The Bay of Fundy

Maine gradually turned quieter and quieter as I passed Portland and the roadway
passed almost exclusively through trees. Northern Maine has some of the most
gorgeous scenery of the Northeast, and yet so few live there to appreciate it.
More than once I worried about running out of gas on the more distant
stretches. By that measure, the border town of Callais (pronounced "callous",
ha ha ha) was a metropolis of international shopping and dining under both New
Brunswick and American flags.

The weather was cooling already in early fall, though it was hard to tell by
glancing up at the omnipresent conifers. The water had turned a deeper shade of
blue with the arrival of September's chill, and I didn't relish jumping in it.
The road was long and life was good.


I'd been tempted to drive late into the night to pass through New Brunswick but
wound up sleeping there, happily to say. Having no set itinerary, it was
impossible to be late for anything, after all. There I saw the Bay of Fundy for
the first time. Camping in Fundy National Park among a scattering of
late-season Quebecois, I entered a world of frogs and loons and rabbits. A
heron soared over damp mud flats in a river valley bursting with conifers.
There was space here - plenty of it - and fresh air and sky. I gazed out over
the red mud flats of Fundy, eager to see the waters rise and subsume the red
clay.

As the sun lowered and then slipped behind the treeline, I camped in a grassy
field ringed with pines, not far from Lake Wolf. Over the coals of my wood fire
I made tea with cream from Nova Scotia and sugar from Toronto, thinking back on
the day's drive through roadsigns in French and petrol sold in liters. Campers
not far down the lakeside invited me to join them, and around the fire I heard
casual stories about temperatures thirty degrees below zero and snow drifts
fourteen feet high. Even Boston looked tepid in comparison.

Via Kejuimkujik National Park (called "Kedji" affectionately by the locals), I
made my way to Shubenacadie, just dodging the rains of nearby Hurricane
Edouard, where, at the terminus of a long, bumpy, gravel road I found a simple
wooden building and two signs pointing down to the riverside. There I boarded a
rubber zodiac with a group headed out to ride the Bay of Fundy's famous tidal
bore. 

The waters were the color of cinnamon-chocolate, brown with silt and red with
clay, and the passing storm hadn't helped. And then the bore was upon us. What
fun! Fundy's Tidal Bore is barely a surfing wave, though I'm told on a spring
tide it can sometimes reach ten feet. The bore changed character with the shape
of the river, cresting or even curling in narrow or shallow areas and
disappearing in areas where the river held more volume. We rode it for a few
moments before turning our attention to the myriad rapids and whirlpools that
follow the advancing tide.

Water bouncing off a beautiful gypsum wall swirled across the river's breadth,
causing a whirlpool we immediately threw ourselves into. Jules Verne, eat your
heart out! It was a quick ride down the six feet to the pool's bottom, but I
assure you it's a strange feeling to see the river's surface roiling at eye
level. And naturally, we got soaked in the rapids.

I watched the sky a long time, concluding that such beauty was reserved for
distant, dangerous places, and that nature has good reason for exacting her own
special sacrifices from those determined to witness them. — Adm. Richard E.
Byrd, "Alone" (1938) In my case, the sky was filled with the spirals of the
many eagles that soared over our heads. Their nests were at the river's edge,
and I'm told they can weigh up to 800 pounds in some cases: the eagles return
to the same nests every year there in Shubenacadie, which was prime wintering
ground for them.

I'm half tempted to return with the family to visit again. The tidal bore will
be there, I'm sure. I hope the eagles are, too. As for me, when we disembarked
from the zodiac I'd made a couple of Nova Scotian friends who thought nothing
of inviting me to Halifax for a couple of pints of beer and good talk at a
Halifax pub where a folk band was playing. This being 1996, the Quebecois
referendum was just behind us, but the whole world lie before us.