Tag Archives: national park

A long weekend in the Maritimes

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Last 4th of July weekend, I went up to Vermont to ride the Cross-Vermont Trail, a 100-mile stretch of linked trails traversing the middle of the state. So, when looking at the calendar and the way the holiday fell in the week, it made sense to do another bike trip this year.

Work schedules have been madness, and so a few days prior to the blocked time off, there was no real plan… except to go North. Canada. We decided to wing it: spend a couple of days in Prince Edward Island (mussels, lighthouses, no idea what else) and then a couple days in Nova Scotia (ditto: no idea what to expect, except that I’d been there about 30 years ago and I remember the crazy tides in the Bay of Fundy). A couple of years ago I went up to Maine over 4th of July to see puffins… so I put in an order for sea parrots as well. You know, just in case.

With a Plan partially-baked, we set off. 6am departure and half a gazillion hours later, we arrive at our destination: a very sweet historic guest house in Charlottetown. I’ll admit that my expectations were lowering by the block as we drove there through strip malls and industrial areas that could have literally been anywhere else. But patience prevailed and the box stores and faceless motels gave way to tree-lined streets and lovely brick architecture in the historic downtown area.

We were zonked and starving, but found an Irish pub (we’ll come back to the Irish in a bit) and ate very respectable mussels and pub food and listened to some very respectable live music before crashing entirely. I’ll gloss over the part where we got back to the guest house and the key didn’t fit and we had to call the guy and get a new key. It was late but hard to be annoyed because the rumors are true: Canadians are really nice. Even when they screw up and you’re completely shattered and it’s lightly raining and midnight and all you want to do is go to bed.

Enter, bikes.

Even though clouds threatened the next morning, we set out to do a 30-mile loop in the PEI National Park. It turned out to be a really nice ride on gravel roads and jetties through the Robinsons Island section, and on the road for the rest. Lighthouses, check. Thriving dunes and red sandstone cliffs and pink-tinged beaches: also, check! The rain held off and we explored the rest of the national park by car and foot. A flat-calm Atlantic Ocean washed the fragments of work worries out to sea.

That evening we set out to wander the cobbled Charlottetown streets in search of dinner. An aside: I’ve recently adopted a new dog who is so different from my old one in many ways. One thing is that while walking, he will stop dead in his tracks to dramatically sniff the air in hopes of being magnetically guided towards wafting scents of backyard BBQ. I share this because, as we navigated down Great George Street looking for dinner, we walked past a waft of something good. So good, in fact, that as we arrived at the restaurant we were heading to, we stopped dead in our tracks, sniffed the air and were magnetically guided away from that and towards the spices emanating from Punjabi Bites, a local Indian joint. I have eaten a LOT of Indian food here and abroad (including in India), and so when I told the waitress at the end of the meal that it would be worth coming back to PEI just for their food I was not at all kidding. It was really some of the best Indian food I’ve ever had.

Bridge (droichead), not ferry.

The finger-like islands of the Canadian Maritime provinces are connected by a series of bridges and ferries. We decided to take the scenic route and drive across from PEI to Nova Scotia. There are plenty of French influences up here, but what I didn’t know or expect was the Scottish and Irish heritage still lingering as a result of descendants of refugees from the Irish Potato Famine. So as we made our way towards Cape Breton Island, at the top of the province, it was odd to see the road signs begin to change from French to (of all things) Gaelic subtitles. In addition to the First Nation place names and signage that abounds in the region, Gaelic is also widely spoken in these parts.

The Puffins, who thankfully don’t really care which dialect you speak as long as there is enough herring available, played not a small role in the destination choice (grateful for the Internet: a puffin boat trip magically booked from the car!). That and the Cabot Trail. Which I had no idea even existed just a few days earlier.

We rolled into the town of Baddeck (pronounced ‘buh-deck’) in time to drop off stuff at the inn, wander briefly, then get back into the car to traverse the bridges and windy roads flanking Big Bras d’Or, the ginormous lake or inland sea that feels like part Maine, part Vermont; the woods and sea and hills playing alternate roles in rolling out their finest scenery for all to share.

