2,175 kilometres, four motels, two packages of black twizzlers and a porcupine. A road trip filled with the unexpected, and wow, has it been fun. We had fish and chips made with freshly caught turbot in a roadside local cafe situated between the mighty St. Lawrence river and a lake filled with grasses and driftwood. We also dined on half a supermarket sandwich, salsa, leftover carrots and an apple one evening sitting at a formica-topped kitchen table at a guest house where we slept in what felt like the host’s grown-up child’s bedroom - one double bed, two of us, two dogs, and a window that wouldn’t open.
But the home made breakfast the next morning was excellent!
La Gaspésie is a large area at the far east of the province of Québec. Remote, maritime and unknown. Which is why my friend wanted to go, and I jumped at the invitation to join her. We headed out last Monday morning, her two dogs keen and alert in the back seat of the car. A proper road trip. One (sunny) day we did a 15 km hike out and back to the lighthouse at Cap Gaspé where we sat on two red Muskoka chairs eating chips (aka crisps) and looked out at the endless water from the high (and unseen to us) chalk white cliffs. We saw so many minke whales, their backs glistening in the strong sunlight, common eiders, scoters, gulls, a ruffed grouse that acted like a chicken, running along the path in front of us in a panic and sending the dogs into tailspins of frenzy. Oh, and the porcupine.
I’ve never been up close and personal to a porcupine before. We noticed him (?) from a distance, ambling along our forest path, and wondered if it could be a small bear. My binoculars saved us from having to turn back, which we would have had to do if it had been. As it was, we couldn’t risk the dogs getting anywhere near it, so I went ahead to suss out the situation. Contrary to popular myth, they cannot throw their spines, nor do they move quickly, but their first line of defence is to thrash with the tail, which holds the most lethal prickles that once in the skin continue to work themselves in at a rate of an inch a day. In the wild, that means that the spine often ends up piercing a vital organ and death follows. For a domestic dog, it would be extreme discomfort, pain, confusion and a trip to the vet.
I had to shoo it off the path as it wasn’t dangerous to me unless I tried to hug it, but it was reluctant to leave the clear, softly-trodden trail. Eventually, though, it ambled into the undergrowth and out of sight so that we could pass, the dogs held tight on their leashes as they went wild with the smell.
Most of the past week has been mild, with temperatures reaching 20 degrees in the afternoon, but then dipping quickly as the sun dropped. It was 1 degree one morning, but the crisp dryness was fantastic and the sunrise an intense line of orange and red that stretched along the horizon. That morning we took the dogs down to the coast before breakfast; a walk that took us through a forest of small, dry evergreens, their branches hung with spanish moss, and out onto grasslands. We stood and looked across at Rocher Percé, a well-known sea arch near Bonaventure Island which itself is a conservation area home to 120,000 pairs of gannets. Below us on the rocks were dozens of seals, sunbathing in the fresh sunlight. Everything glistened.
We had lunch in the town of Percé, eating delicious fish soup and crèpes on the terrace of the Nath Café, the dogs at our feet, Mont Ste Anne at our backs. We climbed it after lunch. Of course. In fact, I noticed a number of hills, drumlins and mountains with crosses on their summits. For those who know me well, this is tantamount to a challenge, so I’ve kept note for future adventures.
In Kamouraska we had dinner at Grand’Ourse, a microbrewery cantine where Dori had poutine and I ate a duck guédille: classic but low-brow Quebec food. Does anyone outside of Canada know poutine? It is a simple dish of french fries covered with cheese curds and gravy, and sometimes added chicken or pork. It doesn’t appeal to me but I am in the minority. Poutine is also how the French spell Putin. As in Vladimir. And it makes me chuckle to see his name in French newspapers written as a truck stop food.
My guédille could be considered more gauche than poutine, as the word means snot in quebécoise. Probably a good thing I didn’t know that in advance, but what I was served was a bun, split in two and stuffed with a filling. I opted for duck given we were in hunting season, but more regularly it would be filled with lobster, crab or fish. In no way did it resemble its other meaning, and the fries were divine. As was the beer, of course. It was a microbrewery, after all.
