Having toured the shores of the Bay of Fundy, learning about local maritime history and discovering tidal bores and million-year-old fossils, we now set about exploring Acadia National Park.

Day 22: Winter Harbor, Maine

We break camp on the Schoodic Peninsula and head for Bar Harbor. Along the way we stop at the Mount Desert Narrows on the Taunton River near Hancock, Maine to view a tidal fall.

Similar to the tidal bores we saw in Nova Scotia, a tidal fall occurs when the rising ocean tide moves upriver and meets what is normally a low waterfall in the freshwater river. This rather rare confluence of fresh and salt water, rocky ridges and ledges constrict the flow, and the water “piles up,” in some places actually engulfing and reversing the falls. Eventually the tide turns, and the natural river flow resumes out toward the Gulf of Maine again.

We continue on into Bar Harbor, our old van turning a few heads as we mingle with the Mercedes and BMWs, then continue south on Highway 3 to the ocean side of Mount Desert Island. We choose a site at Blackwoods Campground, drop our camp chairs to claim our spot, then drive north on the park loop road to Cadillac Summit Road.

As the name implies, this narrow, twisty road wends its way up the flanks of Cadillac Mountain, climbing about 1200 feet in only 3.5 miles. Our 1.9-liter diesel employs each and every one of its 64 horsepower to push our overloaded yellow brick up the grade, and we stop only a couple of times to take in the increasingly heady views. Finally, we crest the final rise in the road and arrive at the summit of Cadillac Mountain.

I let the van idle a few minutes to dissipate excess heat from the climb, then we jump out and explore the trails threading the crown of the mountain.

About the time the fossils we saw at the nearby Bay of Fundy were being formed, this area of Maine was undergoing major volcanic transformations. Volcanoes occasionally collapsed, revealing the hellish molten interiors of their magma chambers, and Cadillac Mountain is the remaining edge of one such disintegrated volcanic cone.

We find the raw granite surfaces of the mountain gouged and scarred in a distinct north-south pattern, evidence of a series of enormous continental glaciers which later scoured this landscape. The mile-thick glaciers tore off the remaining mountaintops and ground their surfaces clean of nearly all loose boulders and soil, leaving only the smooth rounded bare surfaces we see today.

Far below, the harbor is sprinkled with small boats and cruise ships, and the namesake ‘bar’ is clearly visible at low tide.

On a clear day one can see Nova Scotia to the east, and Mount Katahdin, Maine’s highest mountain, to the north, both over a hundred miles away. In fact, at over 1500 feet (466 meters), Cadillac Mountain is the tallest peak within 25 miles of the east coast of North America between Cape Breton Island and Mexico.

We coast back down the summit road and drive into Bar Harbor for an early dinner of lobster and steak on the waterfront. After a few such meals while here on the east coast, I’m beginning to feel like a bit of an old hand, and I set about happily dismantling the delicious crustacean like a seagull working over a crab.

We stroll the wharf for awhile to stretch our legs and walk off our meal, then drive to Jordan Pond House for dessert.

This historic restaurant first began serving tea & popovers on the lawn overlooking nearby Jordan Pond in the 1890s, and it’s been a tradition ever since. With a cool afternoon wind whipping in between the Bubble Mountains and ruffling the surface of Jordan Pond, we’re happy to sit indoors near the fireplace while enjoying the warm pastries made from local berries, and hot tea.

Returning to Blackwoods Campground we find a group of boisterous Boy Scouts has made camp behind us, and who are apparently earning their merit badges for Whooping Loudly While Whacking Trees with Sticks.

Just as well, as the late September evening has grown even cooler, so we settle into the cozy Westy for the evening.

Day 23: Bar Harbor, Maine

We set out this morning for a day of windshield touring.

We find Acadia unlike almost any other National Park we’ve ever visited. Most American national parks were still wild and wooly places when their natural beauty was recognized and they were first set aside as Parks. But the 100-square-mile (280 km2) Mount Desert Island has a long history of early fishing and shipbuilding settlement by Europeans.

In the mid-1800’s the Island began drawing ‘rusticators:’ painters, poets, writers, and other bohemian types who came from the cities each summer and paid local villagers for simple room and board in their back rooms and sheds.