On-board the little birdwatching boat from Bird Island Boat Tours, Captain Ian put on a vaudeville-esque show while the puffins, eagles and other seabirds darted around us. It was nice to be out on the water, taking photos of these cartoonish cuties. I felt silly and light and very, very grateful to be right there as I was furiously chasing birds through my viewfinder.

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The skies opened up in the morning, dashing any thoughts of a nice bike ride. Instead, we headed up the Cabot Trail, so named for the Italian explorer Giovanni Caboto (John Cabot), who sailed the ocean blue in 1497 and (re)discovered Newfoundland and Cape Breton Island. He may or may not have been friends with or inspired by a certain other Genoese sailor who claims to have discovered America a little farther south 5 years earlier. And even more unclear is whether this Cabot has familial ties to the Boston Brahmin Cabots for whom the main street in my town is named.

The Cabot Trail is a stunning roadway that circumnavigates the uppermost portion of Cape Breton Island, wending its way along the coast and around the densely wooded forest in the middle, home (apparently) to moose-a-plenty and Cape Breton Highlands National Park. The (apparent) moose did not appear, so I’ll have my moose-radar tuned on high next month when I’m up in Northern Maine. Stay tuned.

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That first day on the Cabot Trail we began on the East side and went counter-clockwise, ducking in to hike a few of the little loops along the road, including the Franey loop (its stunning views might have been even more-so with clearer skies), a stop at a genuine general store for gas (replete with a 1950s-era pump attached to a large tank!), and a glimpse of the Lone Shieling, a replica of a Scottish shepherd’s hut along a path that also hosts a stand of 350-year-old sugar maples. Rain or non, the landscape was magnificent.

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When in, erm, Ireland (?), you go to a local pub to hear local music. Or something. So there is a section along the coast called Chéticamp, which is Acadian, Mi’kmaq, and a little Scottish. It’s a peculiar little enclave that looks like part fishing village and part sea-level summer camp. There are about 6 restaurants, a couple ice cream shops, and a string of seaside motels catering to summertime fun. It was about 8:30 and as the sleepy village was about to shut down, we grabbed a table at the local Irish-ish bar and stayed for the band. Fish and chips: fab; Band: well, meh!

The rain persisted, so our last day was spent doing The Cabot Trail the other way around: a surreal walk on the foggy, spooky Skyline Trail, fog-dodging along the road as we drove along the coast, and a visit to a quaint whale interpretive center in Pleasant Bay, plus kilometres upon kilometres of ridiculous views as the fog came and went. The Cabot Trail is nearly 300 kilometres long, each twist and turn of the road holds something to discover.

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Back in Baddeck, the last plan before the long slog home in the morning was to attend a local cèilidh (pronounced Kaylee), a traditional Gaelic musical gathering. What wholesome fun it was to spend a couple of hours after a really nice local seafood dinner listening to amazing local musicians play guitar and fiddle, tell stories, and share tea and biscuits with the audience.

Maybe next trip we’ll order a better forecast, but all in all, I think we crammed as much as possible into these few days up north. I’m sure there are moose up there… somewhere!

Print shop coupon alert!

I have puffin prints available and will soon have more cards up on my photography shop!

Use code TGM15-1 for 15% off your purchase of puffin prints and more.

Madagascar marvels part III: What’s this tsingy?

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After 10 days of sun and salt and sharks and palms, I did the Malagasy version of planes, trains and automobiles (pirogue and taxi and speedboat and 4×4), meeting up with a local guide and driver to see the national parks in the north of the country. On that first day, I had a bit of shell-shock with a 10 hour drive on terrible, not-quite-paved roads, from the port of Ankify to area near Joffreville. En route, I am sure I inhaled half a kilo of red clay dust, had a pit stop in one of the most unusual outdoor toilets I’ve ever experienced, and fully realised the value of a sea breeze as we drove towards dry season in the interior (hint: 39C feels quite different inland v the coast!).

I spent the hours in the car with a traveller’s guilt: the conflicting feelings of being privileged in affording this kind of trip while simultaneously observing straggly stick homes with no running water, outhouses, skinny zebu, over-farmed land; but also thriving local markets, self-sufficient small villages, and wide beaming smiles on everyone I encountered. I consider how complicated life back home is in comparison.

