3rd corner – Madawaska, Maine – 8,468 miles later

July 4, 2011 Houlton, Maine

“I am always doing that which I can not do, in order that I may learn how to do it.”    Pablo Picasso

On Saturday, July 2, I headed north from Battle Creek, Michigan.  A couple of hundred miles later, the temperature dropped 20 degrees, as I rode up and over the Mackinaw Bridge; back in the trees, the temperature went back up, only to drop again at the Sault Ste. Marie Bridge.  When I crossed the border into Canada, I may have looked like a grown up, even like a grandmother, but I felt like a scared kid.  I’m not sure why I was so daunted by this next leg of the trip, but I was. Going through Customs was straightforward with no problems, until I got about 100 yards down the road, made a wrong turn and got lost.  (Reminder – my GPS got wet in Oregon, and the film on the screen peeled off, making a difficult-to-read screen all but impossible to read; and then I’m hard of hearing, wear ear plugs, and don’t have an audio system in my full-face helmet. So basically the GPS just bongs at me and sometimes I can see which way the arrow is pointing.)  Anyway, 100 yards in was the beginning of my lessons in Canada – they don’t do road signs like we do.  The signs are smaller, and there are fewer of them.  After a big loop, I was heading East on Hwy 17 and feeling slightly less stressed.  The ride across Ontario was OK but it struck me as more routine, less awe-inspiring than much of what I’d enjoyed in the States.  All the speed limit signs read in kilometers, but that wasn’t an issue because my speedometer shows both.  After a bit, I stopped for breakfast at a Tim Horton’s  – a large Canadian chain that’s a cross between Starbucks and Krispy Kreme.  The about-my-age woman behind the counter was a grouch in any language, so grumpy as to be a funny reminder to be careful in my post-menopausal approach to life.   The coffee was good, and then it was time to get back on the bike.  After 469 miles and passing a couple of motels with “No Vacancy” signs, I stopped at a KOA in Renfrew, Ontario, for what proved to be one of my favorite experiences on this trip.  The campground was about a mile down a dirt road sprinkled with gravel, but I was gaining confidence in the Wing’s ability to handle like a dirt bike.  Then, of course, the campground was packed!  Seems July 2 is Canada Day (how little I know!!) but the campground hostess went out of her way to help me, and I was soon parked on a grassy spot behind the cabins, as “overflow.”   She explained how close I would be to the band, now warming up, and the fireworks.  I set up my tent and walked over to the pavilion where the crowd was gathering.  The band was good and played old rock & roll tunes; most people danced – toddlers, teenagers, parents, and even grandparents.  It was fun watching how relaxed everyone was.  I talked to a couple with whom I shared a picnic table; they had a number of suggestions for my travels.  Then the band paused and the fireworks began – it was an amazing display by any measure (better than many cities stateside), but certainly since we were out in the woods, at a campground, and a long way from anywhere.  If you are anywhere near the Renfrew, Ontario KOA for Canada Day, do yourself a favor and stop in.   When the fireworks finally ended, the band began again.  I commented to my new Canadian friends at the picnic table, “This sure beats staying in a motel!”  They laughed, and then got up to dance again.

I was up early on Sunday and on the road by 7:30AM.  Soon Hwy 17 went from two to four-lanes, and I was making good time.  I rode thru Ottawa, managed to stay on the right roads for the tunnel that goes under the St. Lawrence River, and then continued east on Hwy 20.   I was still having some trouble with the Canadian signs and got very nervous in Levis because I thought I was being sent north to Quebec (not on my route!), but that also worked out and I just kept riding east.   Once I crossed into the province of Quebec, the signs that had been bi-lingual now only spoke French – even the important ones that warned of who-knows-what or told of detours.  I also couldn’t communicate with the credit card readers or gas pumps – everything was in French.  I only used my credit card and handed it to a cashier; there was no way I could compute the exchange rate!  And of course, I wasn’t doing well with the liters-to-gallon thing; I think I was paying about $4.70 a gallon for gas, but I’m not sure.   I met a couple, each on a BMW; she was riding the bike I’ve lusted after for some time, the F650 GS (it has an 800 cc engine but for some reason they still call it a 650).  Anyway, she let me sit on it, we talked for awhile, they cautioned me against exceeding 70 MPH, and they dashed away, much faster than their warning to me.  At my next gas stop, I met a couple, each on Harley’s – again a warm exchange between strangers.  They were planning on about 800 miles that day, heading to New Brunswick.  Later I stopped at a Wal-Mart to get something for supper  (I thought I might need to stop for the night where there were no restaurants, and I had finally eaten my whole jar of peanut butter).  When I came out there was a man walking around my bike; he went from the windshield to check the tag on the rear.  I walked up, and we spoke.  I see myself as something of a Johnny Appleseed on two wheels, so I explained my 4 Corners 4 Kids and because he was interested I gave him a card.  Then he asked to take my picture!!  That doesn’t happen every day.  I rode off with another smile, another good memory.

