Montreal is a magnificent city set on an island in the middle of the St. Lawrence River. I love it, and if you can’t afford to go to Europe, go to Montreal. Hell, go to Montreal anyway! In addition to a delightfully French experience complete with superior architecture, fabulous markets, a cool foreign language, and superb cuisine, Montreal will capture your heart forever. Furthermore, it sports one of the largest cemeteries in North America, Notre Dame Des Neiges. It’s so damned beautiful you may also desire to leave your entire body in Montreal for all eternity. Reserve now!
That’s my 1st cousin Ariel on the right. Two of my father’s sisters married Frenchmen, so I have a load of wonderful French 1st cousins, most of whom live in France. Ariel moved from France to Montreal a few years ago and now enjoys the combined benefits of a civilized French lifestyle, except it’s in North America. A most powerful combination!
Once you leave Montreal’s magical island, heading eastbound, you enter into an unexceptional landscape. Boring suburbs followed by a plains-like agricultural region, and finally, a heavily forested area on lowish hills that sit like a heavy green beard on an unfortunate face. That goes on until you cross the border and slide into Vermont, at Derby Line.
My welcome back to the USA was less than hospitable because the goofballs in the Louisiana DMV do not categorically differentiate license plate numbers between motorcycles, cars, or trucks. So, you might be in a truck, legally and correctly registered in your name, but sporting the plate number of a stolen car. When you enter the USA, every license plate is scanned, and run through a computer. Harvey the Harley had his plate scanned and sure enough some enterprising individual in Louisiana had stolen a car with exactly the same numbers. I spent an hour cooling my heels while Inspector Lewis, (who had a sense of humor), tried out his Northern English on the great minds in the Baton Rough, Louisiana DMV.
Once in Vermont, the scenery instantly changes to a front page of Yankee magazine, bucolic beauty that reminded me why I might return to New England. Gliding down Route 5, I passed through several quintessentially New England villages before arriving in Saint Johnsbury, Vermont, locally known as St. “J”. It reminds me a bit of Whitefish, Montana. outdoorsy, pretty, there’s great skiing, beautiful mountains, and four seasons.
I then hit the slab (Rte 93) for a few more miles before arriving in Littleton, New Hampshire, the scene of many delightful crimes of my youth. All of these eye- popping vistas, green mountains, pretty farms, streams, and villages, sang the same song to me… Yankee, Come Home!
Lunch at the Littleton Diner, and fuel for Harvey, energized us for our trip on route 302 to Jackson, New Hampshire, home to dear friends, Greg, and Chris Laffey.
This is their bed…Moose fever! Need I say more about Greg and Chris? I love them!
After a most pleasant day with the Laffey’s, it was off to Saint George, New Brunswick, with a night spent in Bangor, Maine. Bangor has come a very long way in the past 20+ years and is now a desirable location in which to live. Its economic history was all about logging, but these days it’s all about tourism, and light industry. The photo of me was taken on the porch of The Muddy Rudder restaurant in Brewer, Maine. (I highly recommend the haddock chowder). Behind me is Bangor, which is just across the Penobscot River.
Brewer, has always been Bangor’s poor stepsister. But brewer has one amenity that sets it way apart from anywhere else. Just a few miles down Route 9, the road to Calais, Maine, (and Saint George, New Brunswick), you will find The Eagles Nest Restaurant, home of the Best Yankee Food in New England. Fried haddock? There’s none better! It’s the Doe’s of the Northeast. I just couldn’t stop ordering! Yes, that is my food on the table; I must have been expecting a date to arrive. As you can see, some of the locals appear to be repeat customers.
The ride over Route 9 to Calais has changed over the years from a rough logging road to a well-paved yet still sometimes dangerous highway that provides any biker with all the thrills they want, including the sudden appearance of large wildlife. My fastest ride over Route 9 was done on a BMW K bike, a few years back; a lot of 90 mph. But Harvey and I chilled out at 75 and took in the scenery, albeit ya have to pay close attention or your ass will wind up in the woods. Hence no photos save this one, which gives you some idea of the beauty of Maine’s wilderness. As for no other photos, well, all you have to do is envision a very curvy 90 mile stretch of two-lane road with lots of hills that cuts through a dense wilderness. Voila! Route 9.
About 20 miles from Calais, I turned right on Route 192 and cut down toward Machias, through some of Maine’s best wild blueberry fields. At Machias, I turned north onto Route 1, the old primary north/south road. Goddamnit, I couldn’t make it outta freekin’ Machias without a stop at one of my favorite Restaurants, The Bluebird Ranch Family Restaurant, for a bowl of wicked good lobstah stew, and a fresh piece of wild blueberry pie. After lunch, I hit the road for Eastport. Why I don’t weight 800 pounds is totally beyond me.
Down East Maine at its best…the Machias River…and the Congo Church in East Machias.