Later, the place was discovered by wealthy eastern families like the Fords, Carnegies, Vanderbilts, and Rockefellers, who built extravagant three-story granite ‘country cottages’ with high sweeping gables, wrap-around verandas, and turrets overlooking the Atlantic.

Eventually, the Great Depression put a damper on much of this ostentatiousness and many of these Gilded Age elites began packing up their fancy pants. The rest were driven out in 1947 by a devastating fire that burned nearly half of the eastern side of Mount Desert Island, consuming modest villages and sumptuous estates alike.

Already in 1919, President Woodrow Wilson had signed into existence Lafayette National Park, as it was first called. It was the first national park east of the Mississippi River, and the name was changed to Acadia National Park in 1929. Former resident John D. Rockefeller Jr. very generously donated much of the land of the modern-day Park, as well as the labor and materials for the winding carriage roads and seventeen beautiful stone bridges.

Because of this long and varied history of settlement, Acadia today remains a patchwork of wild public parkland and private developed estates.

We park the van and stroll down to a quiet cove to enjoy the warm sunlight, but several tour buses soon arrive and deposit hundreds of tourists from the visiting cruise ships. Most appear a little lost here, and many are dressed as though they were expecting a cocktail party, with tweed jackets, pleated skirts, and gold broaches. Some wear four-inch high heels.

To a place called Sand Beach.

ELLSWORTH AMERICAN FILE PHOTO

We drive down the shore a bit to Thunder Hole, an inlet carved by the ocean into the rocky cliffs. When the waves kick up here, the sign says, air and water are forced into the cavern and then back out, spouting 30-40 feet high and making the namesake ‘thunderous’ roar.

During Hurricane Bill in 2009, Thunder Hole endured several hours of sustained swells of 12-15 feet, and crowds gathered to watch the power of Mother Nature. When a much larger wave struck, it swept seven people off the platform and into the water, drowning one.

Today, however, the place is not thundering at all but only gurgling and softly clearing its throat, evidently due to a falling tide, calm wind conditions, or perhaps a malfunctioning pump.

We continue touring the southern shore of the island, through Seal Harbor, Northeast Harbor, and up around Somes Sound. This part of the island and Park is noticeably less developed and more rural than the Bar Harbor area, and we understand why it’s often referred to by locals as “The Quiet Side” of the island.

In Southwest Harbor we stop at the Cafe Drydock & Inn. While we enjoy a fine lunch near the front windows, I catch British accents from a young family seated at a nearby table.

“Hey look,” says Father to the children, pointing outside to our beflowered Westy parked across the street, “it’s the Scooby-Mobile!”

Lorie and I hop into the Mystery Machine and resume our drive of the island. A turn down a side road to see another random lighthouse turns out to be ‘the’ lighthouse of Acadia National Park: Bass Harbor Head Lighthouse.

This iconic light, featured on countless postcards, key chains, and novelty socks, was built in 1876 to mark the entrance to Bass Harbor and Blue Hill Bay, at the extreme southern point of Mount Desert Island. The lighthouse itself is on private property but a short hike down some steep wooden stairs offers a pretty dramatic view in a beautiful setting.

We continue our drive around the western shore of Mount Desert Island, then cut across the middle and return to camp at Blackwoods Campground.

Day 24: Bar Harbor, Maine

Our last full day in Acadia National Park, we sleep in late today, then motor into Northeast Harbor for breakfast. Lorie orders the spicy chili omelette, while I take what may be my first and last opportunity for a lobster omelette.

We drive to a nearby seaside park to soak up the warm morning sun and to wade around in the pools left behind by the falling tide.

The Northeast Atlantic offers some of the most lively tidepools I’ve seen, and they are distinctly different from those seen in the Pacific Northwest. Slowly stepping from one exposed granite boulder to the next, I carefully explore this intertidal ecosystem draped in vibrant green and red seaweeds.

I find clusters of snail eggs attached to rocks, mussels with open shells, some kind of sea worms covered with tiny scales, slow-moving starfish, even the occasional shy crab. I find myself lost in the world of these adaptive but delicate creatures who spend half of each day exposed to the air and sunlight and the other half completely submerged in this natural aquarium left between the rocks.

Lorie finally calls me from my marine reverie and we drive back up to Northeast Harbor for a scenic nature cruise. Our tour boat chugs out of the harbor and onto the ocean behind the protection of a smattering of islands.

