Big Lakes and Deep Woods

We sleep well, and then continue eastward, skirting the edge of Lake Superior, 600' above sea level.
In Wawa we slowly cruise by homes and businesses, prowling for unguarded wireless internet access, to send/receive e-mails and update the blog.
After Sault Saint Marie, or Soo as it's locally known, the highway offers views of Lake Huron, 579' above sea level. The locks at Soo control the flow between these vast lakes. This last sentence may give you the impression that we actually saw the locks, but, rotten tourists that we are, there was no time to stop for that attraction. We are now focused on the Maritime Provinces, and keen to get back to the ocean's edge.

Tonight, we opt for an RV park, and find a spot at The Big Oak RV Park, just feet away from the shores of Lake Nipissing. A cold stiff breeze slaps the agitated waters against the rocky shore, and the dogs are delighted to plunge into the choppy waters. The chill wind has the benefit of deterring the hard-biting Blackfly, which like the tempting tourists, have just arrived. If you keep moving they lag behind, but on stopping, soon catch up, silently swarming around exposed soft flesh. This place has rules, posted everywhere — campers are obviously a troublesome lot. The last rule concerns lanterns — if you must use them, the limit is fifteen.
In the morning the wind has softened, and having broken as many rules as possible, we move on to Ottawa, clean and refreshed.

We spend the evening with Zita, enjoying the sensation of not moving. Most happily, she has thought to offer giant steaks of beef and fish for dinner, which her brother Alan prepares deliciously on the barbeque. We were concerned about where to park our land-yacht in town but Zita has persuaded the concierge of the apartment building to allow us to park in the loading zone.
Taking a stroll with our pack of dogs along the river opposite the Parliament buildings, we are enveloped in the fragrance of lilacs. They cover the hillsides in a dense profusion of purples and white. Tulips, daffodils and cherry trees are in full bloom - it's Spring all over again for us.
Afterwards, the dogs settle down in the van, tortured by the tempting fragrances coming from the nearby restaurants.
Dave arrives later and we follow him across the border into Quebec Province. We would never have found his place in the dark, even with Mapquest's help. Nestled between the rocky hills and a small lake, at the end of Horace Cross, it's a beautiful spot.
After a morning occupied with coffee, laundry, smoked fish, toast and talking, we take a drive with Dave to see the area.
The promisingly sweet-sounding Gatinau Parc is just a stones throw away, and full of trails for winter skiing or summer hiking. But there's no cake available yet.
Nearby Wakefield is a hip town where we enjoy some live tunes in the evening.

Here the forests are freshly alive with many shades of delicate, dappled green. If it were Fall we would be 'leaf-peeping' at the flame coloured foliage.
The birdsong is unfamiliar, and even the frogs sound different from those at home. In the dimples of the massive granite Canadian Shield, thousands of lakes offer habitat for beavers and moose aplenty.

Dashing onwards from Dave's bucolic lakeside home, we miss a turn, and enjoy a pleasant detour through rural Quebec villages, seeking directions from some soggy golfers, and a Cabana de Sucre. These 'sugar shacks' are at their busiest in the Spring, when the maple syrup sap is flowing, and they send us on our way with little maple leaf-shaped treats of sugar, waving and calling Bon Chance!

The Province de Quebec has invented yet more creative roadside symbols to describe the attractions available locally. Many of them we puzzled over unsuccessfully, so they must be peculiarly French-Canadian activities. They take the French language very seriously, and even the supposedly helpful signs, presumably directed at visiting Americans, explaining the mph vs kph speeds, were perplexingly solely in French.

We travel northeast, along the St. Lawrence seaway, past attractive farming villages dominated by tall spired churches. The RV parks are now VR Parcs, and every town seems to be named after a Saint. Saint-Jerome-LaChute (terrible accident involving some rapids), Saint-Louis-de-Ha!-Ha! (patron saint of bad jokes), Sainte-Emilie-de-L'Energie (consumed in a fireball), Saint Narcisse (something to do with a mirror), and my favourite, Saint-Marmite (parton saint of savoury spreads).

From Riviere-du-Loup, just south of Trios-Pistoles, we leave the excitingly named towns on the St Lawrence seaway and head towards Nouveau Brunswick.
At the visitor center, we spot a picture of some interesting beach rocks and decide we have to find a route taking us there.
They are Hopewell Rocks, happily just past Fundy National Park - next on our list to visit tomorrow.

We drive through the Acadian forests of Red Spruce, Maples, Birches and Balsam Fir, away from the farmland, the air fresh and sweet with pine scents. In Nackawic, the worlds' largest axe is confirmation we have transitioned from farming to forestry.
In the Bay of Fundy, the Caledonia Highlands meet the Labrador current in the highest tides of the world, reaching over fifty feet.
The red sandstone forms long pink beaches, which we all take great delight in walking on.
Now we've reached the Atlantic ocean - after some 5500 miles.
Low tide tonight, and tomorrow morning, is at about 9.00 o'clock, and the plan is to drive on from Fundy National Park tonight so we can walk on the seabed tomorrow morning at Hopewell Rocks. The extreme tides have eroded the sandstone cliffs into bizarre pillars, with a mushroom cap of trees above the high tide line.
First however, we detour to see the lighthouse at the evocatively named Cape Enrage. Then we are compelled to drive slowly through the beautiful salt-water marsh, stretching several miles inland, along the small roads, and slowly past sturdy weathered houses and buckling old barns. Dusk is now gathering and we have thirty kilometers to travel before camping for the night. We imagine our two choices are paying a fee at a 'Vehicule Recreational Parc', or finding a free spot on a muddy lane.

Bur our plans are foiled by Don.