|
Grind "I don't suffer from insomnia - Near nightfall, we came across a closed-for-the-season picnic area. "Looks like an ideal spot," Sharon said. In the morning, we opened our eyes to a frosty wonderland. Inside the tent! The drop in temperature and our exhalations had sublimated into intricate lacy crystalline patterns. The frost burned off, and we got underway. The terrain had altered significantly since we'd left the Gaspé Peninsula. Rolling hills replaced Gaspé's tormenting 17 percent grades. Sweeping water vistas changed to dense blocks of dark forest. The fir trees obstructed our views, but they also did a fine job of curtailing the dogged winds that had hounded us all along the peninsula. Second-growth 40-foot-tall evergreens sprouted in tidy row upon row, like giant carrots planted by bunny people. Hemming us in both right and left, it felt akin to wearing enormous green blinders. We rode for miles through nothing but towering fir and spruce. (The soil may not be great for agriculture, but it knows how to grow trees. Forest covers 90 percent of New Brunswick.) In Saint Quentin, weary of anything coniferous, we settled down to lunch beneath an apple tree. Its naked arms swayed under a deep cobalt sky; bright red apples clung tenaciously to leafless branches like fragile ornaments on a Charlie Brown Christmas tree. At 5:30 pm, we arrived at Saint-Léonard Provincial Park. Unlike the height of tourist season, on this fine October day, we had the entire place to ourselves. No screaming kids like misbegotten banshees; no motorhome generators buzzing like angry bees. Even the wind in the trees seemed to whisper sweet lullabies in hushed tones. Tucked into our sleeping bags by 7 pm, the night air clamped down with an icy breath. Teeth chattering, we realized we were in for another cold sleep. "This routine is wearing me down," Sharon said, pulling her sleeping bag around her nose. "All we do is pack, ride, unpack," came the muffled grumble. She was right. Our relaxed pace had turned into a race. And the short daylight hours weren't doing us any favours - little time remained for anything but riding. However, with our airline tickets booked, it was necessary to crank out a requisite number of kilometres each day to ensure we made it to Montréal in time. "When we get to Europe, we'll slow down," I said, happily ignoring that once there we had to cover two thousand kilometres in three weeks to meet Sue and Vicky in Portugal by our appointed date. "Yeah, right," Sharon mumbled. |
Book Info
