Eastbound, Down

                The lights on the North Shore shine like stars off in the distance. It is night, and I am approaching Riviere du Loup, a milestone of sorts, a bend in my road. Their refracted glow bobs on the waves of the great river, dancing under their twins overhead. My journey east has been defined by waterways. From the banks of the Grand, to the big water of Ontario, then beyond, to the arterial river which opened this land so many centuries before to European interests. It is fitting that these ancient thoroughfares still direct the flow of human traffic, albeit it to a lesser degree. I am a modern day Voyageur, east bound in autumn, canoe traded for a metal chariot. The rivers flow as the land dictates. The newer tarmac routes tend to be straighter, more direct, less fulfilling.

 I skirt Montreal to the south, seeing for the first time the hulking mass of Mount Royal squatting above the shimmering glass towers in its entirety. I am glad to be missing it. It is a city which does little to please the eye as you pass through it on aging highways suspended above the ebb and flow of daily life. Night comes quickly in November, especially as you go eastward, racing away from the sun. This means I see little of the south shore as I drive. I have seen it before, the  narrow Habitant farmsteads, the St. Lawrence, the scattered bulges of a distant Massif, like broken teeth jutting from the soil, a massive reminder to the power of a glacier in recession. That does not mean I won’t miss the sweeping vistas; quite the opposite in fact. That I am familiar with the scenery means I miss it all the more. I have no intention of stopping, though. I have much too far to go, and too short a time to do it in. Stopping is a luxury I cannot afford.

The darkness brings with it memories. It is late in the season for colours, all the autumnal hymns have largely been sung. Blazing reds, and violent oranges have been replaced by muted copper, and drab browns. That sets my mood in a melancholy tone, which does not displease me. Autumn is a time for reflections of this sort. I am running east, in part to escape my memories, in part to embrace them. It is a confusing juxtaposition of the mind. The self-same remembrances which offer me succor also scourge me. Remembered eyes, brown ones filled with pain and questions, green with anger and disappointment. In the darkness they catch me back up.

Grand Manan, the island at the mouth of Fundy, calls to me. I am headed there with only my faithful hound dog for company. He is a constant companion, having been with me through all of the upheavals in my life. His liquid golden eyes are gentle, and carry an old soul within. Wolf eyes, I have been told. I owe this aging canine a great deal. There had been a time when things were at their blackest, those golden eyes, trusting and loving me, pulled me back from the ragged edge. Wolf eyes perhaps. This island is a sort of refuge. I feel at peace here. The ghosts of my past do not snap at my heels when I am there. It resonates within me. My mother believes that when we find such places, places that speak to the deepest parts of our souls, it is an indication of a connection with a past life. This could well be it; I have no better explanation. I just know that some places resonate more deeply than others. Grand Manan is one such place.

I turn south onto highway 189, away from the St. Lawrence and Quebec. New Brunswick awaits. I am lost in memory now, recalling faces and deeds. Ted and Bobby teaching me to shoot, the mantra “Red means Dead” on their lips. The payoff to those lessons only a few weeks later, when two moose crest the rise above my hiding place out in the cold of the John Black, and old Jimmy’s voice coming in over the walkie talkie, “Shoot the cocksuckers!” The cow going down in my scope after a single crack of the rifle, the calf falling after two more retorts. Slaps on the back, a great many hands to shake. Winter meat to fill twelve freezers.

I am aware that time is moving, although my own life had been trapped in a terrible stasis for a number of years. It was the ten year anniversary of my homecoming from Europe not a month gone. A decade having slipped by. It seems like so much time, and yet like no time at all. I am not that same young man, not now, not after everything, and yet I am. Or I want to be. I miss the smiles that came so easily for that other Geoff, I miss his easy manner and open heart. Is hoping that he will return enough to make it so? That is a question I am not equipped yet to answer. Time will tell, as is so often the case.

Road weariness overtakes me after I cross the border into New Brunswick. The clock changes ahead an hour, the Maritimes having been officially reached. I pull off the road and get a room. Sleep takes me. I awake to a crystalline sky, and cold. Frost rims the world. It is bracing. I note that none of the trees here have any remembrance of fall colour. The birch and poplars stand skeletal, white and bare. The conifers offer a show of green, made more severe by the empty limbs around them. Smoke issues from the mills in the river valley, plumes of white made greater by the cold. This is a truly Canadian scene. The memories are pushed to the back of my mind, tucked away once more, as I enjoy the gifts of the road. An empty highway, and bracing sun, songs on the radio.

I make good time to Blacks Harbour. My spot on the ferry is assured, booked in advance. I step from the car, leashing the aptly named Khayyam. I let the smell of the sea wash over me. It is the first breathe of salted air I have had in over a year. It soothes me instantly. I am excited, not only for the travel ahead. This has the feel of a homecoming. In a way it is, this is my safe haven, my One Particular Harbour.

I will be on the Island alone but for my wolf eyed friend for a week. A week with nothing but my memories and a pen. The long nights do not worry me, I am eager to let my mind wander, to allow the twins which chase me to scourge and succor as the case may be. I am eastbound. I am alone to find myself again.