June 1st, 1974, Piscataway, New Jersey
Walt was close to being back to normal today and rode shotgun with Lou to Piscataway. It was only about 15 miles between towns so we had the tent up early, despite having to set it up on asphalt. There were a bunch of kids on the lot and we put them to work hauling stakes and pieces of the tables, which helped.
Later, I was hanging out around the cookhouse when Joe, who had wandered off, came back and got me. He told me there was a guy, whose house was next to the lot, and he was throwing a party for the workers. Joe led me over.
His name was Jimmy. He was a tall, thin, light-skinned black guy with black-rimmed glasses. He told us that he looked forward to the circus coming each year. Walt, Slow Motion, Bear, and some of the other guys knew him from past years.
He had a huge vegetable garden and he told me that each year he got some lion dung from Dave Hoover, the lion and tiger trainer. Jimmy was convinced that if he spread some lion droppings around the periphery of his garden that it would repel rabbits, deer, and groundhogs. He also got all the horse manure he wanted from the horse trainers. It seemed to be working—he had a beautiful garden going.
Jimmy had a big washtub full of ice and cans of Shaefer, Rolling Rock, and Reading beers. A lot of the roustabouts were already there when Joe and I arrived. Jimmy also had a huge barbecue pit made of cinder blocks with a big grate on top. He was a sociable guy and said he occasionally held chicken roasts for the neighborhood. Jimmy had a fire going in the pit and was roasting some hot dogs for us.
About that time, Walt came over to me and said that those steaks in the cook wagon would sure taste better than hot dogs. It sounded like a good idea. Walt knew that Lou had, for reasons I can’t explain, given me a key to the kitchen. Had Lou been around, I probably would have requested his approval, but he was nowhere to be seen. When Walt and I took the box of steaks from the freezer, we saw that there was another one behind it, so we took both. Between the two boxes we had 48 steaks.
Jimmy was more than happy to add the steaks to the grill. "Now we really have us a party," he said. He placed them around the edge of the grill so they could thaw out before he cooked them. Nothing in the freezer was ever really hard-frozen because the generators only ran part of the time. They were off when we were on the road, off at night so people could sleep, and off when they broke down, which was frequently. So, it didn’t take long to thaw the steaks.
Jimmy did the grilling but he had Walt and me handing them out on paper plates to the workers. By this time almost all the roustabouts were present and some of the clowns, musicians, and butchers as well. Some of the guys slapped me on the shoulder and thanked me for finally getting the steaks grilled. I didn’t even know they knew about the steaks in the freezer.
Joe took a steak back to the wagon for Robert, who had the good sense to avoid situations where people were drinking. Eric was in line for a steak and, as I handed him a plate, I told him to let me know if it wasn’t done enough for him. He said, "Fuck you, asshole," but then he started laughing. (Lou had told me that he eventually told Eric what happened and that I hadn’t intentionally served him raw meat.)
June 2nd, Easton, Pennsylvania
Walt and I both woke up with hangovers. Joe seemed OK, but Walt was in bad shape. After Jimmy ran out of beer, he had brought out a bottle of Jack Daniels. I may have had a couple swallows. I got up and did the best I could though since, with Walt down, I didn’t want to dump all the workload on Joe and Robert.
In the afternoon, I took a couple aspirins and laid down for a nap, which helped. I was down to half of a hangover. It was still not pleasant getting all those stakes out of the asphalt, especially since Walt was still down and there was one fewer person to help.
In Easton, we set up in Bushkill Park, outside of town. We had a lot of help from kids once again. I told them that assembling the tables was too complicated for kids, so they had to prove me wrong by putting every single one together. I should have thought of that sooner.
June 3rd, Hazleton, Pennsylvania
In the afternoon I went on a water run with Shorty. Afterwards, we stopped by a local bar, where he bought me a Stegmaier. He usually either gave me a dollar or sometimes bought me a couple beers for helping him out.
As we were drinking, Shorty asked me what I was doing with the circus. When I showed some confusion about the question, he said that I had probably noticed that almost everyone working for the circus was either an alcoholic, a pervert, or a moron. I assumed by "pervert" he was referring to homosexuality but it made me wonder what else might be going on that I didn’t know about. Practically everyone, he said, was working there because they couldn’t survive in the outside world. He said he didn’t think I fit. I told him that my flaws just weren’t as obvious and he seemed to accept that. I didn’t want to tell him I was getting ready to bail out.
