Should you find yourself rationalizing something, that something is likely wrong.
I don’t need to be blown away; I would do it all over again just to admire the wildflowers.
By the time we left the parking lot at Point Wolf in Fundy National Park, weighted-down but eager, my line, “what backpack?” had already stuck!
I was blown away each time we completed a dodgy descent, built ideally for goats; each time the trees parted to reveal heart-breaking river valley to ocean, after heart-breaking river valley to ocean.
Azore was the second beach but the first gnarly descent. To earn this hot sandbar, tidal-river-crossing two had to prove successful. The first was Goose River, successful with boots-on, danger minimal. Boring. But, we got to have a sandwich there, and I’m really into that.
Rose Brook was crossed in flip flops. One of Laura’s “slippers” (Hawaiian for flip flop- I spent some time on the Big Island), a sacred purchase from an ABC convenience store somewhere in Waikiki, was taken by the current. Luckily I was wearing thick hideous sports sandals and I have the energy of an 8 year old- I was able to sprint for it before the Bay of Fundy held it hostage!
On this hike, tidal crossings are grand reassurance that you’ve timed it right; water can be a devastating hold-up. The great mother will roll her eyes at your schedule restrictions and supply scarcity.
If I raise my eyebrows hard enough to stretch the skin on my face, and exhale through my mouth, typically I can prevent myself from crying. This strategy was exercised repeatedly in wide open spaces where I abbreviated my emotions and said “wow” over, and over.
This was especially useful on Azore beach. It had geology all its own; the rocks purple severed with white veins, a purple so wild, so vibrant, it looked fabricated. The tides startled the cliffs to form an iconic “U”-shaped coastline- a watermark in the sand you can count on when you arrive at any beach on the Fundy shore. The view of Martin Head, sometimes an island, sometimes a peninsula, was our false summit: near but far. We basked here, staring deeply into the panoramic.
The first campsite was lackluster, but redeemed by the sound of waterfalls. After a half-bath in the freezing waterfall, a change of clothes felt amazing- camp clothes are one of my favorite parts of such trips. It felt rather primal to hand pump our water in deep squat. We only camped two nights, but the ritual of getting ready for supper, making a fire, doing the dishes in open air, tent up, tent down, quickly became our full-time job.
There is no hashtag for “Work less, buy less, make less money, but make enough money to buy a good backpack, stop taking short cuts to make your life easier, easy is empty, we are just paying interest on debt when there is a world out there, what--- are we doing?” So we’ve settled for #getoutside.
But what does tagging #getoutside do?
Like the cliffs, my heart crumbled, destabilized, eroded, day 2. This was what I was hoping for. This was my token of the trail. It was so bleeding beautiful out there. Surrounded by moss, Mike suggested this part of the trail very well could have been mocked off-of, copied, thieved-from, deer paths. Some of the Fundy Footpath could be wagon route, deer route, rabbit route, all Scotch-taped together and vaguely marked but deeply treasured by volunteers. One beach in particular was littered with rusted horseshoes and wreckage of old bridges and docks. Ghosts of Blacksmiths who pounded, horses who overcame, whispers of trades made, suffering had. It was obvious to me that we were walking with ghosts. And as we walked closer to Martin Head, I tried to calculate, tried to map the scattered dots I had previously bike-toured to or road-tripped in the area surrounding the trail: “Wait. So- there’s nothing between St. Martins and Alma?”
There’s kind of nothing between St. Martins and Alma. Mike muttered something about Mechanic Settlement; we talked about the dirt access roads and different trail heads as the hum of ATVs radiated through the pines.
This place, for this long, alluded pavement and all things that come with it.
The Fundy Trail Parkway. The Fundy Trail Parkway. I understand, I embrace and acknowledge that anywhere beautiful I’ve been, I’ve arrived by road. I’ve driven to hike, I’ve flown to bike. I get it.
Building a road where there has never been a road, only foot travel, only severe climbs and drops that you have to take an interest in, so that families can see it, so that we can make a buck, so that we can make it easy, is that right? We (Mike, Jeff, Laura and I) kept saying “oh, well, they’ll never have access to this beach at least. Too remote. Too challenging to get a trail or the unseasoned hiker in here. Whewf. At least this part won’t be affected.”
You can rationalize it. More facilities, more garbage cans, better maps, multi-use trails. Rationalize, rationalize, rationalize. Are those good enough reasons to pave something that forever, was only walked by deer and the quiet curious? It is ok to manipulate what is rare?
Should you find yourself rationalizing something, that something is likely wrong.
This was all fine, I thought, because my long-term plan is to get rich, buy and chunk of New Brunswick and protect it, guard it from harm. Take back the province, if you will. Hoard it a little, but maybe share part for mountain biking trails.
Mountain biking, I’ve been telling Mike since we met that I’ve been avoiding mountain biking my whole life, because I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know what I’ve been putting off, what I have been stalling, stunting. Now that I know, not only do these thin lines we call single track take me to strange, remote slopes, they show me all of the ways I don’t- contribute, fail to contribute. Mountain biking is brain floss for your perception of a landscape, a map, a region.
As we walked the Foot Path, we tried to stay in it, but the future swayed into the conversation. It was Saturday. On Monday morning, (long weekend), there was a trail day in Minto.
It wasn’t a question, Sunday we finished the Foot Path, slept in a bed in a house, and set the alarm to make it to trail day in Minto, where I immediately connected with Tanya. In an hour or 2 I got her full timeline and she got mine, all over deciding which branch to cut. After 3 days of not-talking a whole lot, she let me talk about what really mattered to me, listened closely as I described my solo bike tour across BC. As we compared notes on bike touring (she biked across Canada!) and our preferences for doing it the hard way, there was a heart agreement that easy is empty. One adventure truly catapulted her to the next; there is little dead air or stale bread in the way she’s chosen to use her time. Build it and move on. Like a damn trail. By hand.
By hand, by hand. That’s how it’s done. Deep, uninterrupted love and care for the trail. You don’t always know why you’re in love with something until you stop and listen to all of the instruments separately and all at once. On the Footpath, the grade looks impossible, and then there you are, doing what the trees always have. Clinging to what’s there and making it work. In Minto, in a few hours there were stories shared within the carving of the trail that will linger in the dust and mean something different to everyone who rides it; everyone contributes to a trail's philosophy and shape. The maintenance is the prayer. The trail is the church. Caring for something that doesn't belong to you is the answer.
And, to the horror of all of my creative writing friends, I’ll end on someone else’s words. My girl, Amelia Meath (Sylvan Esso):
“Never stop starting.”