A Bore that's Worth the Visit

A Great Blue Heron is about to be overtaken by the tidal bore at Moncton, New Brunswick.

The tidal bore on the Petticodiac River in Moncton, New Brunswick, is not boring. The water comes in twice a day, racing around the elbow of the river with a wall of water pushing hard against the down-flowing stream. It fairly races along, with birds riding it like surfers.

Jo and I were there at the appointed hour on Thursday morning. There is a place called Bore Park where you see the sweep of the tidal bore. We were surrounded by a busload of French-speaking lst or 2^nd grade students, along with a couple who were visiting from New Zealand and who were proudly showing their currency to a Moncton native. The money actually had windows in it which, to my view, was unique.

Anyway, as the bore came in, the Canada Geese that had been riding the wave decided it was enough. They swam to the muddy shore and waddled up the bank.

Suzanne, a perky young woman from the Moncton Museum, told us in alternate French and English the history of the area, along with the lore of the bore. It comes in because Moncton is at the head of the Bay of Fundy where the largest tides in the world are to be found. The water rises up to 50 feet twice a day and that results in awesome currents. Jo and I had sailed the Bay of Fundy back in the summer of 2003. It was wonderful to sail with the tide – we made 13 knots in our sluggish little boat.

Suzanne explained how the Acadiene French were pretty friendly with the local Mic-Mac Indians. But they refused to swear allegiance to the French king. Nor, when the English arrived and took over, would they swear allegiance to the British king. The price: all their homes were burned and they were shipped out. This explains why Louisiana is loaded with “Cajuns”. Lots of them found their way into the deep South of the U.S.

The previous evening, we visited Magnetic Hill to experience the wonder of putting our car in neutral on an apparently level surface and having it roll along backwards, gaining speed until it climbs a hill backwards. I'd asked the woman at our campground whether or not it was worth the visit. She sagely suggested we go there after 7 p.m. and get in without paying. “It eez a how-you-say optical illusion,” she told us in her French-accented English. She was right. It is not really worth paying $5 to experience. But it was fun to see the car take off on its own on an apparently flat road. We couldn't figure out the illusion even after letting it happen to us three times.

PS: I have received a response from Don and Terry, one of our fellow-travelers, about how lucky we were with the $60 charge from Verizon for our use of Canadian cell towers. While they were in the northern U.S., near the Canadian border, they were regularly using the cell towers without knowing it. Their monthly bill was $1,200! Happily AT&T let them off the hook after they howled.

Internationally challenged

A bronze cast of a French settler on the banks of the St. Croix River welcomes you to the early settlement.

Vital information for travelers: When you use Verizon's Mi-Fi modem (as do we) there's a green light on the device. When that device switches to blue, however, its a signal that you are connected to an international cell signal. Well that will never happen while you are traveling in the U.S., of course, you say. But that would be wrong!

While we were west of Machias, Maine, (many miles from the Canadian border) and after we moved to Calais, Maine, the light was blue. We, of course, had no idea of the meaning of the blue light special. What it means, we learned, is we were hooked up to Canadian cell service because the cell service in Canada is much more powerful than in the U.S. because of fewer regulations. During those three days we uploaded and downloaded 33 megabytes of information for which Verizon wished to charge us $60.

We received an email from Verizon which informed us of our usage of Canadian cell towers. I called them to challenge this and the best they were willing to do was provide me with 50 megabytes of data for an additional charge of $30 for one month. They were totally unwilling to remove the charges.

We are currently in a delightful, hidden campground east of the village of Penobsquit in New Brunswick. The campground is owned by a couple from Newfoundland. They are hard-working and very friendly. But they have no wi-fi here. When we pulled up to the office, there was a note on the door: “We are out and about. Please call us on the walkie-talkie that is hanging from the door knob. The woman arrived after I called. She was bubbly and welcoming. When we told her we are on our way to Newfoundland she exploded with enthusiasm. She and her husband had come from there seven years ago. She was full of information – particularly when we told her we would be on the island for about a month.