I had been asking myself the same question that Shorty asked me. Except for the pay, I didn’t mind the work. As messed up as my co-workers were, I liked them. The thing that I didn’t like was that I had set out to do some traveling and, even though we were moving around, it somehow didn’t feel like traveling. After moving to a new town, we always ended up in the same place—the circus lot.
It was like its own little town. Unless it was an odd-shaped lot, it was always laid out the same. Frank, the mechanic, and his wife were always on one side of us and the elephants were on the other. It even smelled the same, regardless of where we were—a weird olfactory mélange from animal dung, popcorn, generator exhaust, straw that was put down for animal bedding and to cover up muddy spots, and food smells from the cook wagon and the grease joint that sold food to the circusgoers. I rarely had time to get very far off the lot and whatever town we were in usually served as no more than a backdrop.
Later that evening, we lucked out on the weather. We had finished taking down the tent and had just gotten it into the truck when it started pouring down rain. It rained during the entire drive to Hazleton but stopped just as we were pulling into the lot. Perfect timing. We didn’t luck out on the lot though. There were old railroad ties all over the place that we had to move and the ground was hard and rocky. Probably because it looked like it could rain at any moment, there were no kids around to help. We also had to put the tent up in the dark because the generator wouldn’t start.
June 4th, Williamsport, Pennsylvania
Someone shit under the clown table again. Whoever was doing it really had something against the clowns. Lou asked Robert to go get the shovel. After Lou walked away, Robert asked why he always had to be the one to clean it up. He had a point. Walt, Joe, and I flipped coins to see which one of us would clean it up. Joe lost.
After breakfast, I walked off the lot for a bit and discovered a YMCA, where I bought a shower. They even supplied the towel and soap. I also found the local library and went in and read some newspapers. It felt good to be away from the lot.
I thought about timing things so I could leave the circus. There were three things that I wanted to line up. One, I had lent Tom ten bucks and I was hoping to get that back before I left. (I was still holding his bag of weed, so I had some bargaining power.) Two, I wasn’t going anywhere before payday. It wasn’t much, but I wasn’t going to sacrifice it. Three, I wanted Lou to split the tip jar, since my share was probably close to what I would make on payday. I wasn’t planning on telling anyone I was leaving. I hadn’t been with the circus long, but I knew, by custom, that no one gave notice or said goodbye. You just left.
Lou finally noticed that there was an empty space in the freezer where the steaks used to be. He had us all together and asked who all was in on it. He already knew I was involved since I had the key. Walt confessed to having played a role and Lou started yelling at the two of us.
Lou said he didn’t mind so much that Walt and I had taken the steaks. However, he said only one of the boxes belonged to the cook wagon. The other box, he said, belonged to Johnny Pugh, the manager, and Lou had been doing him a favor by letting him store it in the cook wagon freezer. Now, he said, Walt and I had to go and explain to the boss what had happened to his steaks.
It took a while for us to find Johnny Pugh’s Airstream. I realized I’d hardly ever been on the other side of the big top, where the performers and the manager parked their Airstreams. It was like living in a segregated town.
Someone directed us to his trailer and I knocked on the door, which was answered by a woman who I assumed to be his wife. She brought him to the door for us. It was the first time I’d been face to face with him. Well, not exactly face to face—he was standing in the doorway of the trailer, so he was a few feet higher than us. I also realized I’d never once seen him on the workers side of the lot and he for sure had never eaten in the cookhouse. He was a short, thickly built man and he had a faint British accent.
I told him Lou had sent us over to let him know that the generator had been down recently and the steaks that Lou was storing in the freezer for him had gone bad and we had to dump them. I hadn’t planned to tell him that—the words just tumbled out of my mouth. It was a plausible lie though. The generators were always breaking down, including our’s. Frank, I think, spent more time working on the generators than he did on the trucks. Johnny said something about it being a shame. I got the feeling he may have forgotten his steaks were even in the freezer.
On the way back to the workers’ side though I started second guessing myself, which was a habit of mine. Did Johnny already know about Jimmy’s party? He hadn’t given any indication. Would he eventually find out that his steaks were a big hit at the party? Would he and Lou ever discuss what happened? Then I remembered I was leaving anyway, so why should I care? When we got back Lou asked us how Johnny had taken the news and Walt only said, "He wasn’t happy."