We glide below the white Bear Island Lighthouse, gleaming in the afternoon light, then south to see what might possibly be the world’s largest osprey nest, slightly more spacious than my first apartment. The boat turns east through waters scattered with thousands of small buoys, almost close enough to step from one to the next. Each buoy is painted a unique combination of color and stripes or bands, indicating the owner of the lobster trap to which it is anchored. We circle around a few smaller islands, their shores lined with large harbor seals basking in the sun.

Our tour is led by a local naturalist and former school teacher, who maintains an engaging ongoing narration of the sights and sounds of this place, pointing out hidden features and creatures as we motor along.

We soon arrive at Little Cranberry Island, where the boat deposits us at the tiny fishing village of Isleford. Lorie and I enjoy our packed lunches on the lawn at the foot of the wharf, then stroll up to the Islesford Historical Museum, full of intriguing exhibits about the life of the multi-generational lobster fishing families who have lived and worked here since 1927.

We return to the pier and watch the bustle and clatter as the workers unload lobsters from the incoming boats. Then we shove off and head back to the mainland, where we cruise up into the Somes Sound. This long bay runs deep into Mount Desert Island, almost splitting the island in two, with tall vertical cliffs rising right out of the water. The Sound is often referred to as the only fjord on the East Coast.

Back at the dock, we jump in the Vanagon and return to Bar Harbor where Lorie has arranged a surprise for me; this is our last evening of this month-long road trip and tomorrow we will turn westward for home. After a quick dinner in a local ale house she leads me around the corner and down the street to the Criterion Theater.

Perplexed, I glance up at the overhead marquee to see the name of one of my favorite authors and producers, who is speaking here tonight.

If you don’t yet know him, you almost certainly know much of his work.

Dayton Duncan, often working with longtime collaborator Ken Burns, has written and produced some of the best award-winning American historical documentaries, usually airing on PBS. The Civil War, Baseball, Mark Twain, The West, and more.

His stories are of special interest to those who love the outdoors and epic travels. Horatio’s Drive follows Horatio Jackson in his Winton auto-car, with his friend Sewall Crocker and a bulldog named Bud, on the first cross-country automobile journey in the US, in 1903.

And Lewis & Clark: The Journey of the Corps of Discovery, is a four-hour documentary of what might have been America’s Ultimate Road Trip.

But perhaps my favorite Dayton Duncan work is not a film but a tattered paperback I often carry tucked away in one of the Westy’s cabinets: Out West: A Journey through Lewis and Clark’s America. In 1984, Duncan and his family set out in their own Volkswagen camper van to retrace the steps of Lewis and Clark’s epic adventure through the American West, and it is a fascinating read.

We go inside and claim our tickets, then take our seats in the third row. Other audience members file in and I note that they are about evenly divided between rumpled hikers and campers, and well-to-do Mount Desert Islanders out for an evening away from their gated estates.

The house lights soon dim, the host takes the podium for a few words, then introduces the featured speaker. Immediately behind me, I hear someone clear his throat, rise to stand, and Dayton Duncan makes his way to the stage. Turns out the renowned producer had been seated directly behind me …

Duncan is an eminently skilled writer and an equally eloquent speaker. He offers a brief history of the National Park system and the cultural significance of it in American society, then circles in on Acadia National Park, which is celebrating its centennial this year.

He then introduces a special cut of The National Parks: America’s Best Idea, which describes the fascinating history and larger-than-life characters who struggled to first establish the parks, then devotes several minutes to Acadia National Park. While the vivid images and inspiring narration of the twenty-minute documentary roll on the screen, Duncan sits behind me again. I catch the occasional whispered comment between him and his wife, about the day they shot this scene or that one, or an amusing historical footnote, and it’s like getting a special-edition producer’s cut of the film.

Afterwards, Duncan elaborates on the cultural significance of the Park system in American society. He passionately makes the argument that the inherent birthright of all citizens to visit and partake of these sacred lands and places rivals nearly any other freedom outlined in our Bill of Rights. The parks, he says, are woven into the very fabric of our democracy, yet like any fabric, if not cared for they can be unraveled.

Little do we know that just six months from now, our President’s budget proposal for the coming fiscal year will seek to trim $1.5 billion from the budget of the Interior Department, which includes the Park Service.

