10/8 – 10/11/19
10/8
I left Ottawa before the morning rush, and crossed into Quebec about an hour later. First the signs were French, then most of the radio stations; and almost before I knew it, I was in the outskirts of Montreal. After parking in an overpriced garage across the street from my downtown hotel, I assembled my bike, packed my day pack, and set out into the busy streets.
After traversing the busy downtown, I continued into the touristy old town, which had the feel of a more upscale (and more French) French Quarter. Braving the crowds to take the obligatory pictures, I continued through a series of bustling and remarkably cosmopolitan neighborhoods, stopping for lunch at one of Montreal’s many Jewish delis.
From lunch, I launched myself up Mont Royal, the stately hill overlooking downtown. Sweating profusely from the ride up (the temperature, in the low sixties, was almost balmy), I locked my bike and walked to the summit overlook, which afforded suitably spectacular views over the city.
Coasting back down into the city, I made my way to the gargantuan Oratory of St. Joseph, and then pedaled over to McGill University. The campus, situated at the foot of Mont Royal, had a traditional feel, right down to autumn leaves falling on the quad. I spent a pleasant half-hour at the splendidly eclectic (and free) Redpath Museum, where I admired ranks of glittering minerals, dusty fossils, and quizzical mounted animals.
Then, after cutting through downtown, I rode along the riverfront for five or six miles – the last three on a glass-strewn sidewalk – before visiting the Olympic Stadium (which is, like most such buildings, a colossal white elephant), and turning back toward Mont Royal. After a superb brisket sandwich at Schwatz’s Deli (the Montreal equivalent of Katz’s Deli in NYC), I discovered that a demonstration had the closed the street in front of my hotel. But I finally managed to detour around, check in, and begin my nightly routine of uploading pictures and preparing for the next day.
10/9
Leaving Montreal around dawn, I continued northeast. Dense banks of fog covered the Saint Lawrence, blurring the maple forests on both sides of the highway. The sun broke through the fog as I approached the outskirts of Quebec City. It took a half-hour of searching to find a reasonably proximate parking spot. Once I finally did, I made a beeline for the city walls (the only example in North America), and was treated to a first look at the fairytale skyline of old Quebec: a dozen steeples, mansard roofs, and flags snapping in the breeze, all against the crimson hills along the Saint Lawrence.
Having strolled along the portion of walls open to visitors (and a few sections that may have been closed to visitors), I detoured to a nearby subway for lunch. This, I realized almost immediately, was a mistake, since my French vocabulary includes zero vegetables. But I muddled through, secured and devoured my sandwich, and finally entered old Quebec.
I spent a pleasant two hours walking up and down the old town’s cobblestone streets. It was quaint – too quaint. Like the French Quarter (or for that matter, central Paris), old Quebec is unapologetically aimed at visitors. As a result, it suffers from an acute case of TMFT (Too Many F-ing Tourists). At the time of my visit, a large cruise ship wallowed just below the old city, and the narrow streets were swamped with passengers. I appreciated the sights, but had no desire to linger.
Fortunately, tourists were few and far between the rest of the day, as I drove up the Saint Lawrence. The scenery was rural: long and narrow cornfields, bounded by hills burning with maples. The Saint Lawrence gradually broadened, until the hills on the northern shore were rosy blurs. Stopping at the town of Rivière-du-Loup, I strolled along the rocky shore for a mile or so, watching a ferry cross the shining bay and smelling saltwater.
Onward, past small towns – each clustered around a church with a silver steeple – and farmers harvesting their cornfields in the sunset. A three-quarter moon rose through the birches; and finally, about a half-hour after sunset, I reached the city of Rimouski. I pulled over to see what Kentucky Fried chicken looked like in Quebec. The answer: very strange. After fumbling my way through the ordering process, I sat in a booth and read yesterday’s Journal de Québec, where the latest sins of the Trump presidency were reported with Gallic zest.
10/10
Leaving my motel shortly before dawn, I continued northeast on the coastal highway. To the left gleamed the Saint Lawrence, now so wide that the opposite shore was barely visible. On the right, villages with frosted roofs alternated with harvested fields. After about an hour, at the aptly-named town of Sainte-Anne-des-Monts, I turned toward Gaspesie National Park and the Chic-Choc Mountains, the northernmost mainland extension of the Appalachians.
The mountains came into view almost immediately, their foothills gilded with birches. After a few brief stops for pictures and a trail permit, I headed straight to the trailhead for Mont Richardson, one of the Chic-Choc’s highest peaks (and the tallest accessible in the fall). The lower sections of the stony trail, shaded by pines, glistened with frost and patches of ice.
After passing a mountain pond feathered with new ice, I climbed through a forest of knee-high trees and up to the lichen-spotted summit. The views were spectacular: mountains as far as the eye could see, streaked with birches and bristling with pine.
As usual, the trudge back down was much harder than the climb up. Although my hiking boots and slick new walking sticks saved me from ever actually falling, I was thoroughly relieved to return to the parking lot. Tingling with the vague sense of accomplishment that follows a long hike, I drove back down the access road with my windows open, savoring the sun-streaked birches and pine-scented air.
I continued northeast along one of the most beautiful highways I have ever driven. The road hugged the Saint Lawrence, passing beneath towering cliffs crowned by birches. Every twenty minutes or so, I passed a village tucked into an amphitheater-like bay, silver-steepled church gleaming in the evening sun. Night fell, and a harvest moon rose over burnished seas of birches.
10/11
Emerging from my motel into a clear and frosty morning, I drove beside the shimmering sea to Forillon National Park. After pausing to allow three moose to shamble across the road, I parked at the trailhead for my last Quebec hike: the trek to Bout du Monde (Land’s End), the easternmost point of the Gaspe Peninsula.
The trail – in welcome contrast to yesterday’s hike, almost level – paralleled the seashore. Fall wildflowers and bushes heavy with crimson berries framed views of a wide bay and the rugged coastline beyond.
About a mile into the hike, I was startled by a sudden rustling in the trailside bushes. Something dark and ungainly materialized a short distance ahead of me. For a brief, horrified instant I thought it was a bear cub. But then I realized that it was nothing more and nothing less than a monstrously fat porcupine. Aware of, but completely indifferent to, my presence, it began to waddle down the trail in front of me. Unable to pass the rodent, I tried walking faster, assuming that it would run into the bushes when I got too close. Instead, the porcupine started walking faster, breaking into a sort of wobbling trot. Then, just when I assumed it would bolt, it stopped in the middle of the path and bristled its quills menacingly. I decided to wait until the trail widened.
Passing beneath a picturesque lighthouse, I continued to Land’s End, a small viewing platform beneath a tall limestone cliff. To my left, the Bay of St. Lawrence merged invisibly with the Atlantic. To the right, the coast of the Gaspe turned slowly southward. I paused for a few minutes, watching waves roll over the rocks. Then, westward.
I drove the rest of the day – around the Gaspe and through New Brunswick. Along the way, I stopped to see the Rocher Percé, a massive rock pierced by a sea cave; ate a final peanut butter sandwich beside a spectacular cliff carpeted with golden birches; and learned how to identify the elusive Barnacle Goose from the bird report on CBC New Brunswick.
Just before crossing the border, I finally stopped at a Tim Horton’s, where I blew the last of my Canadian dollars on a grilled cheese, a bowl of tomato soup, and a box of donut holes. It seemed a fitting farewell to Canada.