Though on my way to Saint George, to visit friends, Eastport, the easternmost city in the USA, and a once very affluent town, (the money came from fish and lumber and is reflected in the quality of it’s once grand homes), was the real goal. I figured that going from Seattle, in the extreme Northwest, to Eastport, in the extreme Northeast, would make for a pleasant motorcycle journey. And by God, it did! I started with a ferryboat ride across the waters of Puget Sound, and ended with my arrival in Eastport, where I stuck my right index finger into the Passamaquoddy Bay, right there in that inlet to the left, to complete the Journey.
I’ve always had a fantasy about living in Eastport where I think 50% of the population is in the Federal Witness Protection Program, because Eastport is a good place to write. The gentleman in the photo, propped up against his 1947 Dodge “woodie” bus, (his summer ride), is Jim Blanton, a major piece of work. Jim is a years long acquaintance from whom I used to buy smoked fish, until some governmental idiot shut him down for not complying with a ridiculous regulation. Since then, Jim has gone on to other things, like making what appeared to be high end surfboards with fancy wheels to ride down the hilly streets of this small town, beers and shouts of glee required. Most recently he completed a casket for a well deserving, albeit now ex client.
The ferry from Eastport goes to Deer Island, New Brunswick. Uh Oh, more bureaucratic annoyance, this time at a Podunk border crossing. I made the mistake of speaking French to the Border Guard. I mean, hey, he said Bon Jour! But an American speaking French? Warning! I was directed to the Guard Shack where one of the border guards went through my entire kit, and the other ran a background check! After determining that I was bomb free and no threat to humanity I was waved on to my destination with great flourish!
Deer Island is wicked old timey, and a feast for the eyes. The biggest industry these days, aside from lobstering, is salmon farming. (Ever eat Duck Trap Smoked Salmon? This is where it comes from). The salmon farms have brought an element of real affluence to a few folks in the area, but it hasn’t done much to change Deer Island’s natural beauty. I might want to spend a summer on Deer Island some day…but I’d prefer to do so with a friend, one with boobies.
On the other side of Deer Island is the ferry to Saint George. It is a soulful voyage through a bay and channels, with islands passing by in unspoiled serenity. The natural beauty of this 20 minute ride provides a lifetime of daydreams.
I accidentally came to know Saint George in 1990 while on a motorcycle ride from Cape Cod to Prince Edward Island, with my wife Dorinda. We stayed at a B&B in Saint George run by a retired headmaster, Dan Gillmor, and his wife Pat. Well, we got rained in and spent a few delightful days with them, and the friendship has never stopped. While I was in St. George, Dan, who is now 85, his son Daniel, (left), and my fine self, went to a spectacular breakfast at the St. George Presbyterian Kirk hall. The parishioners claim that the Church building has been in continuous use as a place of worship longer than any other chantry in North America! This may be an obscure claim to fame, but it is vastly superior to that made by the townspeople of Greensburg, Kansas, who braggadociosly claimed to be home of the Worlds Largest Hand Dug Well!
That’s the famous tag team wrestlers, Charlie, (l) and Don (r). Both life-long residents of St. George.
After Saint George, save the perfunctory stolen vehicle check at the Calais, Maine Border crossing, I rode non-stop to Cape Elizabeth, Maine, where I’ve been hiding out with a friend for the past week and sifting through a few thoughts.
A few comments about the ride…while certainly not complete, and my personal ruminations staying that way for now, off the top of my head I came away from this trip with a renewed love of The United States of America, and its wonderful citizens. We hear and see tons of news generated by the east and west coasts, and big cities in between, much of it not good. But there is an America out there filled with wonderful people and beautiful scenery that would make any country on earth very proud. There were times when riding down deserted western highways that the picturesque visions were so exquisite that I couldn’t stop myself from singing America, The Beautiful. I recall one instance quite vividly, the joy of it all made me instinctively slam fifth at 75 and lay on Harvey, hard, making me feel the full power of limitless freedom surrounded by boundless beauty. And there were other times after meeting straight forward, down to earth, funny, kind, and smart, American brothers and sisters, that I was so very deeply touched by their wonderful humanity. What a country!
A mention about Harvey The Harley, my 2009, 96 cubic inch, fuel injected, Harley-Davidson Road King: No better beast lives with four hoves. From atop 12,000 foot mountains, down into the valleys, roaring across burning hot mid-western plains, gliding along roads in the eastern green mountains, through big city traffic jams, and over roads that scared the living hell outta me, not a burp, not a peep…he was all pure grunt, and mechanical loyalty. What a great bike!
After 7,730 miles, my left hip finally said “No More”! So, I’ve parked Harvey, made an appointment with a first rate orthopedic surgeon, rented a car, and tomorrow I leave for Prince Edward Island, Canada. There, I shall visit a recently widowed 86 year old retired family farmer who is like a second father to me, and one of the scant few hero’s I’ve ever had. I worked on his farm for ten summers of my youth and consider the experience to be one of the greatest honors of my life.
I give thanks to God for a safe trip, to Patti Faulder for covering my business, and to The Harley-Davidson Motor Company for building one hell of a bike.
More from P.E.I. later.
XO
Middie