On Sunday, we had driven to the very eastern edge of Maine, just south of Calais. Just to the east, in the middle of the St. Croix River which separates the modern U.S. and Canada, is the island of St. Croix, first settled in April 1604 by French folks aboard the Bonne Renomee. The ship was led by Samuel Champlain, one impressive exploring captain. He dropped off the settlers on the island and they began the task of setting up shop, trading with the local Passamaquoddy Indians for furs. There's a U.S. National Historic Site to mark the event.

Their leader chose the island but failed to understand the importance of fresh water, of which there was none on the island. Water had to be brought over from the mainland. The natives were friendly, visiting the island to fish for alewives and shellfish. Everyone seemed to get along well, the French trading hatchets, beads, rosaries, and tobacco for the furs they trapped.

Acadia, as the settlers called their new land, was on the same latitude as their native France so the visitors assumed the climate would be similar. Wrong. They soon discovered they were quite unprepared for the severity of a harsh North American winter. In addition they came down with scurvy and almost half their number died.

In the following spring, they decided to leave the island, deciding that water is actually pretty important to survival.. Champlain moved them as far south as Cape Cod in Massachusetts. But the settlers found nothing they liked. They returned to St. Croix, dismantled their houses and moved them to the mainland of Nova Scotia at Port Royal.

Jo and I drove up to Calais to scout the town. Sunday is a pretty quiet day in this little town and the only place we found open was a museum that was a dreary little place – clearly a piece of federal pork that Sen. Susan Collins managed to bring to the community. There were great, empty rooms with very little history visible. The only thing that worked was a tidal pool with all manner of sea creatures – starfish, urchins, snails and slugs. It's a perfect example of congressional funding that is a total waste of taxpayer money because the funding starts something but there is no funding available to fill the space with useful material.

Going Downeast

A fisherman's house clings to the rocky coast of Maine at Harrington Bay, east of Bar Harbor.

Two sets on friends came back into our lives in one day this week. Nothing can improve on that.

We met up with old workmate Jose Azel and his wife for breakfast in Portland, Maine. We have not seen them for three years and there was much catching up to be done.

Then we climbed back aboard our rig and pushed north and east to the little town of Newport, Maine, where we found Rick and Gayle Perlmutter – old sailing buddies from the 1970s. There's nothing quite so fine as walking back in on a warm and solid friendship and picking up the threads again.

Rick is an astonishingly good cook who seems to turn his talents to new styles of food each time we meet. This summer, he has been dabbling at mastering the art of Mexican cuisine. He has done just that and we were the lucky recipients of some spectacular taste treats. Rick and Gayle built their wooden home, with soaring ceilings, on the edge of lake Sebasticook. As a result, they are visited by all manner of birds – from hummingbirds to downy woodpeckers.

Gayle, in the meantime, has become passionate about genealogy and has traced her roots back and back and back. She told us part of her family tree resides still in the little town of Trinity, Newfoundland. This is right beside Dildo Cove, and we have promised to check out the little village when we make it to Newfoundland next month.

I took advantage of their local knowledge and went to their dentist in town to have a new crown re-cemented into my mouth. It had fallen off while I ate lunch a few days back. The dentist did a fine job of making me whole again.

Rick and Gayle headed off for work before we arose on Friday morning. We had a leisurely breakfast and then slowly backed out of their homestead and filled up with gas in Newport before pushing on to Ellsworth, where we parked and visited the L.L. Bean Outlet there. Jo took the wheel and took us along the magnificent, rocky coast of Maine, past deep-cut bays and east of Schoodic Point where the natives tell you “the real Maine begins.” We have sailed this rock-strewn coast, of course, but this was a wonderful way to see it from the land.

Our navigation software told us to turn right onto a dirt road which supposedly would take us to our chosen campground in Harrington, Maine. But the road ran out in the front yard of someone's home. We had to unhitch the car from the rear, then back out and regain Route 1 where we found a sign on the highway that guided us down another road – this one tarred – to Sunset Point Campground. Oh, bliss.

Here we sit, on the banks of the Harrington River which flows into Harrington Bay. And that touches Pleasant Bay, which, in turn, connects with the Gulf of Maine just east of Petit Manan Island.

