Points East: Where is West Ouest?

The Confederation Bridge stretching toward Prince Edward Island.

Our first night on Atlantic Standard Time ended late and began early. By 5 a.m. we woke and readied to explore Fundy National Park, a moose sighting our primary goal. I almost feel like I made it sound easy when one stepped out in front my car in Glacier National Park, but I know it was pure chance.

As we attempted to pay at park headquarters, the entire complex felt deserted. With the first hints of blue and red creeping in, we ascended into the park and camped out on a deserted beach at Bennett Lake. The disrupted sand on the small beach indicated many animal crossings. Coyote prints were common, and unmistakable moose tracks pressed deep into the moist sand. The lake was one of the quietest places we ever encountered.

The rare car crossing the park could be heard miles before they passed our location. With the air still, bird wings flapped with a sound not dissimilar from airplane engines. We had picked the right spot, but the moose refused to comply. We spent several hours on that shore. Aside from rustling in the trees, random birds and a single shrew darting across the matted grass of the footpath, we had solitude in Fundy National Park.

Beaver ponds dammed many small streams into ponds. South from Bennett Lake, a major beaver dam loomed out of the water. We even caught sight of a resident. The beaver’s eyes and nostrils skimmed above the water before it gracefully disappeared, diving to enter the dam. We ventured down many dirt roads and walked round bogs hoping for a sighting. But alas, no moose came out.

At breakfast, we spoke briefly with a couple from Alberta. After remarking about the Canadian national parks being open, the husband wielded some sharp comments about the shutdown and government dysfunction. We didn’t need a reminder.

While we were scouting for moose, high tide arrived in Alma and the fishing boats rolled back in as we prepared for our last eastern leg. The small fishing fleet of Alma arriving and departing 1,000 feet from the hotel gave us ample opportunity to watch the village working. As at night, families came out for the departing and returning ships. In a town this small, bringing out the kids to see off their fathers' boats felt like tradition.

With one last look at the waters and closed our time in Alma. A bumpy road ferried us over the rolling hills and soon brought us back to the bay.

The Hopewell Rocks, a site famed for rocky spires that look like giant flowerpots at low tide, also closed for the season. Large stretches of bog and salt marsh were broken up by riffling streams. The land felt rich and pristine. From the stereo, Andrew Bird’s pizzicato and whistles perfectly complemented the mix of rugged coast and quiet farms.

The shoreline soon turned from Fundy into the Petitcondriac River. On its eastern bank sat Moncton, the province’s second-largest city.

The Bell Alliant Tower, a 400-foot communications spire, loomed over the handful of mid-rise buildings at Moncton’s core. It is home to a Blue Cross and Blue Shield affiliate, the first inkling I’d had that they existed outside the U.S. Road signs became scarce outside of downtown Moncton, and my sense of direction went haywire. The hunt for the TransCanada Highway cost us 20 minutes or more. After Moncton, we ran out of Fundy but the rural setting remained. Wind turbines sprouted up as we reached the Nova Scotia border.

We barely went into Nova Scotia, another victim of cramming a month of vacation into eight days. Both of us pined for Halifax, but we only got as far as Amherst, a gateway community just over the border. Hopefully the province will feature prominently in a future Atlantic Province adventure. We passed some people on the street who could have come straight out of Trailer Park Boys. I spotted plenty of rough tattoos, leather jackets and even a pompadour, but no track pants, Coke-bottle glasses or Rush T-shirts.

Victoria Street in Amherst, N.S.

Amherst had some notable architecture along Victoria Street. Attraction signs around downtown advertised the Curling Club, so we had to see for ourselves (it was closed). Soup and sandwiches at a nice café filled our stomachs before we his our third province of the day.

The moose signs grew larger as we crossed the dense forest at the edge of New Brunswick. None loitered near the highway, but a big site loomed ahead at the Abegweit Passage of the Northumberland Strait.

