It was 7:50 a

The Cabot Trail

by Laurie Rockwell

It was 7:50 a.m. and a pleasant +11C when I crossed the A. Murray MacKay bridge over Halifax Harbour on this late September morning. I was leaving ninety minutes later than usual due to the low early morning temperatures this time of year, but in five hours I would be on the Cabot Trail in the Cape Breton Highlands. This would be the ninth time I've ridden there since I bought a motorcycle and gleefully rode into retirement in 1992.

My Honda NT650 GT isn't a Gold Wing, but it certainly is a nice little tourer after I fitted a Rifle fairing, Corbin seat and Ventura soft luggage. Its standard riding position and light weight make it ideal for carving twisty roads, but it's comfortable for long hauls as well.

Being retired puts me out of synch with my younger riding buddies who are still employed, but I like to make frequent stops to watch the ocean waves, take photographs, explore side roads, or whatever, so riding alone often has its advantages.

Half way to the Strait of Canso, and the Canso Causeway linking Cape Breton Island to the mainland, I came upon black storm clouds and a gusty north wind roaring in off the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The road became very wet in places, but my luck held and I didn't actually get rained on. By the time I got to the Strait it was blowing a gale and huge breakers were crashing against the seawall throwing salt spray across the causeway. The 1300 metre crossing over open water in a howling gale and being lashed with salt spray wasn't some of the most fun I've ever had on a motorcycle.

For a change of route I left the Trans Canada Highway near Whycocomagh and took route 395 along Lake Ainslie (the largest fresh water lake in Nova Scotia) and picked up route 19 near Southwest Margaree. For another change I decided to take route 219 at Dunvegan, follow it to Margaree Harbour, and pick up the Cabot Trail there. I hadn't ridden 219 before and was a bit disappointed that it didn't follow the coast as close to the water as I had hoped. Probably just as well since the wind was pushing the bike all over the road.

On the approach to Whale Cove near Margaree Harbour, the road veered close to shore and the wind and surf were at full song. The wind was blowing and gusting squarely into my side which made it tiring to control the bike. The spectacular surf was crashing relentlessly against the rocky shore line and I was happy to stop for a rest and take a few photographs.

From Margaree Harbour the Trail follows the ocean along a coastal plain through several Acadian communities to Cheticamp (pop. 3000), the largest town on the Trail. Ideally situated near the entrance to Cape Breton Highlands National Park, this Acadian fishing town also thrives on the tourist trade with first rate motels, restaurants and all other modern facilities.

In 1755 the British brutally expelled thousands of Acadians from Nova Scotia and dumped them among the American colonies, in Europe and other parts of Canada. Many ended up in Louisiana where they established the Cajun culture. In time, many returned to Cape Breton and established French speaking communities along with the Scottish, English and Irish and we have a strange mix of all the cultures.

There are many villages on the Cabot Trail, but Cheticamp, and Baddeck (pop. 1500) on the Bras d'Or Lakes, are the only towns. The seafood and Acadian cooking in Cheticamp is to die for and today would be no exception. The seafood chowder, home made biscuits and apple pie at Restaurant Acadien hit the spot, but I was anxious to get into the hills.

Just inside the park entrance is awesome Grand Falaise. Half the mountain has been sliced away by Mother Nature leaving a sheer wall to tower over the road. Riding along in the open air you get the feeling that it's about to fall over on you.

The road through the park is exceptionally well maintained with federal money and very smooth. When you add together the smooth pavement, the ocean, the curves and scenery, wildlife, history, fresh air and blue sky, you have something that many motorcyclists can only dream about. No matter how many times I come here it's always a thrill.

The ride through the curves to the highlands plateau was fairly pleasant without any untoward moments caused by the high winds. The viewing areas offer a panoramic scene of beauty that is hard to describe. Fast moving clouds boiled overhead and the angry sea threw itself against the craggy shore. This was the first time I had experienced stormy conditions in my travels around the Trail and it was in stark contrast to the usually warm and calm sunny days, but at least it wasn't raining.

Although traffic was very light I encountered a few American tourists from southern states who were freezing half to death in the cold wind. I had to smile because this was only late September - but then I was wearing thermal underwear and a full leather outfit. Wait until January or February when it really gets cold folks! Winter gales often gust to 160-170 kph in the highlands and the wind chill is -40C!

The Trail wends its way up French Mountain, down Mackenzie Mountain, up North Mountain and down South Mountain through a series of highland plateaus. I usually ride the Trail in a clockwise direction, but either way is a gleeful romp and I've done both many times. Arriving in the village of Cape North I took a motel room, dumped my saddle bags and rested briefly. It was getting on for mid afternoon and weather conditions were improving so I decided to use the remaining daylight hours to enjoy the curves and hills all the way back to the foot of French Mountain. Riding a light well handling motorcycle and flicking through the twisties is what it's all about.

It was early evening and the sun was quickly going down behind me when I rounded the last curve on North Mountain right at the edge of another highlands plateau about 350 metres above sea level. I wasn't far from the motel and was thinking about dinner at Morison's Restaurant across the street, a hot shower and a warm bed. I had the road to myself and wasn't wasting any time in the curves, but around that last bend would be the adventure of my motorcycling life.

