Motorcycling the Maritimes: A Healing Odyssey

By Clifton Melby

It was August 9, 2015, still dark in the early hours of a cool Autumn Sunday morning. I was eager and excited about my second ride into the Maritimes with the route including both Newfoundland and Labrador, the two provinces I missed on my first visit. On my last ride there, while conversing with a total stranger in Nova Scotia, it seemed to me that I had been more than cordially invited but almost contracted to make this trip. Although it seemed very strange to me at the time, such was his influence. While on the ferry from North Sydney, Nova Scotia, to Argentia, Newfoundland, through the long dark hours of the night, a strange and haunting incident occurred. I healed from the physical injury of the incident in a few days, but mentally it proved to be a different matter. I had to share this in order to move forward. This was my inspiration to write this book. It is a work based almost entirely on my daily journal entries but also includes some fiction. While continuing on my ride, I began a lengthy healing process with the help of a very strange visitor. I am happy to say that today, this whole adventure is filed away safely in a good place. I find myself longing for yet one more visit.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Mar 31, 2020
• ISBN: 9781684568758

Book preview

Chapter 1

Breaking Free

You will never reach your destination if you stop and throw stones at every dog that barks.

—Winston Churchill

I will make no excuses for myself; I simply don’t have any.

—Clifton

August 9, 2015, Sunday

It’s 1:30 a.m. Lying on my back and staring into the dark, I am in desperate need of some sleep, but it eludes me. My mind is running out in front of me. Useless thoughts are posing problems and feelings that I have no control over. This is always the way with me before I launch a motorcycle trip.

I curl up on my side and go into a tight physical lockdown. I will myself to sleep, and because of it, I can’t move. But my brain is free to roam. I break loose in a cold sweat. That’s it, it’s 4:00 a.m., but I don’t care, enough torture. My muscles are tight and tired from the lockdown. I’m going to get moving, tired or not. So I’m in a funk. For some reason, I seem to have this notion that if I can allow myself to go off and just have fun, I should feel some guilt. There is the weight of knowing the trip will be the cause of some worry for my wife. These are rituals of my departures. Maybe in the future I will include some burning candles to cleanse myself of any evil foreboding spirits. Maybe not.

I try to be quiet so as not to wake up the more normal people—my wife and some company. We were at T. J.’s Tavern last night. I left early, a little after midnight, but they put in the late shift. Before going to bed, I finished packing all my gear. I put much thought into what to bring. My plan was to be gone for three to four weeks. I want to give the maritime provinces a good snoop. I tried to minimize my movements and be very quiet. I decided to forgo a shower and skip the usual strong morning coffee. This was a bad decision. I haul all my gear out to the shop in two trips. I hit the lights and gaze at my motorcycle.

There it sits, clean and shiny. It really looks very good. I can tell it’s ready to roll. On long trips alone, I sometimes talk to it. Now it talks to me. Have a good night’s sleep? You’re going to need it.

I kind of talk back to it and say, I did the best I could.

Well then, that’s good enough for me.

I get a smile back from the nice shiny fuel tank. It’s a 2005 GS 1200 BMW and we are truly bonded. I have been hooked on motorcycles as long as I can remember. I bought my first bike in 1962 at age thirteen. I loved it. The feeling was so liberating. I remember the first time I sat on it, it felt as though it was alive under me. Like, when are we leaving? Where do you want me to take you? Wow! Life has taken on a new meaning. Then I got caught by the county sheriff. He was a very nice man, but with one look at my face, he could tell I was too young to have a driver’s license. He told me to get home with it right away and not to drive it in town anymore until I got a license. I was devastated, heartbroken, miserable. I replayed the incident many times in my mind, and something started to standout. It was the two words he had said, in town. I was supposed to listen to what he didn’t say. He didn’t say anything about riding it in the country. So that was it; I am set. Gravel roads, dirt roads, snowdrifts, and mudholes would be my domain and I loved it. The back roads become my secret trails to wherever I need to go. I can just sneak out of my little town and travel to any place in the world. Well, it might take a while, but I can get there, wherever there is. And I am truly not bothering anyone. How nice.

