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Moneybags "To dare is to lose one's footing
momentarily. Overcast and moody, the wind picked up a notch. "Will I ever be warm again?" Sharon wondered aloud. The temperature had approached frigid. Wearing all our clothes, and hats, and gloves, we sat at a picnic table and shivered while trying to coax our reluctant little stove to life. Even when the sun occasionally peeked through cloud cover, it didn't warm us sufficiently. "There's only one thing to do," Sharon said, slapping her mittened hands together and packing up the uncooperative stove. "Let's ride!" We hopped on our bikes and pedalled off into pinching air. As long as we were pedalling, we weren't cold, other than the distressing tidbits of ice that had replaced our fingers and toes. A ferry transported us across the Saint Lawrence River to the town of Sorel. Perhaps it'd be warmer on the south side? We followed a small route to Pierreville. As soon as we stopped pedalling, our skin chilled and turned to goosebumps. Crouching on the bank of Riviére Saint Francois, we shivered through lunch. We had stayed in Canada so late in order to view the magnificent fall colours. But we forgot to take into account that those who had recommended an autumn leaf tour stayed in B&B's and drove cars. They certainly didn't camp at this time of year. "Maybe we should head for Europe tout de suite," Sharon said, her teeth chattering. Cold days (and even colder nights) already, she worried that our route around the Gaspé Peninsula - farther north - would put us into seriously severe weather. "The leaves look awesome," I shivered. "But maybe viewing autumn spectacles is best done from behind a car windshield." "Yeah," Sharon agreed. "With the heater turned on high." Thinking warm thoughts (like we should be cycling Hawaii), we headed back out onto the road. I attempted to distract Sharon from her freezing hands and feet by immersing her in commentary about the stunning scenery. For a couple of kilometres, maybe she almost forgot her numb toes? We passed narrow strips of farmland. "Did you notice how land was divided in the old days?" I asked. Many holdings were about a hundred feet wide, and ran down to the very edge of the river. The strips were a good visual depiction of how important it was in forefathers' days to have access to the river highway. We eventually made it to Deschaillons. Cold and tired, we were not in good moods. "I don't know how long I can stand cycling in conditions like this," Sharon said, through clenched teeth. But, once again, the universe was friendly. The moment we stopped in a Metro grocery store parking lot, a fellow with a shock of white hair peppered with flecks of black like burnt wood sprinkled on snow, approached - just like he was waiting for us. "Where are you staying tonight?" he enquired. "We don't know yet," Sharon answered. "Well," he said, "I've got a place for you." He extracted a card from his wallet and wrote his name and address on the back of it. Thrusting it into Sharon's claw-like hand, he then instructed us on how to best find his home. While Sharon watched the bikes, I foxtrotted into the grocery store, ecstatic that we were soon going to be out of the elements and into a warm haven for the night. Life was good. "Une poulet barbecue," I said to a fella manning the butcher department, and pointed to a rotisserie chicken. "Touriste?" he asked. "Si!" I answered lustily. With chicken in hand, we left the hen house, and cycled off to locate our night's accommodation. What a place it turned out to be! When we looked over the bank from Maurice's main cottage, we couldn't see anything for 500 feet below except bush and the mighty Saint Lawrence River surging past in silent brown fury. The grade down the bank was an astonishing (and scary) 50 percent! Against Maurice's protestations, I rode my bike down, braking and skidding my rear tire the entire way. At the bottom, the road made an abrupt 90-degree turn. I narrowly averted plunging over the brink. We arrived at our private cottage. After eating the spicy chicken, we indulged in bubbling hot showers, then trekked back up the hill - bent nearly double on the steep slope - to visit our new friends, Maurice, and his good wife, Jacqueline. They had mugs of hot chocolate waiting for us. We learned that the cottage at the bottom of the hill had been in their family for 30 years. The cabin they were living in, at the top of the bank, was over 150 years-old - ancient by Canadian standards. Maurice had remodelled the place with old weathered barn wood, giving it a warm and cozy atmosphere. Maurice, 65, told us he had retired at age 54 from the suitcase selling business. "You must have made a suitcase full of money to retire that early," Sharon said with a grin. "When do you find time to use two cottages?" I questioned. "Actually," Maurice answered, "we own another cottage in Gaspé. And a fourth in Florida." "You really did make a suitcase full of money!" Sharon exclaimed. "With the brisk weather, Florida is sounding mighty good," I said, cradling my mug of hot chocolate tighter. Maurice smiled. "We had a motorhome before we owned the cottages. We travelled all over the States for five years. "One night, in a Florida campground, we woke to find a robber in our motorhome. Can you believe this guy had broken in while we were sleeping inside?" Maurice shook his head at the absurdity, not to mention the audacity, of the crook's actions. "Before going to bed," Maurice recalled, "we had set the table for breakfast. Without waking either of us, the guy had broken in and stolen the money from Jacqueline's purse. He had removed the entire set of dishes from the table - including the cutlery! - and had them in a sack. All without waking us! Then, when he couldn't find my wallet, he tiptoed over to our bed and gently shook my shoulder." Maurice chuckled at the memory. "I guess he didn't want to disturb Jacqueline's beauty sleep! "When I opened my eyes and saw this guy standing over me I screamed so loud I'm sure I woke the entire campground! So much for Jacqueline's beauty sleep. The guy turned and bolted for the door. A high chain-link fence surrounded the campground. He vaulted over it, making a clean getaway - taking our dishes with him!" I frowned. "See?" I said to Sharon. "Maurice's story confirms my belief that camping in the bush is safer than staying at official sites. In campgrounds, the crooks know where to find you!" Sharon rolled her eyes. After more stories (Maurice's mom had 20 kids! He was number 15 ... I'll bet he never had to worry about eating leftovers!) and more hot chocolate, Sharon and I slipped out the door and into the dark. Hanging on to one another for support, we rappelled down the steep bank. Safely back at our cabin, we savoured another hot shower before hitting the hay. We slept in absolute comfort and warmth for the first night in weeks. After a leisurely breakfast (we were in no hurry to leave our comfortable hideaway), I hopped on my bike, ready to tackle the monster slope. "You can't be serious," Sharon said, shaking her head and pushing her bike toward the steep incline. But I wasn't as smart. In dour jut-jawed determination, I took a flying start down the short straightaway, legs churning like a crazed hamster on an exercise wheel. I flew around the 90-degree corner, and smacked into the incline. Pedalling with all my might, grunting like some bull who had polished off a sackful of beans, I made it all of 30 feet before coming to a complete standstill. I wobbled, stuck in my toeclips. Just before toppling onto the tarmac, I managed to free my foot. That would have been embarrassing! Stubbornly (or stupidly), I turned around and got an even faster start, charging the steep grade like a determined bantam rooster. I succeeded in clawing my way a record-breaking five feet farther. Sharon, half-dragging, half-pulling her bike, passed me, shaking her head at my wackiness. "Poultry in motion," she clucked. My third attempt ended poorly - the shortest of all. "You'll be worn out before we even start," Sharon called to me from the top of the bank. Muttering to myself, my legs quivering from all-out exertion, I wearily admitted defeat, and tugged my bike up the cliff. Maurice and Jacqueline were waiting with their camera. "We sure admire what you two are doing," they said, clicking off several frames. They had no idea how much they boosted our spirits! With renewed enthusiasm, we continued toward Québec City, the wind pushing us, the sun warming our smiling faces. We passed farmers out in orange-dotted fields, gathering pumpkins for market and Halloween festivities. Sailing past, we waved to them spiritedly, feeling a bit festive ourselves. |
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