The largest moose I had ever seen stood squarely in the middle of the road and probably weighed a ton. That animal was huge! His antlers looked to be two metres wide. I hit the brakes hard and we stared at each other from a distance of about 15 metres. I had never been so close to such a gigantic wild animal and my whole body tingled with excitement. The moose seemed completely unconcerned, but knowing how unpredictable they can be, I quickly selected first gear and was ready to make a hasty U-turn if he took a step in my direction.

The standoff lasted less than a minute and he ignored my shouts and the sound of my horn by simply starring at me without moving. He was clearly in charge and seemed to know it so I decided to sit and wait fearing that my behavior might upset him. It was also the rutting season and he might be more excitable and a lot less tolerant of intruders. The seconds passed and it seemed less likely that he would be aggressive since he would have heard me coming and wasn't taken by surprise. Many times I have seen moose in the distance from the Trail, watched whales and bald eagles from a viewing area, foxes, skunks, you name it, but this was the thrill of a lifetime!

Eventually, this king of the forest slowly turned his head toward the trees, gave a contemptuous look back at me, then ambled into the bushes and disappeared. He reminded me of an army tank the way he pushed his way through the dense growth and I was greatly impressed by the sheer majesty of this magnificent animal.

Was that exciting or what! But that was not to be the last of my adventures.

The next morning dawned sunny and calm, but only +5C. I was up with the sun and making my way to the Coastal Restaurant for breakfast near Ingonish, then it was on to Cape Smokey for some more fun in the twisties. As I rode east the sun was still low in the sky and squarely in my eyes. The occasional shade from the hills was a most welcome relief as I pottered along at a modest speed.

A couple of kilometres from Neil's Harbour I was being blinded by the sun on a long stretch of clear highway with no shade. I knew the road turned south at Neil's Harbour and I would soon be facing away from the sun so I slowed down to about 50 kph and was content to cruise along for a few minutes using the edge of the pavement in my lane as my guide until I got there. Not making more effort to shade my eyes and look ahead was nearly a fatal mistake.

Suddenly I heard the clippity-clop of running hooves on pavement to my left. I turned my head and there was a huge cow moose running along beside me in the next lane, barely beyond arms length, and keeping pace with me! It was so surreal I couldn't believe my eyes! I could almost touch her! I hit the brakes hard and she moved over into my lane and then into the forest at full gallop. That was a close one!

I can only guess that the moose had been standing near the road waiting to cross and I had unknowingly ridden right up to her. She bolted when I got too close, but turned at the last second instead of crashing into me. If that's what happened, she may have saved my life. The incident was over so quickly and was so surreal I kept questioning myself whether it really did happen.

But I knew the answer. The highlands are full of moose and deer and they are protected in the park. Warning signs are posted everywhere and it was my own fault for being so careless. The old adage that familiarity breeds contempt was never more true and that's the closest I ever want to be to one of these great creatures. Two moose encounters within twelve hours was more than enough excitement for this trip.

I arrived at the restaurant just as it was opening for business and was the first and only customer. The server was a friendly middle-aged lady who listened to my moose stories, but she had heard them all before. These encounters happen all the time around here she said. She may not have been impressed with my stories, but she certainly served a hearty breakfast. I dwelled over a cup of coffee and reflected on how lucky I really had been, then my thoughts turned to Cape Smokey.

Half an hour later I was riding up the gradual north slope of Cape Smokey to the short plateau. The sun was higher and much warmer now, heading for an eventual +22C. Smokey gets its name from a cloud of mist that often hangs over the summit, but today it was clear as a bell.

I compare the descent on the south side of Cape Smokey to a controlled fall off a mountain. This is not the highest mountain on the Trail, but it certainly is the steepest and twistiest with a wicked absolute right angle turn to sea level at the bottom. It may be the most exciting 2.1 kilometres of motorcycle road east of the Rockies - but not to be taken lightly. Only a single metal guardrail keeps you from the abyss.

It was early and there was no traffic so I had this fantastic section of road all to myself. The pavement was dry and free of strewn gravel so I was able to make four spirited passes without interruption - but this is no place for the faint of heart or poor tires and brakes.

I could have completed the 300 kilometre Cabot Trail loop and gone on to Baddeck and the causeway, but there are no more mountains beyond Cape Smokey and I wanted one more shot at those glorious curves I had enjoyed the day before. The road to Baddeck is scenic and pleasant and the town is picturesque. A first time Trail rider should complete the loop and take in all the Trail has to offer, but I was here for the curves and headed back to Cheticamp. Not even the lure of the Wreck Cove General Store and Lobster Pound a few kilometres down the road with their smoked meat and lobster sandwiches (lobsters in season) was enough to entice me onward. It was too early for lunch anyway.

I made frequent stops for photographs and to explore some side roads eventually reaching Cheticamp by early afternoon. I had a delicious seafood casserole for lunch, made the Restaurant Acadien way, and said goodbye to this lovely little town and the highlands for another year.

After all that excitement the long ride back to Halifax was a bit boring, but what a story I had to tell now.