As it turned out, my little Honda 50 and I did not part on the best of terms. I hit a dog on a gravel road. A big dog. He was thrown into the ditch but got up and ran away. I went down and got tangled up with the bike. I sanded off some skin and flesh from my left hip and got a hole in my stomach from a broken clutch lever. My little Honda was totaled out. It was just one week later when I secured a new Honda brochure. I started dreaming of a new gleaming black Honda 90 cc. What wonderful dreams.

In retrospect, I’m sure this is what the nice sheriff had in mind, but given I was too young to have a license, I was also too young to understand. I put on several hundred miles on that little Honda 50. I was so lucky to grow up in a very sparsely populated area of the state—Oklee, Minnesota. Up in the northwest region, I would ride out to my trapline, so a lot of my riding was in the late fall and the early winter. The temperature could be down to zero and sometimes below. I would get home partially frozen, but I would be eager to ride again in a day or two. So here I am, over fifty years and twenty motorcycles later, getting revved up for another adventure. There are so many adventures awaiting, and the years keep going by too fast. This trip is about to be set in motion. It might take a day or two for me to cast off my feelings of what I’m leaving behind, but in two or three days, I should hit my pace.

Two years ago, in 2013, I rode out to the Maritimes. When I hit land’s end, literally, in North Sydney, Nova Scotia, my timeline required that I start my way back. I felt there would be much to see on the ride back home, but I also had a strong feeling that I hadn’t fulfilled my mission.

I spent the night in North Sydney, Nova Scotia, at the North Inn. Here up on a promontory, I had a commanding view of the city, the North Atlantic Ferry Terminal, and the Atlantic Ocean behind it. There were four ships in port. I had a nice relaxing evening, a good supper, and some very good, cool, refreshing Alexander Keith’s Ale. The next morning, there were only three ships docked. One of the ships announced its departure. B-O-O-O-OW-U-P! The foghorn shook the glass on my window. Her bow hatch came down, and she backed up and pivoted on her thrusters. Just like that, she was on her way to Newfoundland. Many people took the rail and waved. I waved back through my window. Oh, how I wished I was on board. Bon voyage! Oh well, maybe I’ll get another chance.

After a hearty breakfast, I walk back to the lobby. There I meet a couple and hold the door for them as they are overloaded with baggage. The couple were in Nova Scotia at the start of a trip. They appear to be around sixty. They want to know where I have been and, more importantly, where I am going. He is most interested in my plans. He looks me up and down. He has a very slight reserved smile. He seems to be thinking of what he is going to say. Finally he says, You must travel around Newfoundland. My wife and I have been traveling through Newfoundland and some of Labrador for thirty-seven years, and we still have much to see.

He tells me about hiking and kayaking in Gros Morne National Park. It’s one of the most beautiful places on earth. It’s on the International Registry listed as a heritage site. But you must also spend some time on the Atlantic Coast, St. John’s, and of course the Irish Loop. The port and the most eastern points in all of North America where you can see far out into the sea. There is really no end to what you can look at.

I tell him I am a little short of time, and he says, What can you give her?

I reply, Maybe a couple days, no more.

Then, he says, you must not go but save her for another time. We shake hands and lock eyes. He says, Until then! It is very apparent we had just made a deal. I remember just standing there for a minute. At the end of the walk, he turns back and catches my gaze and nods. That same very subtle smile. It is as though he has contracted me in this brief encounter. How can this be? But it is so. Of that much I am sure.