When we sailed this bold coast in the summer of 2003, much of it was shrouded in thick fog each day. We remember straining our eyes and brains to make out any lobster boats working the shrouded waters ahead of us. I would be glued to the navigation computer to keep me off the rocks while Jo stood at the bow, peering out into the fog. It was exciting voyaging and felt oh-so-good when we would stop for the day, pulling into a cove and dropping anchor. Nothing tasted quite so fine as the Dark and Stormy (rum and ginger beer) that we'd sip while the cormorants fished around us and fish hawks and gulls screamed overhead.

Friendship

Two sets on friends came back into our lives in one day this week. Nothing can improve on that.
We met up with old workmate Jose Azel and his wife for breakfast in Portland, Maine. We have not seen them for three years and there was much catching up to be done.

Then we climbed back aboard our rig and pushed north and east to the little town of Newport, Maine, where we found Rick and Gayle Perlmutter – old sailing buddies from the 1970s. There's nothing quite so fine as walking back in on a warm and solid friendship and picking up the threads again. Rick is an astonishingly good cook who seems to turn his talents to new styles of food each time we meet. This summer, he has been dabbling at mastering the art of Mexican cuisine. He has done just that and we were the lucky recipients of some spectacular taste treats. Rick and Gayle built their wooden home, with soaring ceilings, on the edge of lake Sebasticook. As a result, they are visited by all manner of birds – from hummingbirds to downy woodpeckers.

Gayle, in the meantime, has become passionate about genealogy and has traced her roots back and back and back. She told us part of her family tree resides still in the little town of Trinity, Newfoundland. This is right beside Dildo Cove, and we have promised to check out the little village when we make it to Newfoundland next month.

Rick and Gayle headed off for work before we arose on Friday morning. We had a leisurely breakfast and then slowly backed out of their homestead and filled up with gas in Newport before pushing on to Ellsworth, where we parked and visited the L.L. Bean Outlet there. Jo took the wheel and took us along the magnificent, rocky coast of Maine, past deep-cut bays and east of Schoodic Point where the natives tell you “the real Maine begins.” We have sailed this rock-strewn coast, of course, but this was a wonderful way to see it from the land.

Our navigation software told us to turn right onto a dirt road which supposedly would take us to our chosen campground in Harrington, Maine. But the road ran out in the front yard of someone's home. We had to unhitch the car from the rear, then back out and regain Route 1 where we found a sign on the highway that guided us down another road – this one tarred – to Sunset Point Campground. Oh, bliss.

Here we sit, on the banks of the Harrington River which flows into Harrington Bay. And that touches Pleasant Bay, which, in turn, connects with the Gulf of Maine just east of Petit Manan Island.

When we sailed this bold coast in the summer of 2003, much of it was shrouded in thick fog each day. We remember straining our eyes and brains to make out any lobster boats working the shrouded waters ahead of us. I would be glued to the navigation computer to keep me off the rocks while Jo stood at the bow, peering out into the fog. It was exciting voyaging and felt oh-so-good when we would stop for the day, pulling into a cove and dropping anchor. Nothing tasted quite so fine as the Dark and Stormy (rum and ginger beer) that we'd sip while the cormorants fished around us and fish hawks and gulls screamed overhead.

On Leaving Vermont

This picture, shot by Jo, should pretty much be on my tombstone since it is the perfect representation of my life under the rig.