On this first day, a “travel day”, the saving grace was a quick stop for a nature thingy, a tsingy called Tsingy Rouge. You leave the main highway and wend through a maze of sand and clay-dirt roads to reach it, diggers and roadwork vehicles everywhere. They’re digging and paving in the name of modern infrastructure. As I watched the small rustic villages go by through my window, I considered whether modernization is really worth it. Water, yes. Sanitation facilities, of course. But the chaos these new roads will bring, and the tourism… can the ecosystems sustain the influx?

Tsingy was a new term for me. In Malagasy, it means “the place where one cannot walk barefoot.” As I was to learn, so named for good reason.

Tsingy Rouge is Madagascar’s miniature Grand Canyon. It’s a red (rouge) geologic marvel, formed of eroded laterite and looks like some prehistoric giant played sand castles and then got bored half-way through. It reminded me of a cross between a model of Bryce Canyon and a salt mine, out in the open even though it looks like the bottom of a cave. This place looks like it should be underwater – and it probably was, a million or so years ago – the formations were carved by the rivière Irodo.

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At the time, I was road weary and dusty from the drive, but the short walk down into the tsingy and then the sight of some gray-headed lovebirds nesting in the red clay helped me reset. At the lodge that night, I chalked (clayed?) the day off to what it was, and delighted in the thought that tomorrow we’d be hiking through Parc National Montagne D’Ambre, Amber Mountain, and the hunt for chameleons would begin in earnest.

Zoom in on this map to see the different places I visited during the trip.

A slight detour about the climate of Madagascar. As the 4th largest island on this planet, Madagascar is simply enormous. So the country encompasses rainforest through savannah, with a dry season (of which we were at the end) and a rainy season. From zebu to man-on-the-street, it seemed like everyone was looking forward to the rains! In a recent article, The Guardian highlights that these inconceivable temperatures are a clear result of climate change. Entering Amber Mountain was like travelling through different worlds. On the one hand, it was hot and humid, and as we got into the forest the air turned almost sweet. On the other hand, it was so dry that the riverbeds were completely dried up and one of the waterfalls we were to see, there was not enough water for it to actually fall. I was thankful for the lush forest canopy to provide shade.

We hiked to the Cascade Sacrée (Sacred Waterfall) and the Mille Arbres (Path of a Thousand Trees) trail, all the while feeling ensconced in a terrarium separate from the hot and humid outside world.

Montagne D’Ambre feels like its own bioverse, with endemic birds, lemurs and chameleons found specifically in this reserve. It was very cool to actually find some of these critters, including the Amber Mountain rock thrush, the Amber Mountain chameleon, and the very adorable and teeny Mount D’Ambre leaf chameleon (note how small he is on my hand!). While not exclusive to Amber Mountain, the endangered Sandford’s brown lemurs were an amazing find, as was the very weird and master of camouflage leaf-tailed gecko (can you spot it in the last photo in this slideshow?).

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Possibly the highlight of the day came as we were exiting the park and really more focused on lunch than seeing any more critters, since the day was already full of such wonderful sightings. As we were driving down the main reserve road, we spotted a beautiful little pygmy kingfisher perched on a branch where he gave us a fantastic view of his bright plumage.

Of all the wildlife experiences on this trip, I think this one wins for the most unexpected sighting. The grin and sheer joy on my guide’s face at the sighting was absolutely priceless.

And, no, I didn’t get a photo of that.

This concludes our tour of Parc National de la Montagne D’Ambre. Stay tuned for Part IV including the most horrible thing in Madagascar and why you need shoes. In other words, next up is hiking in the tsingys of Ankarana.

Balkan Doživljaj Part V: In which I battle a crowd for lunch and (travel to) Split

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I had sworn to not go back to Old Town, especially now knowing that there are literally two boatloads more people in town than there were a week ago. But… There’s a food festival in Old Town, says my host. And I’ll drive you there on my scooter. My boat doesn’t leave until 4. I’ve already booked my ferry ticket. I can’t refuse.