I feel an almost immediate relief. Of course, this is a preview. I’m not meant to go at this time. When I was up in my room and watching one of the ships heading out to sea, I felt a good deal of remorse. Now the remorse is gone, replaced with melancholia, like a sweet dream. I will come back. I will go on another visit. Simple as that. And when I do, make the run to Newfoundland. I will have some time to spend there. I walk away feeling much better. I have been given a way out and a plan for a future trip as well. What could be better? I am still somewhat surprised how one man can have such an effect on my thinking, considering the length of our visit. Both he and his wife are dressed for hiking. They are planning to spend some time up on the Cabot Trail. I think maybe that is part of the reason he has an influence on me. It is that while I zoom past a view, I turn my head and take a snap of all that I can see. They, on the other hand, walk through it. They see so much more at their pace. While I see kind of a brochure of the beauty, they can tip their heads back and look straight up to the very top of a giant old tree. They can feel where they are. They can touch and smell the forest. They can hear the deafening sound of the waterfalls. When I think back to our conversation, he seems vindicated for stating his opinion. Yes, and even somehow making this contract regarding my future. When I try to get an exact picture of his face, something does not seem quite right. His image is close to an image that I know well, and then it comes to me. He is Max Von Sydow. No question there is a strong likeness, but now the image of Max has taken over. It will serve to be a face that I can remember. I cannot know the significance of this seemingly chance meeting. Even now, it seems to be more than just chance. I am extremely curious about it.

I’ll come back, all right. No doubt about it. If the good Lord is willing, I am also more than willing.

If fate can just wait awhile, I will definitely grab my next chance. We’ll get together one way or another. Wait a second. What’s another?

Chapter 2

A Long Hard Day

I never trust a man that doesn’t drink.

—John Wayne

I take a handful of vitamins every morning, I want to be healthy when I die.

—Clifton

Day 1

August 9, 2015, Sunday

Odometer reading 69,411 miles

All systems are go. Everything has been well secured, or so I think. I hit the wall button, and the big overhead door opens to an adventure. Cool fresh air rolls into my shop. It’s August in northern Minnesota, and the air is already fresh and crisp. Without a doubt my favorite time of the year. The big overhead door comes down behind me. There, no more lounging with a beer and thinking about how fun it would be to go for a ride. The time has come. It’s very dark. My mind streams out ahead of me and wires in feedback of hitting a deer at this hour. I will have to peer into the beam of my headlights and maybe ride a little bit slower. Just leaving as well as the last miles of returning have always summoned up a vague feeling of danger. I have always thought that if I have an accident, it might well be within miles of safe haven.

Two years ago, I rode out to the Maritimes. It was kind of a foray into my thoughts. My thoughts being very positive about enjoying the ride. For years, I have heard stories about the Maritimes. I’ve read books that have taken place there. I’ve heard so many positive things about the people who live in Newfoundland. Though I’ve never really been very close to them, I had a feeling that I was returning. I really did not have a plan or a travel route.

On this venture, I have my entire route out and back planned. Though the plans can change from day to day, I really do like having them. They serve as a rudder, and sometimes when things get on the bleak side, a rudder is a good thing to hold on to. When it’s wet, cold, windy, and rainy, the thought of a warm dry safe port is something I need.

It’s still before 5:00 a.m., so even though I am low on sleep, I’m getting my early start. I ease out the clutch, and my BMW takes me away to an adventure. I’d have to say the engine sounds a bit more confident than I feel. It’s very quiet this morning. I am the only sound around for miles. Normal sane people are still enjoying their sleep. The engine is quiet, and the only real sound I hear is the occasional rock spudding out from under my tires. I head for Oklee. There one town down and hundreds to go.

I have tried to route my eastbound trip as directly as possible. The Great Lakes start about two hundred miles east of me at the Twin Ports of Duluth/Superior. There I will ride right up to the greatest of the Great Lakes—Lake Superior. My route will take me east under the big lake through the northern tip of Wisconsin and the upper peninsula of Michigan and on to the Sault Ste. Marie Locks. From the locks at Sault Ste. Marie, I plan to ride east on the Trans-Canada. Just before entering Ottawa, Ontario, I will head south and cross back into the U.S.A. at Ogdensburg, New York. From there I will ride through Vermont, New Hampshire, and into Maine. In Maine, I will push north to Houlton and enter Canada near Woodstock, New Brunswick. Then east again through Moncton, New Brunswick, and into Nova Scotia and ultimately to land’s end in North Sydney, Nova Scotia. This should be a run of around 2,300 miles. This will be basically a transit ride. I have allowed five days for it.