“The National Park idea says it doesn’t matter if your parents came over on the Mayflower or your parents just arrived. Each one of you is the owner of some of the best seafront property this nation has … You own awesome views of stunning mountains and breathtaking canyons. They belong to you. And all that is required in return is that you put it in your will for your children so that they can have it too.”

As Duncan speaks, Lorie and I reflect on all our own visits to our National Parks, usually in the Westy, and we realize that the parks are perhaps the one truly eternal element in the fleeting impermanence of our lives.

Tomorrow we will awaken on our final morning in Acadia, we will turn the Vanagon’s wheels to the west, and we will sail homeward across this great continent.

But there are many more National Parks yet to be seen, and the journey never ends …

Day 8: St. Peter’s, Nova Scotia

A fresh sea breeze drifts in from the bay while we enjoy breakfast in camp.

We pack up the Vanagon and drive the inland route along the shores of Bras d’Or Lake nearly to Sydney, then turn south to Louisbourg.

In 1713, a fortress and fortified seaport was built here in the harbour by the French military. To guide ships and fishing boats into the safety of the harbour, a lighthouse was built across the bay in 1734. From this rocky peninsula we enjoy a commanding view of the harbour entrance, laced with treacherous shoals and rocks.

We motor to the fort visitors center, filled with engaging and informative exhibits. But this place really comes alive when the shuttle bus traces the shores of the harbour and deposits us at the gates of the fortress town.

Once a thriving community, this French settlement was captured, destroyed, and abandoned by the British between 1758 and 1768, and languished for two centuries. But in the 1960’s and 70’s, Canada embarked upon a colossal assessment, archeology, and reconstruction of the old town site. Historians, architects, and engineers directed local displaced coal miners to employ 18th-century masonry techniques to rebuild dozens of the original buildings on their locations, in some cases using the very same stones.

Today, we stroll these old streets on a warm and sunny afternoon, immersed in what was once a bustling, remote New World seaside village. We purchase a small loaf of bread from a lovely blond living-history baker girl, and walk the grounds while munching the hard, dark Old World bread which must surely contain a week’s worth of dietary fiber.

From the wharf to the tavern to the Kings Bastion and parade grounds, one can easily get lost in this sprawling open-air museum of over fifty buildings covering 12 acres. Indeed, we are surprised to learn that only about one-quarter of the original town site has been reconstructed, and the majority remains buried beneath layers of soil and centuries of time …

The shuttle bus carries us back to the 21st century, and the VW bus soon carries us to a seaside diner offering fresh seafood. This has been high on my to-do list since our departure from the upper Midwest, and now that we’re here it seems the perfect time to partake of an authentic Atlantic lobster lunch.

We take a table on the outdoor deck overlooking the harbour and the nearby commercial fishing fleet pier, and we place our orders. While we enjoy cold beers before our meal, we chat with a couple of fellow travelers at the next table from New Hampshire. Soon my lobster arrives.

I love a good surf-n-turf combo, and even we in the heartland are quite acquainted with lobster tail. But here is the whole crimson beast. He is perched almost upright on the plate, gazing upward at me rather disconcertingly, his claws awkwardly embracing a small sauce cup as if to say, “Here, I’m delicious with drawn butter. Enjoy my tender flesh!”

Off to one side are arrayed various accoutrements unfamiliar to me, and everything is set out and arranged with all the ritualistic complexity of the Chanoyu Japanese tea ceremony. There is a plastic bib and a plethora of napkins. There is a small wicker basket, presumably for fragments of exoskeleton? There is a set of tiny forks and some sort of cracking implement resembling an Irwin curved jaw locking pliers one might use to remove a rusted nut on a Vanagon clutch slave cylinder.

I struggle with my bib in the sea breeze like George W. Bush with his rain poncho at the Trump inauguration. One of our new friends at the next table helps tie it on, and wishes me well in my first full-on lobster endeavour.

I begin by tentatively turning over the charming crustacean and am puzzled when I discover a small puddle of a mysterious brown-green goo beneath him. Is this some sort of complementary sauce or garnish, or an indication of bacterial infection, or merely a harmless prank played on an unsuspecting Midwestern tourist?