When we got to Williamsport, the generator kept stalling out and then died. I had to laugh—if we hadn’t liberated the steaks, they very likely would have spoiled.
Photo source: Clyde Beatty-Cole Brothers Circus | Ann Arbor District Library
Bear was one of the longtime workers for the circus. He is shown here helping to erect the big top during their 1976 visit to Ann Arbor, where I happened to be living at the time. Photo by Jack Stubbs, Ann Arbor News.
June 5th, Scranton, Pennsylvania
It was hot in Williamsport and hot when we got to Scranton as well. Once we got everything set up, Walt, Joe, and I went out to a nearby bar where we shot some pool and drank some beers. It was a weird bar. All they had on the juke box was polkas and even the hippies were playing polkas.
Tom was there and he gave me five of the ten he owed me. He said the sno-cone man owed him some money and he would try to get the other five from him.
I asked Joe if he would ask Lou to split the tip jar. Since both Walt and I were in the doghouse, I figured if either of us asked, he’d say no just to punish us. Joe said he could use some cash himself and he’d try.
June 6th, Binghamton, New York
Another hot day. After Scranton, we went to Binghamton, where we had a four-day stand. Lou said he hated Binghamton because bad things always happened there. "I don’t know why, but every year it’s like the whole city of Binghamton wants to screw over this circus," he said.
We got set up in Binghamton without any incident. Some kids helped us set up again, including assembling all 15 tables after I told them it was too complicated for kids. They were competing among themselves to set them up.
Thanks to the kids, we were set up with enough time for Joe, Walt, and me to go get a couple beers. We found a tavern on Chenango Street not far from the lot. It was a filthy place and it faintly smelled like someone had recently puked in it. We decided to get a six- pack to go and take it back to the tent to drink. I had to laugh because I didn’t think there were very many places where circus workers refused to drink because they lacked sufficient ambience.
June 7th, Binghamton, New York
Things seemed to be coming together. We got paid, Lou split the tip jar for us, and Tom paid me the other five dollars I’d lent him. I gave him back his bag of weed and he was mildly surprised that it was almost the same size as when he gave it to me. He gave me a couple joints for holding it for him. Altogether I ended up with 55 additional dollars. With the 75 dollars I already had, I had $130 to travel on. I was rich.
In between lunch and dinner, things got weird. For one thing, the weather turned strange. The sky turned an eerie shade of purple and dark gray. It was still hot, but now it got windy. There were little dust devils blowing around in multiple places on the lot. It looked like there was going to be a major downpour, but it never rained except for a few isolated drops.
Then the local health department showed up and wanted to inspect the cook wagon. Oh, boy. Lou knew they would be busy inspecting the kitchen for a while, so he closed the door between the kitchen and the storage room and had Joe, Walt, and me get rid of stuff. I hadn’t realized how much improperly stored food there was in the storage space. Lou and Joe would hand stuff out the side door to Walt and me, and we would get rid of it. Lou handed me the meat slicer and told me to put it in his sleeper and cover it with something.
While all this was happening, I heard some of the elephants bellowing and looked over to see some teenagers pelting the elephants with good-sized rocks. Frank started yelling at the kids from the door of his RV and they responded by throwing rocks at him. They didn’t connect, but it made a racket when they hit his RV. While the kids were throwing rocks at the elephants and Frank, the inspectors were throwing the book at us. They were compiling a growing list of violations.
At one point, I saw Frank holding a rifle by his side in the door of his trailer. Not long afterwards, some Binghamton Police arrived on the scene. The teenagers claimed to the police that Frank had shot at them. Even though the teenagers looked like a bunch of hoodlums, the police must have believed them and hauled Frank off to jail for discharging a firearm within the city limits.
All this was happening at almost the same time—the health inspectors, the kids throwing rocks, the elephants bellowing, the purple sky, Frank holding a rifle, the little dust devils swirling around in multiple locations, and the cops arriving. It was a lot to take in and my head felt like one of those little cyclones. Eventually though, the kids, the inspectors, and the police were gone and things settled down. It never did rain.