From North Sydney, I have a passage booked on the ferry for 5:00 p.m. departure the next day. This is a sixteen-hour run through the long dark hours of night which ports in Argentia, Newfoundland. From there I will ride approximately one hundred miles north to St. John’s. There in the wee hours of what will be the next day, I will be joined by my wife. We have plans to enjoy five days of fun in Newfoundland.

Then I plan to ride north to Gander and west to Deer Lake for the night. From Deer Lake, my plan is to have a nice visit at Gros Morne National Park and then to ride north to the end of land in northern Newfoundland. Then it will be another ferry to Labrador. As I ride north and east up the Atlantic coast of Labrador, I will hit my most distant point from home. From there my heading will be primarily west and somewhat south. I hope to ride the Trans-Labrador highway to Baie-Comeau, Québec, on the Saint Lawrence Seaway. From that point, I will ride into major population. I’m not too excited about this prospect, but it comes with the rest. The good with the not so good. From this point on, I will be headed back for home.

I think it would be fair to say that most of my motorcycle trips are riding to the west or southwest. There are good reasons for this. First and foremost will always be the issue of space. In the first day of riding west from my home, I get into large open unpopulated areas. I feel very at ease and very free. Conversely, as soon as I am even thirty miles east from my home, I am into heavy forests. They are pretty but do not offer the big vistas of the west. Secondly, there would be the population. The numbers are always lower going west. The cities are farther apart, fewer, and smaller. I suppose that growing up in a sparsely populated area is the reason I prefer this. Lastly would be the sunlight and the weather. It’s been my experience that more often than not, if I ride into bad weather going west, I can often get through the front and back into sunshine. The weather systems most often come from the west, southwest and travel off to the east, northeast. Sometimes when I ride east, I can be stuck traveling with a front. Even though I can outrun it by day, it will overtake me during the night. And of course, when I put in a good long day of riding west, I am chasing the sun, and my time and the daylight last somewhat longer as opposed to the opposite when I ride a hard day east. Did I mention the speed limits?

Still, there are so many wonderful things about riding east. History is somewhat older, and I find that interesting. The Great Lakes and the ports that abound in the Maritimes are fascinating for a landlocked Midwesterner like myself.

The morning air is still cool, but I’m confident that as today wears on, it will warm up. The early morning hours are without a doubt my favorite time of the day. And the early autumn days of fall are hands down my favorite time of the year. My plan is to ride about two hundred miles to Duluth for my first stop where I will refuel and have a good breakfast. This is where the leaving without coffee starts to become an evident mistake. My body is missing its normal caffeine jolt. I can already tell I’ll be in a war with sleep. Only fifteen miles into the trip, I have a close call with three whitetail deer. It seems like they literally pop up out of the tar, six big reflective eyes fixed on me from the shadows of my headlight. I squeeze the front brake as hard as I dare and tag the back at the same time. They just stand there staring at me, wondering why I am out to kill them on such a nice morning. They are frozen awaiting their death. I manage to stop just a few feet away from them. They waste no time making the best of the reprieve on their lives. The pavement offers no traction for their powerful legs. Two fall down but bounce right back up, and they all bound away. Well, that is a good reminder at the very beginning of a long trip through thousands of miles of forest. I must keep my head on a swivel always.

As the miles slowly tick off, I begin the battle of staying awake. I’m nice and cozy in my layers of riding clothes. That may be part of it, but the problem is, without a doubt, the simple fact that I am running way low on sleep. I start the nodding off routine. How can one fall asleep while riding a motorcycle? It’s easy. The nice steady drone of the engine and the air slipping by can be very comforting. I stop, jump up and down, do a few jumping jacks, and rub some cool dew from the grass onto my face. Wow, I’m wide awake now. I have a big travel day planned, so I don’t want to waste time.