I ignore this for the moment and set about extricating the engaging arthropod from his shell. I find more of the green melange inside and begin picking around it, but I remain perplexed.

“Well,” inquires one of our new friends at the next table, “how’s your lobster?”

“How should I know?” I reply, “I’m from Wisconsin, about as far from an ocean as you can get.”

In the end, I enjoy my meal immensely, and only later do I learn that the strange secretion is known as ‘tomalley.’ You can learn more about it here, and decide for yourself whether I was wise to dine around it.

We clamber back into the Westfalia and continue north a few kilometres to Main-à-Dieu, the most easterly community in Nova Scotia. There’s another small task on my to-do list, so I steer the van onto the cobble beach and down a concrete boat ramp. Lorie jumps out—whether for safety or to take photos, I do not know—and while a half dozen amused commercial fishermen watch from a nearby pier, I roll forward a couple of feet into the ocean until the seawater laps around the hubcaps.

In the last two years since removing this van from a prolonged storage and installing a new engine and rebuilt transmission, replacing the entire cooling system and half the brake system, plus countless other tasks large and small, this Vanagon has dipped its wheels first in the Pacific and now the Atlantic Ocean.

And before we return home from this trip, it will have been doused in the spray of Niagara Falls.

I savor the moment, and the countless hours of effort and the thousands of miles from one edge of the continent to the other, which has brought us here. Then, much to the disappointment of the fishermen, we back out of the water and head up the highway.

We drive the coast roads to Glace Bay and then to North Sydney, where a wrong turn nearly puts us aboard the gigantic evening ferry to Newfoundland, and what might have been an intriguing $400, 16-hour detour.

We finally roll into a small private campground at Big Bras d’Or.

Day 9: Big Bras d’Or, Nova Scotia

Under overcast skies we motor around the shores of St. Anns Harbour and join the Cabot Trail.

Named for the Venetian navigator whose 1497 visit to the North American coast is often believed to have been the first European exploration of the mainland of North America since the Vikings, the auto route now encircles most of Cape Breton Island. Generally hugging the coast for much of the route, the 300 kilometre (190 mile) Trail offers spectacular ocean views, and traverses the steep hills of Cape Breton Island.

As so often, I have opted to drive the Trail in a counterclockwise fashion, in order to afford Lorie the best views and photo opportunities from the Vanagon’s passenger seat.

We head up along the southeastern shore of the island, puttering our way up the first long steep climb to Cape Smokey. Though cloudy today, the lookout here offers commanding views of the high and dramatic cliffs falling down into the sea, and reminds us of the rugged western shore of Ireland.

We pass through a succession of small fishing villages and finally enter the Cape Breton Highlands National Park.

The first in Canada’s Maritimes, the national park encompasses over a quarter-million acres of perhaps the most dramatically scenic portion of the island, with broad high plateaus which drop off steeply into deep river cuts or the surrounding Atlantic Ocean or Gulf of St. Lawrence.

We stop for lunch at the Coastal Restaurant in Ingonish. Lorie spies poutine on the menu, the renowned Canadian specialty made of French Fries (or sometimes cheese curds) topped with a light brown gravy. We’ve already munched on the poutine-flavoured chips while driving, but here’s our chance to try the real thing. She asks our server if it’s good.

“Well,” he considers for a moment, “it’s probably not good for you. But it is good.”

After consuming the entire plate with our sandwiches, we can agree on both counts.

When we leave we find two couples lingering near the Westfalia in the parking lot. Turns out they’re traveling in a 90’s VW EuroVan Westfalia parked nearby and a large pickup camper, and are from our neighboring state of Minnesota. We chat and swap stories and suggestions from the region, and finally bid farewell.

The next 20 miles (or, as they say up here in Canada, 32 kilometres) is the most beautiful coastal driving we’ve enjoyed so far, the smooth curving highway tracing the dramatic rocky shore northward.

Down a side road we find the Hide Away Campground and Oyster Market, and take a camp site perched on a high bluff overlooking North Harbour near Dingwall. After dinner we take a couple of cold bottles of beer across the way and watch the clouds play around the heights of Cape North.

Day 10: Dingwall, Nova Scotia

We wake to a cold and blustery morning, and enjoy a hot breakfast in the Westfalia before heading out and continuing north.

At the small village of Cape North we stop to visit the North Highlands Community Museum.