After dinner, I found Youngblood, and Joe and I smoked one of the joints with him. I asked Joe what the deal was with hiding the meat slicer. He had once worked in a deli in New York City, and he said you were supposed to take the blade off and clean it every day because tiny bits of meat would get caught behind the blade and putrefy. I’d probably used it more than a dozen times and it had never been cleaned once in the month I worked for the circus. Obviously, Lou knew that it should be cleaned but didn’t care enough to tell me to do it.
June 8th, Apalachin, New York
After breakfast, I was just getting ready to sneak away from the lot, when Frank’s wife knocked on the door of the sleeper and asked if I would go downtown with her for Frank’s hearing. Frank and his wife were in their late 60s. Frank (some of the guys called him Pop) had retired as a truck mechanic and was working as the circus mechanic as his retirement job. He and his wife traveled in a beat-up old Winnebago that now had some new dents in it. I had seen his wife often but didn’t really know her. They cooked their own meals and only rarely ate at the cookhouse.
I didn’t really want to go downtown but she said she didn’t want to go there alone, so I agreed. Why she asked me I had no idea. When Frank’s turn came up, the judge asked him how he pleaded and he said, "Not guilty." The judge appeared ready to schedule a trial for him. Frank’s wife, turned to me and said, "Aren’t you going to say anything?" That was the first time I realized she expected something from me other than emotional support. If I would have known, I could have prepared. As it was, I stood up and asked the judge if I could say something. I was standing there in filthy clothes, stumbling over my words but he said OK.
The only thing I could think of to say on the spur of the moment was that I had been an eyewitness and I could testify that Frank had displayed the rifle only to get the kids to quit throwing rocks at the elephants and at no time had he discharged it, both of which were true. He asked me a couple questions about who I was and where I was at the time of the event. He then threw out the charges against Frank.
I waited around with Frank’s wife for Frank to be released, which took more than an hour. They both acted like I had gotten Frank out of jail but the main reason the judge threw out the charges was because neither of the arresting officers bothered to show up for the hearing. He had some questions he wanted to ask them. None of the rock-throwing hooligans who had accused Frank were there either.
I thought it was crazy that Johnny Pugh didn’t have anyone to deal with these types of situations. Given the state of the trucks and generators, a mechanic was critical. As soon as we got back to the lot, I gathered my pack and disappeared, ending my brief stint with the circus. [9] - [10]
I left Binghamton heading north on I-81. I got a couple short rides and then a ride with a couple, Steve and Deb, who were heading to Syracuse. We got along well and we smoked the other joint that Tom had given me. By the time we got to Syracuse, we had become friends and they asked me if I wanted to spend the rest of the weekend with them. I said sure.
They were managers of an apartment complex and they had to do a few chores before they took off for the day. I helped Steve out with a few little things and then we got back into the car. They were going to go hang out with some friends who lived west of Binghamton, which meant retracing the route we had just driven. Our route took us right through Binghamton and I could see the big top from the car.
Their friends were a gay couple, Frank and Ed, who lived in Apalachin. We went out and got something to eat and then went miniature golfing. Later, Steve, Deb, and I crashed on the floor of Frank and Ed’s mobile home.
June 9th, Syracuse, New York
Ed had just quit his job at Mr. Donut and wanted to celebrate so we drove to Lake Romasa [11] across the state line in Pennsylvania, where we rented rowboats and went swimming. We barbecued a chicken later.
Back at Frank and Ed’s trailer, Frank talked to me about a Buddhist sect he belonged to called Nichiren Shoshu. He had a shrine in his room that he chanted in front of. He said that if there was anything a person wanted, if they chanted long enough, they would get it. That didn’t sound like what I though Buddhism was about. Perhaps it was an Americanized version of Buddhism.
Steve and Deb had some responsibilities back at the apartment complex, so we headed back to Syracuse in the early evening, once again driving by the circus lot. I swore I could smell the familiar odors of the lot even though we were far enough away that I knew that was impossible.
Farther up the road, Steve wanted to stop and pay his sister Rose a visit, since it was along the way. Rose and her husband lived in a funky shack out in the country and their four St. Bernards greeted us at the car. We didn’t stay long because we had arrived in the middle of a marital dispute. There was some major yelling going on. A strained, temporary truce was called while we visited, but as soon as we got in the car to leave, I could hear the hostilities recommencing.