I roll off into the quiet and dark, but in no time, the urge to sleep comes back. I start to battle with it again. I stop, open my jacket, and flap cool morning air against my body. Again some dew on my face and down my neck, and I run down the highway and back. There, all is good again, but again in several minutes, I am fighting with the feeling of warm, cozy, dark, relaxing sleep. Damn, I’ll never get anywhere. I will force myself to think of thoughts that will occupy my mind. Oh yeah, that would be a nap. Finally, I realize I simply must get some caffeine. I haven’t had a cigarette for over twelve years, so the nicotine is long gone from my system and the replacement is all the more important.

So just over a hundred miles from home, I pull over to a nice restaurant in Grand Rapids, Minnesota. I have a hearty breakfast and four cups of good black coffee. Problem solved, just like that. I’m back on track. I have motel reservations at the Askwith Lockview Inn in Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan for tonight. It’s within two hundred yards of the locks but over six hundred miles from home. With low speed limits and numerous towns and small cities, this is a formidable run.

Now I feel like I can take it on head to head. I roll up to the top of the hillcrest and peer down at the vast view that lies before me. This will really launch my trip. The ports of Duluth and Superior lie out before me. There is a light fog rising off the harbor. Two big graceful bridges arch their way from Minnesota over to Wisconsin. The rays from the morning sun outline the ships in the port and the big terminals off to my left. There are two lakers starting their run out of the harbor. The high lift bridge hangs from cables way above the water, waiting for them to slip under and make their way out into the big blue lake. Every time I see this grand view, my mind goes back to the Edmund Fitzgerald. I’ve read everything I could get my hands on about the Mighty Fitz. There have been so many Maritime disasters out on the big lake. As Gordon Lightfoot said, Nobody knows where the love of God goes. For me, Lake Superior will always have a special haunting and foreboding image. Almost exactly two years ago, I turned left at this point and rolled up the north shore into Canada to spend the night in Marathon, Ontario. That was also a six-hundred-mile run. This will be a much more direct route.

I ride off over the Bong Bridge. What a view! Down into Superior, Wisconsin, and off into the woods. I will be riding in the forest for the entire day. I have traveled this road before, and I am pleased to ride through this in transit. The speed limit of fifty-five miles per hour makes it very difficult to make very good time. I’ve kind of set up shop at about sixty-three miles per hour, and I’ve already got two nice warnings from highway patrols. Still, it tends to require a lot of seat time to get anywhere. At Wakefield, Michigan, I leave Highway 2 and pick up the trail of Highway 28. It’s now into the afternoon, and my body is telling me I need a quick protein fix. I pull into the golden arches in Ishpeming and slam down a plain hamburger and a glass of water. I make a quick refueling stop and I’m off. I am being crowded by some angry dark clouds that are bearing down on me. My plan, as always, is to outrun the front. I take off, and in no time I am feeling the first few cold drops. I sort of like to outrun bad weather. To be honest, more often than not, it hasn’t worked out for the best. But I seem to be making a good getaway this time. Then I hit Marquette. This is a pretty good-sized, long, drawn-out city. How long? Long enough to get drowned. It’s hard enough to outpace the front on the twisty low speed limit roads, but the city is too much. I am hunted down. Time for your shower. I was soaked almost too fast to find shelter or suit up. The hell with it. I’ll just ride through it. I see coveys of motorcyclists huddled under gas station canopies. They just stare at me. At one point, I have to ride through close to a foot of rapid brown water coming back down the highway at a long angle toward me. A good old-time gully washer. I might have got away on the open road, but no way am I going to make it in the city. So now I’ve had my shower that I didn’t take this morning.

I’m most fortunate that the temperature has now moved up into the mid to high sixties. I’ve still got many miles to ride, so I will blast off and get ahead of this front and try to dry out a little. I settle in with enough protein and petrol to close out a very long day. In about twenty-five minutes, I have escaped from the last few cold drops. I open my jacket and let the air in. I stand up on my pegs for miles to dry out my pants and crotch. I am more wired than tired. Finally, a road sign shows me a sign of hope, telling me the locks are just up the road.

This has been a long hard day, from before 5:00 a.m. to 8:20 p.m. Some fifteen hours of tired, cool, and wet. So many