|
Roger and Suzanne "Friendship improves happiness and
abates misery by doubling our joys and dividing our grief." A crisp Sunday morning welcomed us across the Restigouche River from Pointe-à-la-Croix, Québec, to Campbellton, New Brunswick. Throwing our hands into the air, we high-fived one another. Cheers all around! We had survived the Gaspé's debilitating headwinds. "Let's find a breakfast buffet and celebrate!" We cruised Campbellton's main drag, up one side and down the other. No luck. In a scant two minutes, we were on our way out of town. "Campbellton's not as big as I had hoped," I whined. In nearby Atholville, we pulled into a small corner grocery store. I went in and asked the lone clerk if he knew of a place that served extra large breakfasts. Upon my exit, I had only sad news to report. Seeing my long face, Sharon suspected the answer. Straddling our bikes on the gravel shoulder, I lamented our plight. A VW van puttered alongside. The passenger window rolled down. In a sing-song French-Canadian lilt, a woman enquired, "Where are you two headed on such a fine day?" "Around the world," Sharon replied. "That is, if we can find somewhere to eat." Suzanne, a petite blonde with green eyes, introduced herself, and then the smiling driver as her husband, Roger. "We're on our way to church," Suzanne said. "Our daughter, France, plays the organ there. We'll be home in about an hour and we'd be delighted if you'd join us for lunch." "Woo-hoo!" I said. "Who needs buffets when friendly New Brunswickers are out and about?" We quickly accepted, got directions, and waved them on their way. Talk about getting the sweet end of the lollipop for a change. "So," Sharon grinned as the van puttered off, "what do you want to do for an hour?" "Eat!" came my immediate reply. We rolled on to Tidehead where we indulged in a quick snack to tide us over before lunch. A sign explained that Tidehead was the point where the surge stopped becoming a bore. I chuckled. "Is this where it quits talking about itself?" Just before noon, we pedalled off in search of Roger and Suzanne's house. We found their two-storey home overlooking the Restigouche River. (According to legend, a Micmac chief named the river. A rival band of Mohawk were poaching salmon. The Micmac designed a hasty battle plan; the chief expressed his opposition over the ill-conceived details. When his son and the entire Micmac party were slain on the river bank, the distraught chief named the river: "He who disobeys his father.") Picture windows on Roger and Suzanne's house gazed toward Québec and its few remaining sienna and burnt orange-coloured leaves. As we pulled into the yard, Roger tumbled out of the house. "Quite the view!" I commented. "The leaves are nearly finished," Roger said, waving casually. "You should see them at their height. Spectacular! We never tire of the scenery ... it's constantly changing." "I'd like to live beside a river someday," I said. "You should see it in the summer," Roger said enthusiastically. "It's a World Heritage River. Thousands canoe it. Avid fishermen recognize it as one of the best rivers in the world for salmon and trout fishing." "Thousands canoe it?" I said. "That must be quite a sight." "Oh, it is," Roger assured me. "You'll have to do it some time," he said. "I did it one summer with our girls and it was a party I'll never forget. Some people had entire canoes filled with beer! "We'll store your bikes in the garage," Roger said, steering us toward a separate structure. We didn't plan on being there that long. I wondered if they had a high crime rate and our new friend was just being extra cautious. But our lucky streak was still rolling. "You folks are invited to spend the night," Roger said. "Our eldest daughter, Sonia, is away at uni in France. You're welcome to use her room." We parked our bikes, grabbed clean clothes, and followed Roger as he ushered us downstairs. The "room" turned out to be an entire suite. A kitchen area held stove, fridge, table, chairs, and a television set. There was a separate bathroom. And a bedroom, complete with feather duvet and cozy flannel sheets, looked more than inviting. "Wow! Deluxe digs," I said, looking around and marvelling. We dropped our kits on the bed and followed Roger upstairs. While Suzanne fried eggs for sesame seed Kaiser bun sandwiches, Roger gave us a quick tour of the house. Extensive wood, brick, and tile complemented the main living area. "I did it myself," Roger said, when we remarked on its wonderful blend of textures. "There's an upper suite, too," he added. "We rent it out. It's a great way to pay the mortgage." Suzanne called that everything was ready. Sharon and I, grinning like a pair of hyenas invited to a zebra kill, slid onto comfy seats