We zip our way through traffic from Port Gruž to Old Town (this is the way to get around here, I think, as I become a little wistful about my own former scooter) and he locals me through the crowded Pile Gate, bypassing all the tourists as if we’ve got the golden ticket. We do, sort of, because living in a place like this earns you a right to skip past massive tour groups. We wander around the Old Town for a little while as he tells me about the war, his thoughts on immigrants (we disagree), his thoughts on the US’s president (we agree, mostly), and general tidbits about Dubrovnik. Then he explains the lay of the land for the food thing: there are tables set up on which the local restaurants and hotels lay out a spread of food. It’s a charity event, so you buy tickets – each ticket entitles you to some food at each restaurant’s table. So if you want to taste a few things, you buy a few tickets. We’re here early under the guise of my host wanting to go to church at 11, but really the game is to scope out the tables as they’re laid out and see which food you want to taste. They hold the back public until noon, but if you line yourself up at your intended mark, you’ll be right in front of the stuff you want to eat when they open the gates.

At a few minutes before noon, the emcee announces it’s time to start, which turns out to be a happy chaos. It also turns out that they don’t really care about the tickets all that much, so I’ve bought 2, plus one for wine, and I’m able to taste a smattering of fabulous seafood dishes plus some decadent desserts. My host is a big guy who has done this before so he’s at the front of the crowd in no time, helping me squeeze my way in to get to the good stuff. It was a funny scene, great food, and I’m glad he talked me into going. With the crowd at hand, the event was over within an hour, and I was back on a bus to Port Gruž in no time, with plenty of time to wander the throngless Port area, pack up, and get ready for the next leg of my journey.

Fast forward 5 hours and I’m some 230 kilometres north. It’s almost 10pm, and I’m wandering around dark streets in a completely new place. Google Maps is telling me the guesthouse should be Right. Here. And it isn’t. And I’m exhausted and I’ve got a head cold and I want a hot shower and a comfortable bed. So without the help of the kind waiter at a local restaurant, I might still be looking for that teeny tiny alley, behind another little restaurant, exactly where Google said it should be. By this point I had begun inventing Croatian expletives (hint: there are not many vowels in use).

The good news was that my Dubrovnik host had made arrangements with my Split host, and she was expecting me. So I was greeted with a smiling face; I had a hot cup of tea, a safe place to crash, and all I needed to do was figure out what to do here for the next few days.

There’s some history in this city. The Roman Emperor, Diocletian, built his retirement palace here in the 3rd Century. It evolved from a palace and fortress to a retreat for Roman royalty into the city itself – to this day Diocletian’s Palace remains the center of this bubbling place, stone archways, labyrinthine streets, narrow alleyways and all!

But I’d had enough of the cruise ship and tourist crowds, so after a day of seeing what Split’s old town was like (Diocletian blah blah, 1000-year-old palace walls, gelato, Egyptian relics, cats, narrow alleys and – WOW – where did that giant statue come from, and why are people rubbing its toe?), I decided to split Split and get me into some nature.

First up was Krka National Park. I get on a tour bus in near dread mode, then lighten at the prospect that I’m not required to stay with the group for more than an hour or so at the beginning, and then I’ve got most of the day to wander the park.

This is labelled as the mini-Plitvice, so the expectation is lakes, waterfalls, lush forest. What the guide, nor the guidebook, adequately describe is this geared-for-tourists place where you walk on a wooden plank path, counterclockwise around the park (follow the arrows; those who go against the grain will be flogged), landing at the prescribed shops and/or viewing stations along the way. There is no wooded trail, per se, and it is virtually impossible to get lost. It’s end of season here as well, which works in my favor: the crowds are smaller, swimming is not permitted (bonus opp for the picture-taking), and there are no lines for the ferry which ferries us from the small town of Skradin, across the lake, to Krka National Park proper.

The lakes here are a mesmerising emerald green and give the impression that some mythical creatures reside in their depths. In fact, there is one such being in Croatian folklore called Vodanoj, a water spirit who lurks by old mills (one still is in operation here), awaiting unsuspecting humans to trap and keep as slaves in their underwater castles…maybe it is he (or she) that helps these lakes give off their mystical hues.

I’ve wandered from the pack at this point, walking the prescribed path to admire the small falls and ponds along the way, and then to stop and gape at the exquisite Skradinski Buk, Krka’s crowning gem. After this, the rest of the park is disappointing, and since I’ve got something like 3 more hours here, I decide to walk the 4kms back to town rather than take the ferry.