The next day was garbage day and I helped Steve collect garbage to take to the dumpster. Most of the tenants took their own garbage out but Steve knew which of the elderly tenants weren’t able to do it on their own. They set their garbage out in front of their apartment doors and we hauled it to the dumpster for them.
June 10th, Cranberry Lake, New York
I said goodbye to Steve and Deb and told them how much I enjoyed hanging out with them and their friends. They told me to drop by any time I was in the area.
I continued north and then started heading east on State Route 3 through the heart of the Adirondacks. By the afternoon, I was starting to feel sick—weak, no appetite. I went into the woods and set up the tent and went to bed early. It rained hard during the night and I had weird dreams. Fever dreams take on a whole other dimension when you are camped out alone in the woods.
June 11th, Franconia, New Hampshire
I only had one ride for the day, but it took me the rest of the way across New York, through Vermont, and into New Hampshire. I was still feeling sick—sore throat, achy muscles, weak—but able to function. I dried out my sleeping bag at a laundromat and found a beautiful spot to camp outside of town. The skies cleared off for the first time all day just as the sun was going down.
June 12th, Portland, Maine
Whatever illness I had was gone. I had no trouble getting rides across the rest of New Hampshire. I was pestered by blackflies though. I was in Portland by late afternoon and found a place to stay at the YMCA, where I met some other vagabonds. They told me that the nearby Salvation Army served a nice dinner, so we headed over there together.
It was the nicest Salvation Army I had ever seen. The food was good and everything was tidy and cheerful looking. The clientele looked more like members of a Senior Center in a nice neighborhood than the regular outcasts I was used to seeing at gospel missions. I talked to one of the people operating the facility and asked if anyone could stay there. He told me they didn’t take in itinerants, only their regular homeless clients. They sure seemed to be taking good care of them. I liked that we weren’t asked to sing or pray.
June 13th, Bar Harbor, Maine
Rides were slow heading north, but I didn’t mind since it was a beautiful day. The wind off the ocean kept the blackflies away most of the time. By early evening, I was sitting on the village green in Bar Harbor. There was a mixture of other travelers and locals hanging out, playing guitar, and throwing frisbees. One of the local guys told me the Bar Harbor police didn’t seem to care if people slept in the park as long as they didn’t get too rowdy.
Like Virginia Beach, it wasn’t lost on me that I was crossing trails with where I had traveled with Vickie the year before. I wasn’t intentionally traveling in the same area, but we had seen very little of Acadia and I wanted to explore more of the national park.
I spent the night in the gazebo that was built for band concerts on the green. There were also a couple guys from Montreal and a guy named Bruce from Maryland, who had also just arrived. Bruce and I got to talking and he suggested that we do some hiking in the park together. He seemed OK and I agreed. The police came by later and checked on us but didn’t ask us to leave.
June 14th, Acadia National Park, Maine
Bruce and I thumbed a couple rides that got us over near the Hadlock Ponds and started hiking from there. We hid our packs in the woods near one of the trail junctions and hiked up to the top of Sargent Mountain. Later, we moved our packs to a different location and hiked to the top of Penobscot Moutain. In the late afternoon, we hiked down toward Jordan Pond and found a place to camp not far from one of the carriage roads.
Photo source: Joe Braun, Penobscot Mountain and Sargent Mountain Photos (Page 3) - Joe's Guide to Acadia National Park
A view to the south from the granitic top of Mt. Penobscot. Jordan Pond is on the left and the Atlantic Ocean and some offshore islands are on the top. Bruce and I hiked to the top of the first, second, and fifth highest mountains in Acadia during the couple days we were in the park.
June 15th, Acadia National Park, Maine
From our campsite, we hiked over the saddle between the two rounded hills called the Bubbles. Then we hiked up the west face of Cadillac Mountain, the highest mountain in the park. It was a good hike with excellent views.
I was aware that there was a road to the top of Cadillac Mountain so I expected there would be people on top. But, I didn’t expect there would be as many as we encountered. We met some people on top and they offered us a ride to the Blackwoods campground where they were staying. We had enough time to hike one of the nearby trails that ran right along the coast.
June 16th, Penobsquis, New Brunswick
I told Bruce I wanted to head up into the Maritime Provinces of Canada. He asked if it was OK if we continued together and I agreed. He was easy to get along with and it was nice to have a travel companion for a while.