“Oooh! That can't be good.” The words came from grandson Graham when he saw me stop the rig moments after pulling out of the driveway in Colchester, Vermont. The accursed red light for the emergency brake was flickering.
He was right. It wasn't a good thing. I put some more fluid into the reservoir (yet another trip of squirming under the rig). The light went out and we pulled away. Five minutes later, however, the flickering light was a solid light. We were on the expressway south.
Decision time: Do I stop on the interstate or do I push on for 10 minutes to the only RV repair shop in Burlington? We chose the latter. We arrived at Peter's RV with smoke plumes pouring from under the rig. That got their attention!
I had visited the place earlier, seeking some regular maintenance and they'd refused to help unless I could wait four weeks. I'd even written a letter to the pretty awful local newspaper in which I made a pitch for hiring more help to turn this recession around – and to serve customers better.
Now they had to deal with my emergency – and they did. When the emergency brake cooled down sufficiently (two hours), a mechanic slid under the rig. He filled the reservoir with my brake fluid and asked me to start the engine, put the rig in gear – and definitely keep my foot on the regular brakes. I did and he was sprayed with brake fluid for a grey relay switch. When he disconnected this switch he found the tiny O-ring was broken. This O-ring had leaked when my son in law and I had changed out the heavy-duty actuator on the brake system back in May. We had made a 30-mile trip to replace this tiny piece at an auto parts store. The salesman said it needed a metric O-ring which surprised me on an American-built relay switch. But we installed it and it was the wrong size.
The mechanic installed a new O-ring and I asked for two spares. No leaks. So we scooted south and east and came to Northwood, New Hampshire. We had been to this tiny but delightful campground a few years back. The place has room for 20 rigs, all nestled in trees around a pond filled with croaking bullfrogs and trout that leap for flies in the setting sun. This is one of our favorite campgrounds in New England.
Now we head north to Saco, Maine. This takes us to the seacoast just south of Portland. This is the city we left aboard our sailboat, Quiet Passage, almost 11 years ago.

Up in Vermont

After a great visit with daughter Lynn and family in Kent, Connecticut, where our son in law, John, did yeoman work helping with the fix of our emergency brake system, we headed north to Vermont.

Our first afternoon in Vermont, we were under a tornado watch. The sky turned black at 5:30 in the afternoon and hail the size of Kennedy half-dollars banged on the roof of our rig. It was so loud we could barely talk.

This all passed in half an hour and the sun popped back out. Very strange feeling. But the torrential rains returned later in the evening and we had horrendous lightning through the night.

We have already set to work, doing fixes on furniture at daughter Stephanie's home. Jo is baking banana bread. Stephanie and our two grandchildren head for Italy in eight weeks to join son in law Alex in Trento, up in the Dolomite Mountains of northern Italy.

Jo came down with what turned out to be shingles and we found an urgent care place in Colchester, VT, that treated her after the Memorial Day holiday. This painful immune-system illness has resulted in blisters that feel like tiny needles pricking her abdomen. Happily, there now is a drug for the treatment of shingles and she is on a week-long regimen of this. So we expect great things soon!

A Hail Storm.... in MAY!

Yes! We drove through the town of Kent, across Camp Flats Road through a rain storm (George Washington passed along this tiny road back in the good old days). As we climbed the hill, we saw long trails of white stuff along the road. I thought these were the downed blossoms of cottonwood trees. We pulled over and Jo opened the door. Hailstones. Millions of them the size of corn kernels. Welcome to Connecticut in late May. Summer is a month away.

We came north two weeks ago, stopping off outside Baltimore for a remarkable wool festival. I have never seen so many sheep breeds... all the way from Karachol (from the Mideast and Africa) to St. Kilda miniature sheep from a tiny island 'way west of Scotland's Outer Hebrides. There were Scottish black-face sheep who sported pretty impressive curling horns. And there were angora sheep that gave up their priceless fleece to the shearing every six months.

As we headed north from Baltimore, we calculated the best and cheapest places to stop to fill the gas tank. We stopped in New Jersey - always a cheaper place than New York or Connecticut. But we damaged the extending step at our side door when it jammed up against the curb at the filling island. We tied it up with a shock cord and then sailed across the George Washington Bridge into Manhattan. Now that was a tactical error. Sunday afternoons, you might think, traffic would be slow. Not so when we deal with Manhattan. We were trapped in stop-and-go traffic for two hours.

Our emergency brake red light began to warn me - again - that it was losing fluid - a fearsome warning in this no-lay-by highway through New York City. We made it out of the city and when I parked and squirmed under the rig, the fluid reservoir was empty. I topped it off again, cursing this awful piece of engineering.

We ordered replacement parts for the step and for the actuator on the emergency brake and I have managed to get the steps working again. Now, we await the rebuilding of the actuator to see if we can put this menace of a brake system to rest again. Then our plan is to drive north to Vermont to visit with our daughter, Stephanie, before she heads off to join her husband in Italy where he has taken a new job.