Though small, the museum boasts excellent historical exhibits on the human inhabitants of Cape Breton, from the first aboriginal settlements through the arrival of Europeans, to those who live here today. In our brief visit here, we take in more culture about Cape Breton’s fishing families, lighthouses, shipwrecks, farms, and mines than we’ve learned anywhere else on this trip, and we go away with a richer understanding of the people who live in this remote, beautiful, and sometimes harsh place.

The skies begin to clear as we drive a winding gravel road, the northernmost road on the island, until it peters out at Meat Cove. Rare in this place of rugged terrain and steep cliffs, Meat Cove Campground is a flat and broad expanse of grass perched above the crashing waves. We choose a campsite and pop the Westfalia top, then stroll up to the chowder hut to enjoy fish-and-chips at the outdoor tables.

Gazing along the mountainous and jagged north coast of the island, to Black Point, Cape North, and the distant St. Paul’s Island, I cannot recall another meal in such a picturesque setting …

It seems this somewhat remote spot attracts a rather hardy and varied traveller: we share the rustic campground with an older couple from Ontario sleeping in the back of their pickup, college kids in rental cars, retirees in sleek Sprinter RVs, and a couple of seasoned Germans touring on a pair of mud-spattered vintage BMW R100 motorcycles. There are even a couple of other Westfalias camped near the cliff edge.

Day 11: Meat Cove, Nova Scotia

I rise at 5:45 a.m. to witness one of the earliest sunrises on the North American mainland each day. A few other campers are up too, sipping coffee and gazing around blearily, and a quiet excitement pervades our little campground as the eastern sky lightens and the sun finally breaks the horizon with an almost audible flourish …

Lorie and I quickly break camp and motor back out to the pavement of the Cabot Trail, continuing our circle tour of the island.

This stretch of highway from Cape North to Pleasant Bay traverses the most rugged and mountainous part of Cape Breton Island, tracing the Aspy River up a picturesque gorge formed by a deep tectonic fault. It is days like this that we appreciate the broad vistas and visibility offered by the wide Vanagon windshield.

We descend the Highlands and rejoin the rugged shore, and when we pause at a roadside scenic overlook we again meet the Minnesota folks in the Eurovan. Like us, they’ve been quite keen for a whale-watching boat tour. One woman tells us that when she called a tour operator in nearby Cheticamp she was told that no reservations were needed. But when they all showed up at the dock for their tour, they were informed that the boat was full and there was no room for them.

To add to her disappointment, today—and the next several days in fact—high winds and waves have indefinitely cancelled all whale-watching tours …

When we arrive in Cheticamp, Lorie shops in a small grocery store to replenish our victuals. I sit in the Vanagon with the windows down to enjoy a harbour breeze and to peruse our maps. As other customers come and go in the parking lot, I catch snippets of a foreign tongue which I soon identify as Acadian French. To my ears, their neighborly greetings and friendly chatter sound more melodic than the French we heard in Quebec, and evoke memories of our visits to their distant cousins’ Cajun country of New Orleans, Louisiana.

Highway 19 plays tag with the coastline, sometimes closely skirting the shore and sometimes traversing deep in the woods, and we soon enter a region settled largely by Scottish immigrants. The landscape is reminiscent of that green and moist country; indeed, the name Nova Scotia means New Scotland.

We stop at the much-extolled Glenora Distillery for a tour and perhaps some gifts for friends at home, but we are surprised to find their prices … um, unbecoming a thrifty Scot. On the day of our visit it seems their gift store is out of stock of their more affordable whiskies, and offers only their top-shelf limited-edition specialty bottlings. I ogle the amber ambrosia, but for the same cost as I usually enjoy a bottle of authentic single-malt Scotch whisky (ya know, made in Scotland), here one can barely purchase an imprinted polo shirt …

I have no doubt my cat-sitter would be suitably impressed by a $350 bottle of the esteemed single-malt but we move on, pausing only long enough for a photo of the Vanagon beneath the distillery’s entry archway, which garners us glares from the driver of a passing Mercedes.

As we proceed southward to complete our circumnavigation of Cape Breton Island, I helpfully announce our arrival in each new town in my best Sean Connery brogue:

“Dunvegan.”

“Strathlorne.”

“Craigmore!”

