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.