lessons at dusk: of “waking up” and cape breton’s potato crops

There is always this rush of excitement when you travel, have only a vague knowledge of where you actually are, and even less of an idea of where you’re going while night begins to settle. I’d just arrived in Nova Scotia via PEI’s ferry, eager to kick off the next phase of my adventure, and was so enraptured by the way the slanting rays seemed to capture everything they touched, it was a miracle I resisted their ensnarement and peeled myself along at all.

My ambitious escapade was not without frequent distraction, though, with stops along the shoulder of the TransCanada between Pictou and Canso Canal. These are still some of my favourite photographs from the trip. Perhaps because I am a sucker for sunsets.

Perhaps because I felt like I’d transcended my mortal bonds in a gateway opened up by those slanting rays…
Too profound? How about: It was absolutely magical.

In 2007, I set out on a 5,000+ km tour of maritime Canada in a car I wasn’t sure would last the trip for my first big solo adventure: mapless, without an agenda, and by the seat of my pants. Now, while I get ready for one of the biggest adventures I could dream up, I can’t help but reminisce that first big step – and all the shenanigans and misadventures that happened during it…

When I arrived at the bridge at the Canso Causeway and Canal, it shames me to admit how little of a clue I actually had about where I was going. Rumours were all I had to go by, but I was so committed to making this adventure so purely “by the seat of my pants”, it was almost as if fate decided to give me a few “pinches of good luck” to guide me on my way.

I was lucky enough to cross paths with yet another frenchman at one of the many views, and after a few awkward salutations, a conversation began. I was back in the familiar place of feeling like “young grasshopper” getting lessons from “sensei”, and I enjoyed every minute of it.

He told me many places “I should definitely see” on the Cabot Trail, going so far as to even educate me about the Bell Museum, or Meat Cove, and about how they used to push back the water with dams in order to have the rich seabed for potato crops. It was a lot of information to process, but I tried my best to remember, and then as if he’d had his satisfaction from the history lesson, mentioned that Inverness is a nice little town and probably the closest, bid me goodnight and drove off.

I loved that the flag pole had a horse on top, so I may have gotten a little carried away with pictures, but I think we can safely say at this point that this is “normal” behaviour.

(Besides, every angle of the lens catches the sunset in a different light.)