeding down the highway and listening to Classic Vinyl on satellite radio. Your wife copes by suggesting to the children that you have a case of arrested development. “Your father acts like he is still fourteen,” she observes. And your children cope by text messaging their friends, “Dad speeeeding. Hear sirens. Yikes!” Somehow, everyone learns to make do.

Other things you learn: avoid I-95 in Connecticut at all costs. It is not so much a highway as a high-speed death march. It is a road that will erase the bloom from any rose, take the shine off every day. Even the nicest people turn mean and miserable on that stretch of road and it shows. Today, we stopped at a service area near Milford for lunch. The people in the restaurant all looked as if they had escaped from Attica. One man, I am certain, was an escaped convict. He was short and stocky and swarthy, wearing sunglasses, blue jeans and a black Hooters tee-shirt. He complained to the fast food attendant about his hamburger. It was rare. He became loud and agitated when she was unresponsive to his request for a well done hamburger. He was shouting, ranting, pounding his fists. People started to back away from the counter. This was turning into a headline from the New York Post: “Attica Felon Fells 27 -- Wanted Burger Well Done.”

This sabbatical, my first, is simply an extended vacation. It did not start out that way. I was supposed to be in France, cooking at the Cordon Bleu. When I first mentioned this to Laura, she responded with a question: “And what am I supposed to do with the children while you are off cooking in Paris for a month?” I did not have a ready answer. And now here we are. On the hell highway of superhighways, driving down I-95 in Connecticut. Our first destination: Mystic, notable for pizza, which can now be added to our list of what we travel for. Revised sentence: We are a family that travels for beer, pie, pizza and seafood.

The itinerary

Please note that there has been a request for a more precise itinerary and since I am new to this blogging endeavor I feel compelled to comply (a colleague threatened to flame me!). So, here goes:

Monday, July 24 - Boothbay Harbor, Maine
Tuesday, July 25 – Bar Harbor, Maine
Wednesday, July 26 (three nights) – Digby, Nova Scotia
Saturday, July 29 (base camp for two weeks) – Malignant Cove, Nova Scotia (named for a British man-of-war that lies sunken off the coast)
Friday, August 4 – Prince Edward Island
Sunday, August 6 (two nights) – Ingonish, Cape Breton Highlands
Saturday, August 12 – Campobello Island, New Brunswick
Sunday, August 13 (three nights) – Millinocket, Maine

All told, we will be traveling about 3,000 miles by car. So I’ve come up with a little contest (both for you and me). How much do you think we will be spending on gas during our little road trip? My guess: a lot of friggin’ dough. 72 bucks to fill this puppy up, and she needs to be fed every 300 miles or so. I will keep a careful accounting of every dollar spent on fuel, and will award a prize to the person who comes closest with their estimate. We drive a HEMI powered cobalt blue Dodge Durango with a Thule roof rack. It averages about 12 miles per gallon on the highway. The prize will be a spectacularly cheesy souvenir from somewhere in Canada (should be easy to find, eh?)

One final note from today: Laura, my wife, is asking really dumb and exceedingly annoying questions about the trip. A sample:

“How is this all going to fit in the car?”
“How many bags should I pack for the children?”
“We’re not leaving too early in the morning, are we?”
“What should they wear to dinner?”
“Why do you have so many fishing poles?”
“How long will we be driving?”
“We don’t have enough suitcases.” Okay, that’s a statement.
“My suitcase isn’t big enough.” Okay, that’s another statement.
“Are we going to unpack the car every time we arrive at a new destination?”

Jee-zus. It’s like the vacation inquisition. The truth: husbands are not prepared to answer these kinds of questions. They will never be prepared to answer these kinds of questions. So wives, please stop asking them.

Saturday Morning

Still packing. Fishing poles. Hiking boots. Binoculars. Bird and weather guides. Golf clubs (unbeknownst to the wife and carefully hidden in the Thule.) Maps. Lots of those. Topographic maps. Lake maps. Road maps. Maps of Nova Scotia, Cape Breton, Prince Edward Island, New Brunswick. So many maps that I can’t help but question the wisdom of making this long sojourn in the first place. Why travel so far? This is a vacation, no? Why spend half of it in the car? And why spend half of it in a car that Al Gore would just as soon ban, especially when the price of gas is five bucks a gallon in Canada? (Note to reader: I seem to remember gas being sold by the liter in Canada). What does one hope to gain? A respite from the torpor of a New York summer? Possibly. Inspiration from the beauty the natural world has to offer? I suppose. Weight from beer, pie and seafood? Absolutely. So there’s your answer: we are a family that travels for beer, pie and seafood.

Briefly, on outline of our itinerary: we will be driving from Glen Ridge, New Jersey to Cape Breton and back again. This will, by my calculation, require spending 4,000 hours in our gas-guzzling, suitably large and obnoxiously American HEMI-powered Dodge Durango (everything but the gun rack) and may result in yours truly having to hijack a gasoline tanker truck along the way. We leave on Sunday, July 23. First stop: Mystic, Connecticut (for the children, I should add). I suppose an introduction to our brood is appropriate:

Sarah: 12 and sometimes pouty.
Isabel: 10 and preternaturally happy.
Michael: 7 and just a tad devilish (he was sent to the principal's office last May for suggesting to one of his classmates that Katherine McPhee had big boobs. Hey, he's a boy. What are you gonna do?)

Today we pack. Oy.