“Crrreig-nish!”

Lorie only rolls her eyes and turns the stereo louder.

We motor across the causeway and turn east, hugging the twisting coastal road to Fox Island, and find a quiet site in an RV park overlooking Chedabucto Bay. The lights of Port Hawkesbury twinkle across the Straits of Canso.

Day 12: Fox Island, Nova Scotia

We drive southwest along the Marine Drive through a series of tiny fishing villages: Port Felix, Charlos Cove, Larry’s River, Seal Harbour, and others.

Contrary to the name, the Marine Drive does not in fact trace the sea coast. Due to the very rugged and rocky nature of this region, the road instead follows a winding route several kilometres inland, only periodically emerging from the dense forest and cutover scrubland to a bay or a river mouth, with a sleepy fishing village now in long decline due to big-haul industrial fishing.

To make matters worse, the condition of the pavement is possibly some of the worst we’ve seen so far (except perhaps for the aforementioned Montreal expressways). Rough, rutted, broken—even the vast stretches of compound potholes are only patched with slightly shallower potholes …

With roads like these one wonders how these small remote communities even came to be, until one realizes that the villages probably sprang up long before there were roads. They were instead for a long time connected only by the fishing boats and the ships plying the coast, carrying people and freight from village to village. Only later were these roads carved out from the rough granite landscape.

The road improves only when it finally ends—and I do mean “ends”—at the landing for the Country Harbour ferry. We trundle aboard for the one-kilometre crossing, the deck man chatting with us about old VWs, commercial fishing, and informing us that the ten-minute ferry ride saves us over an hour of driving the inland route.

The pavement which awaits us on the south shore of the harbour is indeed much better: new, smooth, and making for proper driving on an enjoyable and scenic route. We stop at Beanie’s Bistro in Sherbrooke for fantastic paninis (and free Wi-Fi), then refill the diesel and drive to a campground at Murphy Cove.

My first Canadian threesome

In addition to the typical tidy RV park, Murphy’s Camping also offers several secluded tent sites, and we select one tucked away at the back end of the short loop, completely unoccupied on the day of our visit.

After a frustrating day on bad roads, guided by a recalcitrant and unreliable GPS unit, hunched over the Vanagon steering wheel intently dodging cavernous potholes, well … Papa needs a beer.

Maybe three.

Later, after dinner we enjoy a crackling campfire while the moon drifts in and out of the scattered clouds, glittering on the calm Atlantic waters of the cove just below our campsite …

Day 13: Murphy Cove, Nova Scotia

Considering yesterday’s hectic driving experience, we decide to forego our planned drive along the twisty and reportedly quite scenic southern Lighthouse Coast today, and instead opt for a simpler and more direct route. On wide smooth motorways we swoop along at speeds which seem positively hypersonic, from Tangier through metropolitan Halifax and beyond.

In Bridgewater we stop for lunch, and take a sunny table on the back deck overlooking the namesake river at the River Pub.

At a nearby table we overhear several other diners discussing the upcoming 2016 US presidential election south of the border. They’ve no doubt heard the reports of some disconcerted Americans planning to seek political asylum in Canada should things go sideways.

“Before they come up here they should know what they’re getting themselves into,” one of them declares. “Those Americans should have to spend the winter on Cape Breton Island. Whoever survives until Spring is welcome to stay!”

Everyone has a good laugh, including us, though we may not be chuckling on November 9.

Back in the Vanagon, we cruise up and over the southern peninsula, through Kejimkujik National Park, and finally descend into Digby, Nova Scotia.

It’s near dinner time, so we stroll the front street overlooking the bay in search of a good restaurant. There’s a general family-style diner, a pizza joint, and the House of Wong, offering something called Canadian-Chinese food.

“That’s just Wong …” Lorie declares.

Digby is of course famous for its scallop fishing fleet, so we finally select a seafood restaurant and enjoy a sampler platter of fresh clams, shrimp, scallops, and other delicacies from the Bay of Fundy.

Afterwards, we take a nice room at the Admiral Digby Inn and enjoy drinks on the balcony overlooking the Annapolis Basin.

Day 14: Digby, Nova Scotia

After an early breakfast, we jump in the Vanagon and drive southwest along the narrow peninsula of Digby Neck separating St. Marys Bay from the Bay of Fundy. When we run out of road we board the East Ferry and cross to Long Island, then drive its length to Freeport. Another ferry carries us across to Brier Island.