At our motel here in Kamouraska we had a couple of provincial road workers in the next room. They spent hours cleaning their equipment and then set out a stove on the back of their truck and proceeded to fry up a feast of onions, peppers and potatoes, then grilled a massive steak (moose? elk?) on the other side. As we headed to our authentic Quebecois dinners (although realistically these two men were the real deal, and they weren’t having poutine) we apologised in advance for any barking from the dogs we were leaving behind. They laughed, and said nothing would bother them, they’d be heading to work at 3 am. Then they uncorked a bottle of red wine.
One evening we drove at speed towards a sand spit to catch the sunset. The sun drops fast, as does the temperature. By the time we were unloading the dogs and gathering our supplies, it was blowing a cold gale. We threw on all our extra layers, which weren’t quite enough, and sought out a distant spot that still boasted some sun. The dogs were keen and eventually we settled on a large piece of driftwood with our beers and a bag of chips (crisps). We watched the sun slip behind the mountains and the few clouds in the sky change to pinks and purples. We were determined to enjoy the moment but with the water at our feet being whipped up into choppy waves, the beer cans too cold to hold and the chips being blown out of our fingers, we fled back to the car. Relief. We flicked on the seat heaters and settled in to appreciate the last of the changing colours, beers still in hand.
Distances are vast and Canadians think nothing of getting up each morning and driving hundreds more kilometres each day. We did spend two nights at the same motel, though, and one with a Nordic spa. These are a thing in Quebec, and as I was keen to try one out, I thought our planning perfect. We envisioned floating in a sea of steaming bubbles after a long hike, resting our heads on our arms and gazing out at the ocean, the cool air a delightful contrast with our aching muscles being gently pummelled by hot water jets. Except that the spa only opened on weekends, so Friday morning was the only option. And who wants to spa at 8 am? It’s a reward after a day of strenuous hiking, not a post-breakfast bath.
Our only water experience, in fact, came towards the end of our 15 km hike to Cap Gaspé. We came out of a forested section, walked along a path beside a burbling stream and stepped onto a pebble beach. Steep cliffs loomed at each end and the Atlantic ocean gleamed in front of us. Almost without discussion we tied the dogs up and stripped off. We had to plunge, and didn’t much care if anyone unexpectedly appeared.
The water was crystal clear and salty. Of course it was salty, it’s the Atlantic ocean, but I’m not used to sea water in Canada with its plethora of lakes. It was quite cold but not bone-chilling. Not like the Thames in 2020 when Justine and I decided that a Christmas plunge would cure of us of covid. Nor did it have the numbing effect that I felt when I “swam” in 11 degree water in Newfoundland in late July a few years ago. No, this was just bracing, and took away the sweat from the long hike. We emerged victorious and rejuvenated, then wrestled our clothes back onto our damp bodies, glowing from the unplanned immersion. The sun was warm and we continued on our way, a great day just that much better.
Who knew that Rimouski was renowned for its sunsets? Unfortunately, we were heading straight into the blazing orb on the first leg of our trip back towards Montreal. Right in our eyes AND reflecting off the road surface. At times we had to slow to a crawl. But once it slipped below the horizon, the red glow kept intensifying as if our western trajectory allowed us to keep pace with the sun. When we finally pulled up to the motel by the lighthouse at Point au Père almost an hour later, the glow had only just diminished. Time felt elastic and ethereal.
So all in all, a successful road trip: lots of driving and hiking, stunning scenery and unexpected conversations in a mixture of French and English. I will definitely be back, perhaps in winter for some back country skiing.
Wow! Sounds amazing and beautiful and refreshing (the right word for a freezing naked swim?) and stunning and breathtaking and delicious (I've still got those two guys in my head with their bottle of red wine and their fire-food) : just what a writer needs to store away in her heart and in her head for future stories xo
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