Gaspesie, Oui Oui!

Day 15

We slept last night just west of Rimouski, the town on the southern banks of the St. Laurent where ferries to Sept Isles and Ise D' Anticosti come and go. We thought we might like to take one of these ferries, but alas, they have been booked for months. Poor planning, or missed opportunity, you might think, but no. The stress of making an arbitrary date when you are traveling by moto is more than you can imagine. The most important reservation to make when traveling as we are is, simply, for time itself. You must leave room for breaking down, for exhaustion, for shitty weather, and also for breathtaking views, enchanting towns, new friends and all things serendipitous. In other words, we don't care about the ferries.

Besides, if we'd taken a ferry, we would not have been acquainted with this amazing peninsula: the Gaspesie. It is where the northern most fingers of the Appalachian range dip, finally, into the sea. It defines the southern border of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. It was once home to the Micmacs, the indigenous people present when the first Frenchie planted his tri-colored flag here in the mid 1500's. It, currently, contains one major road, the 132, which, as it rounds the peninsula, runs est and est, no ouest.

Along the 132 est is the river to your left, always, and to your right are either tiny fishing villages, or the soft, familiar ridges of the Appalachian mountain chain. Many fishing villages are marked by church steeples, usually a shiny silver. We haven't gotten close to them yet, so I don't know whether they are painted silver or silver metal. Either way they shimmer in a way that is, I imagine, especially pretty in the bleak winter months. The towns are also now full of Poissoneries, or lobster shops. There are also wind farms, like we saw out west. For the last two days, we have seen long tractor trailers hauling the single blades of these massive windmills. Today, we stopped at a rest area that had one of the blades out for display. They are huge, and beautiful, like sculpture.

Quebec Flag

There are no “super markets” out here, so grocery shopping gets fun. We are very good at belting out a pretty natural sounding bonjour and merci, but that's about it. Everyone has been overly friendly about speaking English with us. It's almost embarrassing. Once we have purchased our groceries, they get packed straight into one of the saddle bags, which means they are removed from most of their packaging right away. We have a pretty good system now, we know where the bottle of wine gets stowed and what crackers will hold up during the ride.

Just after one of our grocery stops, we break at a particularly appealing halte municipale. It's on a cliff, on green grass, with the dark blue sea sparkling in the distance. There is a path that slips through a little gate, and we take it. It leads us down a steep, wildflower lined path to another smaller cliff, this one covered in dark pebbles warmed in the sun. We have some water and a granola bar, then I lie down, then I feel the Pirate smooth the hair away from my forehead so he can lie with me, and we both sleep like babies, lulled by the warmth of the sun and the sound of the surf, for an hour.

Restored from our little nap, we coast along one of the most beautiful rides I've ever been on. We dip by the water where it is cold, then up into the conifer forest where it is warmer. The Girl glides along as though she is truly happy, and not just a machine. We see fat, shining seals sunning themselves on round boulders that stand about 3 feet up from the water. There are seagulls and loons.

Our campground tonight is across the street from the Forillon National Park. We are perched at the edge of a verdant cliff, exactly 100 feet above the sea. Our view is straight out into the Gulf of St. Lawrence. As we set up our camp, we see a few seals playing, and then an unmistakable break in the surface of the water, and spray. It's way out in the water, but I can see it with my naked eye. It doesn't surface flat, like a submarine, it arcs, like a huge black porpoise. It's an Orca, the first I've ever seen in the wild. It's all alone, so it doesn't stay long.

The Pirate builds a fire and cooks a steak over the flames on a flat rock. We don't have salt with us right now, so he wraps it in the last of the smoked prosciutto. I make rice with garlic and red peppers. We open a bottle of our favorite cheap red wine up here, Notre Vin Maison, and then the skies also open and it pours. We scramble into the tent for our steak dinner. We are safe and dry and eating like royalty.

We fall asleep to the sound of the surf below, and the rain pounding the tent.