At the shortest point between New Brunswick and Prince Edward Island, the two-lane Confederation Bridge soars above the choppy waters. The highest bridge over waters frequently covered by ice, the bridge runs 130 feet above the strait except for a 197-foot-tall stretch that allows ship passage. A toll of $44.50 would wait until we departed the island.

In about 10 minutes, we crossed and Prince Edward Island unfolded before us. We wound past Summerside then through a series of villages and potato facilities. A word about PEI: The bridges undoubtedly drew support of the island’s potato industry. Nowhere on our 2,000-mile trip did we encounter more 18-wheelers than Canada’s smallest province. There are no train lines to the island, which contributes to the truck volume. The quaint villages, ocean scenery and rolling countryside remained remarkably intact.

A few miles south of Summerside, we passed Kensington and the crossroads that formed New London, notable for the birthplace of Lucy Maud Montgomery, author of Anne of Green Gables and numerous sequels. Montgomery was an essential cog in the island’s tourism. Until Nancy showed me the 1980s movie version, I had no knowledge. Since the books are mainly read by young girls, it would have been odd if I did. But they are a right of passage for many women. Closed attractions had become a running theme on our journey.

We came into Cavendish, home of Lucy Maud Montgomery’s famed Green Gables. Outside summer, Prince Edward Island National Park closes on Wednesdays, matching its operating days with cruise ship schedules. Unlike America’s closed park facilities, we drove right up and wandered around the Green Gables house and out-buildings. It was a bit of an unceremonious look at the place that drew us to Prince Edward Island. But we didn't have to share it with mobs of people fresh off a cruise.

In late afternoon we came to Clark’s Sunny Isle Motel, the best motor lodge we could hope for. Family-owned and operated, we dropped our wares in the room and took to the bayside walking trail they cut through the rear of the property.

Chipmunks harassed us under the thick canopy, uttering aggressive calls for violating their sanctuary. The path opened to a small beach of red stone on a quiet waterway, Bedeque Bay. The Clarks set several chairs at the path’s end, a fitting reward for the short, scenic walk.

The daylight waned but we could not go without a visit to Charlottetown. The distance in kilometers lulled us into believing it might be a short drive. Mileage and time had little connection on the island. There were few lights on the road and plenty of construction.

Aside from the blazing neon of strip malls on its outskirts, an effect of the bridge opening PEI to big-box commerce and chains, we gained only glimpses of Charlottetown’s historic blocks. The statues gleamed in the rain. We were a few blocks from the Charlottetown waterfront. On this dark unfriendly evening, we might have been 500 miles away. We decided on The Gahan House, the island’s sole craft brewery.

Lucking into a parking spot a block away, we figured a table would open while we sampled a pint or two. Ninety minutes after we arrived, a table opened up. We stuck it out because of the unpleasant weather and filled up on English pub grub. Attempting to leave Charlottetown, we got completely turned around. Roundabouts cropped into the road and when signs touting the ferry to Nova Scotia grew frequent, we knew we were lost.

Heading back to downtown, the lack of good directions began to mount. As we pulled toward a somewhat familiar road, my exasperation with the signs reached a breaking point. “Where the hell is West Ouest?” I exclaimed. Nancy said nothing. As I later learned, she was trying hard not to laugh hysterically. When I realized my mistake, I wanted to. But every kilometer we clicked off seemed to bring more rain.

At times, I felt  I could have driven better with a blindfold. The rain would not relent. I passed a cop driving on the median because I could not see the edges lines of the road. This did not earn me the instant DUI I would receive south of the border. In fact, the cop never budged. We came back to the turn for the bridge and headed north for Sunnyside. The rain descended in sheets, the wipers blasted at top speed.

 Back at Clark’s, we relaxed as the rain refused to weaken. We learned that Congress came to a deal, averting a budget default and ending the shutdown. If we wished, we could enter Acadia National Park when we ventured back through Maine. Nancy fell asleep quickly while I became entranced with Canadian television, suddenly unable to look away from an address delivered by Canada’s governor-general, the queen’s emissary in Jolly Ole Canada.

The end of Clark's Trail, before the ride to Charlottetown.