around an oak table. Large windows overlooked white and yellow birch, trembling aspen, balsam poplar and the "river out of Eden," as one American writer saw fit to term the Restigouche. Roger worked as a psychiatric nurse at a local hospital. Suzanne was a nurse as well, but she had taken a fall on some ice and had broken her wrist. She was on leave. "I don't miss work one bit," she said. "Me neither," I concurred. "Yeah, work is somewhat overrated," Sharon summed up. "It certainly takes up a lot of one's free time," I added. "Free time," Roger said, mulling the words, turning them over slowly in his mouth as he chewed his sandwich. "If I had more time," he finally decided, "I think I'd travel more." We hit it off immediately with Roger and Suzanne. Adventurers at heart, they entertained us with stories of their past camping and canoeing escapades. In a couple of hours, we felt as if we'd known them all our lives. After a round of ice cream and apple pie, we all hopped in their VW van and motored off to watch France and her dance group practice. A guided tour of the picturesque area ensued. We zipped to see Sugarloaf, a local ski hill, intended, perhaps, to impress us prairie flatlanders. But in comparison to the Rocky Mountains, we found it little more than a bump. Folks tend to forget that Alberta, along with its vast plains, is also home to some of the highest peaks in the Canadian Rockies. (Mount Columbia, in Alberta's Jasper-Banff National Park, rises 3747 metres. In comparison, New Brunswick's highest point of land, Mount Carleton, stands a more modest 820 metres.) Painted on a rock face, Roger pointed out two red and white crosses. "That's where a mother and daughter died, trying to scale the bluff," Roger said. "I climbed it once," he recounted, "when I was 16. But I only did it once." He paused, recollecting. "In one spot, I remember being a bit concerned. I couldn't go up or down...." All that talk about climbing made me hungry. We returned home in time for supper. Suzanne had set the oven timer and roasted a large farm chicken. Generous quantities of mashed potatoes, squash, carrots, red and yellow tomatoes, and corn on the cob, complemented the meal. "All homegrown," Roger stated, his voice edged with pride. Dessert was delicious, too - more of Suzanne's scrumptious pie made from a neighbour's apples. "How do you manage to get the crust so flaky?" I asked. "It's my secret recipe," she teased. "What's the secret ingredient?" I kidded. "7-Up," she confided. "It's not a secret any more," I said. While Suzanne rustled up tea and biscuits, Roger strolled Sharon and me through their vegetable garden. "What's this?" I asked, puzzled at a profusion of greenery. Roger laughed. "In the spring, I plant three seeds together: corn, squash, and string bean. The beans climb the corn. They tangle together and help keep the wind from blowing down the stalks. The squash covers the ground and helps retain moisture while preventing weeds." "Brilliant!" I said. "How did you ever think of that?" "Oh, it wasn't too difficult," Roger replied, smiling. "The ancient Inca and Maya civilizations devised the gardening strategy long before the birth of Christ." "I learn something new every day," I said. "Those ancients are always stealing our good ideas," Sharon joked. "Sounds like we should celebrate the idea," I decided. We returned inside for more apple pie and multiple cups of Red Rose tea. Over many refills, we shared our cycling tales with Roger and Suzanne. "Do you ever have trouble finding washrooms?" Suzanne asked as I suddenly excused myself to use theirs. "Not usually," Sharon replied. "A couple of nights ago, we slept in a women's washroom." "Holy crap!" Suzanne erupted, green eyes wide.
Well looked after, we savoured our time with our new friends. Often, when we were travelling, it seemed that whenever we were at our absolute lowest, someone (or something) came along and lifted our flagging spirits. Sharon had been resigned that she was destined to endure frozen hands and feet until southern Spain. Instead, Roger and Suzanne rescued us, warmed our fingers and toes - not to mention our souls - with their generous hospitality, easy and abundant laughs, and bottomless cups of scalding tea. We headed off to our downstairs suite to get ready for bed. After a luxurious long steamy shower, we felt pampered indeed. "Clean, warm, and dry," I said, towelling myself off. "Hard to think of anything better." "And imagine," Sharon said, flashing me a wide smile, "all three at the same time." We slipped into a warm and comfy bed. Fleece sheets caressed us. We tugged the comforter to our chins. The scent of spring meadow potpourri floated through the air. "Sure beats mint deodorizers," Sharon murmured. |
Book Info
