Moving further away from humanity at the most northern community on Cape Breton, Nova Scotia – Meat Cove – to be alone along the coast at Cape St Lawrence … possibly the only person to trek through the wilderness beyond town and see the view out there today.
The road out to Meat Cove is a potholed rollercoaster ride, washed out in places after the persistent on / off rain of the last week or so. Blue sky not seen for days.
Arriving at the bridge around the bend, the surface heavily flooded, so I abandon my car there and walk the last few hundred yards to the bay, past the campground clinging to the falling landscape, and straight out of town the other side.
I’m climbing up a steep track which runs past the last house in town, a resident dog making lots of noise and waking up the gruff heavily-bearded owner.
Boggy paths meander through dense forest, the cacophony of birds up there in the canopies announcing their presence – and that they’re in charge in these parts.
This much is confirmed by the steadily-decaying props scattered around in the thick scrub, slowly being consumed by nature.
Some things make it in, but never make it back out.
I’m muddling my way through centuries-old densely-forested habitat, stomping through puddles and general quagmires, a place where all living things get by on instinct and a generous supply of water.
The path is unsigned, with various side routes off enticing me with promises of a dryer course, but potentially sending me deep into the bush.
When the coast appears, it’s a small relief; with a wartime bunker or old radar station I don’t know.
Whatever it is, it’s a curious sight to suddenly see evidence of a human venture all the way out here in no-man’s land, rendered in concrete.
And an openly fierce wind which blows this all around the coastline like we need to learn how to fly.
The waves out there are presenting themselves in random lines, sometimes at right angles to each other, occasionally meeting in a loud crash of water.
I’ve no real idea where I am, yet that minor point is overtaken by the satisfaction that most likely I’ll be the only person in the world to see this view today.
Am I at Cape St Lawrence is a question for another day.
Taking in the panoramic view with a cheese sandwich, which on several occasions is damn-near whipped out of my hand by the wind, such is the force of the sporadic gusts.
The birds out here now encircling me would take me for their own, given half a chance. I eat quickly, looking over my shoulder as a flock of inquisitive seagulls join the cliffside picnic party.
My guidebook tells me I’m as good as guaranteed to see whales at this spot … if indeed I am where I think I am, which I might not be.
Gazing out to the Gulf of St Lawrence, trying my best to stay grounded, where all I’m seeing is a curtain of grey merging into the sea, with incoming storm fronts in the far distance. I suspect those whales have stayed indoors today.
After being blown around the outlook for a good twenty minutes, I take off – back into the woods and up and down the isolated track back to town, a good hour or two away.
I’m operating with a wrong track mind, trying not to veer off the main path, attempting to retrace my sunken steps.
It’s a relief when the trail finally descends into Meat Cove, where the smoking chowder house is suddenly doing a roaring trade.
I head in to the busy building, and then straight back out again when I realise there are no free seats.
On the other side of the sunken bridge, the same German-registered campervan I spotted last week, curtains closed.
A return through scenic coastal roadworks to Ingonish, every so often stopping at roadside lookouts, to verify what I’m seeing is for real.
A blur of blue sky is perhaps the biggest shock.
Back at my beachside apartment, a pasta dinner and a welcome beer, kicking back with a book in a bid to get warm.
And when I hit the hay, it’s with the thrilling thought … have I spoken to anyone today?
An Outside World 