Back in town, Skradin turns out to be something of a hideaway for boating types and rich recluses (one of Skradin’s claims to fame is that Bill Gates called it his favourite place in Croatia). There’s a marina, and if you follow the river far enough, you will eventually end up in the Adriatic. For a panorama of my surrounds, I climb to the top of the Turina fortress, built in the 13th century by the Šubićs (one of Croatia’s twelve noble tribes). From this perch, I enjoy the view over the sweet little town. After a while in the hot October sun, I descend in search of gelato. Finding the shop closed, I decide to rest on the sea wall by a park, where a few of the local swans stalk tourists in search of snacks. Unbeknownst to me, the she-swan is jealous and threatens to take me out should I flirt with her mate any further. At least I come away with all digits intact, and a bonus silly photo opp or two.

The next day’s adventure is the farther-flung national park called Plitvice (pronounce it if you dare) Lakes. This is another UNESCO World Heritage site*, and a proverbial Instagrammer’s dream for its teal pools and magnificent waterfalls (Veliki slap is nearly 80 metres high). Again, this park has been plotted (and gridded and girded) for the tourist trade. There is NO hiking here, and one may only travel via the planked paths around the park. Luckily, our group is small-ish and the tour guide bearable, so the few hours of the sheep-like following of the paths is tolerable. I resent the bus/train up from the parking area to the start of our journey (why can’t we walk?); the boat ride down also seems frivolous, but the intent here is to move as many people around the park as efficiently as possible, not to actually experience the nature that surrounds, but to view it and move on. Stopping to gaze for more time than it takes to snap a selfie is mostly frowned-upon, as the group needs to progress on schedule. By the end of the day, I’m feeling a tad like I’ve been a piece of luggage on a baggage carousel, wary of getting bumped by other baggage angling for the perfect angle. Also glad it wasn’t higher season, as I can’t imagine what that experience would be. I get back on the bus more under than whelmed to the overall Plitvice experience. The highlight was probably the restaurant we visited en route home, where we shared road stories over local cheeses and salad and beer (and tea for me – still fighting the bug).

These tour experiences further convince me that group travel is not my thing, though I’d met a couple of other solo travellers this day – a Canadian and an Irish woman, with whom (in search of a currency exchange and some gelato) I’d get lost in the alleys of Split’s old city that evening.

This is the beauty of itinerary-fluid solo adventures: the laughs one has with people you may or may not ever see again; the solidarity and trust forged in fleeting road connections. We laugh as we rub the toe of St. Petar (he was the first to go against the Vatican and deliver mass in Croatian rather than Latin. Heathen!) Lore has it that you rub his big toe and your wish will come true. I rubbed and wished…Jury’s still out on saintly magic.

I’ve got a morning to wander the promenade and the old town, then a bus (and a promise of another stop – and passport stamp – in Bosnia), then back to my guesthouse in Dubrovnik and an early morning flight to Istanbul for a few days to round out the Balkan Doživljaj.

That last evening, I run through the past two weeks in my tired head. I indulge in some brown bread from the little local bakery with some cheese and figs (and Ajvar OMG!) I’ve saved from the fresh market in Split… and I’m going to sleep this last Balkan night sated. I’ve hiked mountains and seen some unbelievable vistas; spent a week making memories with one of my favourite humans, and learnt how to pronounce some words I may never use again (and botched many more!). I’ve nearly filled my passport, adding 3 countries on this trip; and I’ve rekindled a love of seeing the world. I’ll go home with a camera full of photos, a head full of words, and another dose of Fernweh, that farsickness that draws me away when the real world gets to be just too real.

Next stop, Istanbul.

*UNESCO World Heritage Site tally for this trip, 6:

Croatia: Old City of Dubrovnik, Historical Complex of Split with the Palace of Diocletian, Plitvice Lakes National Park

Montenegro: Bay of Kotor (Natural and Culturo-Historical Region of Kotor), Fortification of Kotor (Venetian Works of defence between 15th and 17th centuries), Durmitor National Park, Biogradska Gora (on the tentative list)

Read more about our road trip: Part I: Arrival | Part II: Into the Mountains | Part III: Fleeing the Russians | Part IV: Fog and the Road to Hell (sort of)