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Exploring the Coast

The sunset at Petit Étang

By Jonathon Reed

May 27^th, 2017

A partner, Asad Chishti, and I are currently bicycling 15,000 km across Canada, from the east coast to the Arctic to the west coast. As a semi-professional adventure photographer, it hasn’t been as easy as I expected to get the kinds of wilderness-based photos that I like to shoot. There’s been no shortage of human stories to share, but rugged landscapes and wild adventures have been more rare.

That’s not to say they haven’t happened, or they won’t. Newfoundland had a few untamed spots, and northern Ontario, the Yukon and coastal British Columbia will all have their own silent expanses and physical challenges. But in my experience of cycle touring so far, I’m tethered to the highway, limited by my own endurance and loaded gear. It’s hard to immerse myself in nature from the edge of an asphalt shoulder, and hard to justify off-route wilderness-based excursions when we’ve got distance to make.

This all means that when I do get a chance to get off the highway, it’s more memorable than it might otherwise have been—which brings me to this story. Cape Breton’s Skyline Trail wasn’t really the most spectacular exposed height of land I’ve ever experienced; Chéticamp’s beaches weren’t really the most beautiful coastline I’ve walked. But from the edge of the highway to the uncompromising Atlantic Ocean, there was a wild, windswept beauty that pushed against my heart and lit up my eyes. That’s what I’m sharing.

— Jonathon

Cape Breton was wind.

Cape Breton Highlands National Park is made up of barren rock and boreal forest in the uplands, and deciduous Acadian forest in the glacier-carved valleys. There’s no road access to the inland plateau, so you’re never far from the ocean. As we road the Cabot Trail, waves rolled across the water and crashed against the shore. On top of the sensation of wind pressing against the layers of clothing on my torso was the ever-present sound of water hitting rock.

For locals, it was a mild day. The high-ceiling clouds and onshore gusts didn’t really compare to gales or winter storm fronts. But for me, Cape Breton was wind.

Perhaps for the lobster fishermen as well. Their small boats wheeled in the waves, circling small red buoys with lobster traps attached on the ocean floor below. Each skipper fought the wind and choppy water to stay as close as possible to their buoy and pull up each lobster cage one by one, gathering the lobster and deciding whether to move the traps to another part of the coast or leave them where they were.

The photos don’t have the smell of salt, or the cold intrusion of the wind pushing down my neck. The diving seabirds are too distant and the wheeling fishing boats are too still. So you’ll have to take my word for it. Cape Breton was wind.

We left the northeast section of Cape Breton Highlands National Park and headed to the Skyline Trail, which crosses a major headland in the southwest.

The trail meanders through boreal scrub and windswept fields before emerging on the exposed rock of the coast. The mountains met the ocean in a distant rumble of waves. The ocean disappeared into the grey haze of the horizon.

As we headed back into the forest, we came across a moose sitting amongst the spruce trees beside the trail. A few other tourists had stopped to watch and everyone sort of automatically switched to hushed voices, wind blowing through the trees becoming the loudest sound. It was a moment of quiet beauty and stillness, and my youthful heart rebelled against it. Having grown up with moose, my biggest feeling towards this solemn animal was just being thankful he wasn’t walking out onto a nighttime highway in front of my car. I caught Asad’s eye and mimed a rifle in my hands. Bang.

We left the trail as the afternoon started reaching towards twilight. We crossed a few groups headed out, but for the most part the trail was empty and the off-season parking lot was deserted. Our host Michel lived in Chéticamp and he called to say he had a lobster dinner coming our way, so we continued south.

Chéticamp is the first settlement outside of the national park.

The highway leaves the highlands behind, traverses the valley of Grande Falaise and the coastline of Presqu’Île and Pillar Rock, before crossing the Chéticamp River and entering the village. It’s an Acadian community that has carefully maintained its French culture through local traditions, generations of fishermen and a thriving youth arts program.

Through conversation with Michel I learned about the effects of climate change on coastal communities and the continuation of a rare Acadian festival, among other things. In each case, I had a moment in which I realized that I hadn’t even known what I didn’t know. I’m having that moment again as I write this story and stumble across research on the Great Expulsion of the mid-18th century.

This land has stories and histories that even after weeks on the road, we still haven’t uncovered.

When you don’t have a lot of time to spend in a specific place, you’re left with fleeting feelings. I felt a sense of history that was built into the Paroisse Saint-Pierre and the ocean-worn wharf. There was a sense of commitment visible in the hand-painted names on the fishing boats that had been handed down from father to son, boats named after each fisherman’s daughter. There was laughter and familiarity and intimacy. There was stalwart resilience in the face of the harsh weather of the Gulf of St. Lawrence.

Then Michel looked at the unrelenting wind rolling across the bay outside the window, and grinned. “Let’s go shoot the sunset.”

We headed to the harbour as the sun angled below the clouds. The white paint on the boats glowed golden and the ocean wind was even colder than it had been before. Seabirds rode the air currents and seaweed hugged the smooth stones below the breakwater. Gradually the sun disappeared behind the headland across the bay, and I shouted into the wind. Clouds stretched overhead, beginning to take on the sun’s glow.

Michel shouldered his cameras. “More sunset,” he called in his French accent, and jumped into his SUV.

The stretch of highway between the harbour and the cove where we stopped was an exciting one. To the west we could see the sun reappear, then steadily sink towards the ocean horizon. Michel, as avid a photographer as me, didn’t hold back on the accelerator. The wind raced beside us, daring us to miss it.

When we stopped, I fairly jumped out of the vehicle, laughing at the energy the skies gave me. Michel stood a few feet away, adjusting his cameras, his jacket whipping in the air. “Quick!” I half-joked, then headed towards the water.

I took a couple shots on my 35mm lens on the bluff before the sun disappeared, then as the clouds streaked towards the west and gathered all the colours of the ocean-held afterglow, I switched to the 14mm wide-angle and joined the waves on the beach. The salt water foamed and the heaviest waves sent me running backwards to avoid getting my feet wet, laughing and throwing up wet pebbles behind me. The ocean, which had been a deep blue grey throughout the cool, windy day, turned into something completely new. It was all the colours of the molten sky, mixed with the translucent waves and white-purple of the surf.

The one thing that every sunrise and sunset has in common is that they don’t stay for long. It felt like just minutes before I could tell that the colours were fading into blue. For every panorama I shot, for every wave that rolled onto shore, it was like I could feel the earth spinning away from the sun and towards the night. The day of grey sky had concluded in a breathtaking whirlwind of orange and pink and purple, but it had concluded nonetheless. Night was on its way.

Back in town, I talked on the phone with my sister and friends in Ontario as the sky faded, hugging myself in the wind while listening to the familiar voices of home. “I’m watching the sky fade on the coast of Cape Breton,” I told them, “I sent the sunset your way.”

That’s where I’m ending this small collection of stories.

Like I said, as wilderness adventures go, cycling across Canada hasn’t been the most rugged or spectacular. But Cape Breton was a special time and a special place. I won’t forget the wind of the coast, or the cameras against Michel’s chest. It will live on in the taste of lobster and the Acadian lilt of Michel and Lucille’s laughter, in the photos of sunlit waves and a short diversion from the asphalt highway that I’m currently calling home. ❖

Footnotes

Cape Breton is located within the traditional territory of the Mi’kmaq and the Wabanaki Confederacy. Written on the road as part of a 15,000 km cycle expedition across Canada. Visit jonathonreed.me/adventure/atrf for more stories from this project.

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