Rolling off the ramps and onto this island of islands, way out here at land’s end, we feel as though we’ve entered another place and time. The island is home to only about 200 inhabitants, most working in the commercial fishing industry. At less than 15 square kilometres, virtually surrounded by the sea and often shrouded in fog, it can be a confining place, and at least one young lad who grew up here longed to see more of the world.

A lot more.

Joshua Slocum lived on Brier Island, working in his father’s shop making shoes and boots for local fishermen. But in 1860 at age sixteen, Joshua ran away from home to work on a variety of ships. He sailed to Europe, South America, Asia, and more, rounding Cape Horn twice before age eighteen. Slocum exhibited a knack for sailing and soon took command of a succession of large sail ships, enjoying a life of adventure at sea.

But at age 51, his wanderlust still unsatisfied, he set out from Boston on the first solo journey around the world, in a rebuilt eleven-meter sloop oyster sailboat, the Spray.

“I had resolved on a voyage around the world, and as the wind on the morning of April 24, 1895 was fair … the sloop shot ahead under full sail. … A thrilling pulse beat high in me. My step was light on deck in the crisp air. I felt there could be no turning back, and that I was engaging in an adventure the meaning of which I thoroughly understood.”

Spoiler Alert: he made it.

Having solo-sailed a distance of more than 74,000 km (46,000 miles) in just over three years, he sailed the Spray into the harbour at Newport, Rhode Island. He chronicled his adventures in a memoir, Sailing Alone Around the World, about which one reviewer raved, “Boys who do not like this book ought to be drowned at once.”

After paying our respects at the modest memorial to Slocum and his epic voyage, we drive out to the Brier Island Lighthouse. The westernmost lighthouse in all of Nova Scotia, the light is perched on a raw and rocky ledge with a commanding view of the Bay of Fundy. Adjacent to the lighthouse grounds is a 1200-acre reserve managed by the Nature Conservancy, with trails threading the bogs and wetlands that are havens for migrating birds.

We return to the tiny village of Westport and board a boat for a whale-watching tour with Brier Island Whale Watch. We motor through the Grand Passage and out onto the open Bay, cruising west for several kilometres.

The engaging onboard naturalists provide helpful background information on the marine life of the Bay of Fundy, and tell us that a portion of all profits from the boat tours goes to support further whale research.

Soon someone shouts, “There she blows,” and we all turn to see the telltale spout of an exhaling whale, the lingering vapor silhouetted against the afternoon sun. The boat veers sharply and carefully approaches the pod of marine mammals, then slows to a crawl.

Another humpback breaks the surface nearby and spouts, almost immediately followed by a smaller whale beside her, who exhales a baby-sized spout. The crowd goes wild.

During the warmer months these waters are inhabited by hundreds of female humpbacks escorting their yearling calves. They have been living and grazing here all summer, feeding on the abundant krill, squid, herring, pollock and mackerel found in the Bay of Fundy, growing fat and fit for their upcoming journey to the Gulf of Mexico, where they will spend the winter.

Over the next couple of hours we see perhaps 12 or 15 adult whales, many with their offspring, all just cruising about, rolling and splashing with their flippers and generally reveling in these final days of summer.

The boat chugs along the western side of the island and we now get a view of the Brier Island Lighthouse from the water. Lounging on the rocks at the south entrance to the Grand Passage are hundreds of seals, while bald eagles watch from above.

As the sun sets and the tide turns, we motor back into the inner harbour and ease up against the pier.

Lorie and I drive the Vanagon onto the returning ferry, then race the length of Long Island to catch the next ferry on the half-hour. But in my rush I miss the final turn and go rocketing up into what soon narrows to a private roadway. Realizing my mistake, I quickly stop and turn around, only to see the ferry raising its boarding ramps and shoving off.

At least we’ll be the first in line for the next ferry …

We finally make it back to Digby, where we enjoy a Recardo’s Pizza as a full moon rises over Digby Harbour.

Check out Week Three of this road trip, when we tour the shores of the Bay of Fundy, learn about local maritime history, discover tidal bores and million-year-old fossils, and spend an afternoon kayaking on Fundy!