Sometimes I figure out that something is not a good idea by trying it.  I decided to ride back across the border before I stopped for the night because … I couldn’t communicate with the road signs or credit card readers; I didn’t have cell phone service; I didn’t have a clue what the clerk said when she asked if I wanted a bag; and when I stopped the mosquitoes tried to eat me alive.  Plus that couple on Harleys were riding 800 miles.  So I kept riding and turned south at Riviere du Loup, passing several reasonable places to stop for the night.  Then a light rain began – not enough to stop for rain gear but enough to slowly get me wet over the next hour, at which point the mist turned to rain.  By then I was too wet for rain gear, plus I was getting nervous because the light was fading, and there were lots of signs for French-speaking elk.  It was an orange sign with the outline of an elk and the word, “risqué;”  I figured it was not a joke about indecent elk but I wasn’t sure.    On July 4, 2009, I hit a deer in the Rockies and totaled my FJR 1300; so the idea of seeing, much less hitting an elk, indecent or otherwise, consumed much of my energy.  But I still acted like a horse on her way to the barn – I was determined to cross back to the States before I stopped for the night.  Finally I made it to Edmundston where the signs to the border were non-existent, but a helpful couple pointed the way across the bridge (with grates, of course).  Stateside, at last.  But the Border Patrol thought I looked suspicious, I guess.  I would have agreed with my looking weird or tired, but not as a threat to our national security.  Any way, I got invited to pull my bike to the back (under a cover, out of the rain) where a second officer asked lots of questions.  They seemed uncomfortable with the “ gypsyjudge.com” on my windshield, in spite of my explanation; they asked how many nights I’d been in Canada and I told them by mistake what I’d planned (two) rather than what I’d done (one).   I think they thought that was too far for someone as suspicious as me to ride so quickly; I think I agree. The officer pointed at the wet piles of camping gear on the bike but didn’t ask to go through it.  After some time, they let me go, with recommendations of a motel – which, of course, had no vacancies.  Four miles further down the now totally dark road, and 548 miles from the KOA in Renfrew, I stopped at a $50/night + tax motel; I still had no cell phone service.  And by then I was stupid-tired – not a good thing when balancing a 900+ lb couch on two wheels, in elk-dom.

I got up this morning – Monday, July 4, 2011 – & rode to the post office in Madawaska, Maine for a photo op of my 3^rd corner, 8,468 miles from my start point in Pensacola, Fl.   When I pulled up, a car quickly stopped and the lady asked if I wanted her to take my picture.  They are accustomed to us 4 corner people here, plus Madawaska is a small, friendly place.  She took the picture for me – see my photobucket link , http://s1141.photobucket.com/albums/n595/gypsyjudge/ – we talked, I handed her my postcard, she gave me a big hug and rode off.  I sat on my bike, grinning (there’s a line in a song,  “Please, celebrate me home.”  And that’s just what she, a total stranger, had done.)  Then a second car pulled up, and a couple got out, “Do you want us to take your picture?”   We talked, I gave them my card, they suggested stops to make, and then they drove off.  I didn’t get this response in Blaine or San Ysidro, but I didn’t need it then.

Too tired to function last night, I realized I’d ridden nine consecutive days, covering 3,611 miles (averaging just over 400 miles a day), without a break.  And that’s too much for me.  So this morning, I headed south but only 101 miles to Houlton, Maine – as far south as I go if I head east to New Brunswick and Nova Scotia.  On Hwy 1 south from Madawaska, I passed lots of signs for English-speaking elk; about an hour on the road, while being hyper-vigilant, I saw an elk standing maybe 30 feet off the opposite side of the road.  Not what I wanted to see!!

I stopped at the Welcome Center in Houlton, where they hand out literature describing the dangers of hitting an elk – this is something of the elk-strike capital.  The brochure says to not drive around an elk standing in the road; you’re suppose to stay inside your car and hope that it lumbers away, as opposed to charges your car. They forgot to tell you what to do if you’re on a motorcycle.  I checked into a motel early; I have cell phone service and Internet.  Though there were lots of interesting choices, I chose to do nothing for the rest of the day.  Tomorrow, assuming my energy level is up and the thunderstorm we’ve enjoyed the last several hours passes on, I’ll head over to Fundy National Park in New Brunswick because that’s a place my mother often spoke of. I don’t think she ever got to see it.  And I may continue on to Nova Scotia.  The loop to Nova Scotia adds about 1,300 miles to my trip; to Fundy, about 300.  If I were to head straight to Key West and then back to Pensacola (and we know “straight” is not going to happen), it would be 2,830 miles.  Tonight, my spirit of adventure is still tired, so I’ll wait ‘til tomorrow to make plans.