It took us most of the morning just to get off the island. Once off the island, we got good rides. We crossed the border at Calais/St. Stephen, where they thoroughly searched us. One of our rides was with a guy who was a terrible driver. After about three near accidents, I convinced him to let me drive. I don’t think he was drunk—he was just a terrible driver.
We ended the day near a little town called Penobsquis. It was on the road that led to Fundy National Park, which we had decided we wanted to visit.
June 17th, Point Wolfe, Fundy National Park, New Brunswick
It was a short ride to the park from Penobsquis. We picked up some groceries at Alma, the town nearest to the park and then got showers at the park headquarters.
I had read about the huge tidal variations on the Bay of Fundy and was interested in witnessing it. At Fundy National Park, the difference between high tide and low tide was about 40 vertical feet. I decided that a good place to view the tides was at the end of Point Wolfe, a narrow, rocky strip of land that jutted out into the bay.
We hiked around in the park most of the day and then headed out to the end of Point Wolfe in the early evening. Our plan to view the tides was foiled when a fog rolled in. At dusk, I heard some crashing in the brush near the campsite. I looked over and saw the outline of something big. Whatever it was had its head down. The underbrush concealed its legs. I told Bruce I thought we had a bear in camp.
Then it raised its head, I saw its antlers, and recognized that it was a moose. Because it was getting dark, all I could see was its silhouette. It was roughly 15 feet from us and seemed unconcerned about our presence. It was the first time I’d seen a moose—although I wasn’t totally sure I could say I saw it since it was only a silhouette. It was like looking at a cutout of a moose.
I wondered what the moose was doing on Point Wolfe. It was a narrow little peninsula and the sides dropped off steeply. There was only level ground in places. Did the moose bed on Point Wolfe, I wondered. It must have, because it continued past us and I didn’t hear it come back.
It started raining not long after we saw the moose. Later it started raining hard.
Photo source: www.bayoffundy.com
Shown at top center is the narrow, steep-sided peninsula that is called Point Wolfe, where we camped. We had to put the tent up right on the top of the ridge because of the steep slopes just off the ridge top. To the left of it is the outflow of the Point Wolfe River. Unfortunately, we did not get to see any of the tidal variation we were hoping to see because of the rain and the fog.
June 18th, Fundy National Park, New Brunswick
It rained hard for much of the night. I was still traveling with the pup tent that Vickie and I had used the year before. It was light weight, but it wasn’t that great in a downpour. Water was pooling in the corners.
We waited for it to let up before breaking camp but there didn’t seem to be any indication that it was going to let up soon. Bruce decided to head to a nearby covered bridge. After he left, I broke camp in the pouring rain, which wasn’t easy and met him at the bridge. We were damp, but not soaked and our gear, other than the tent, was still mostly dry.
We hung out on the bridge for a while and were offered a ride into Alma. As we were walking down the street in Alma, some girls came out on the porch of the town restaurant and called to us. "What are you silly boys doing, walking around in the rain? Come in here and get out of the weather."
They guided us to a table in the corner where they brought us each a cup of hot coffee. Four or five girls of about high school or college age came over and sat with us. They were the wait staff for the restaurant and it was in between the breakfast rush and lunch, so they seemed to have nothing pressing to do. They admitted that the woman who was the manager was away on an errand or they wouldn’t have been permitted to be so hospitable or to neglect their side work.
They wanted to know what we were doing and when we told them we had camped out on Point Wolfe they uniformly wondered why on earth anyone would voluntarily do that. They asked where we were from and how we got there. When we told them, they seemed to have only a vague sense of where West Virginia and Maryland were but thought that they must both be exotic places.
It was a pleasant visit. Sometimes one of the girls would get up and do a little work and another girl would come and sit with us. We enjoyed being fussed over by the girls so much that Bruce and I stayed for lunch. The girls shifted to looking busy when the manager finally returned. "Don’t tell her we gave you free coffee," they whispered.
After lunch, we found a laundromat and dried our sleeping bags. It was still raining so there seemed no point in trying to head further down the road. We found an Adirondack-style shelter in the park and spent the night there. We were out of the rain but unprotected from the mosquitoes and were pestered all night.
June 19th, Truro, Nova Scotia
We left Fundy National Park, heading towards Nova Scotia. One of our rides was heading to Prince Edward Island and Bruce decided to stick with him, so we split up near Sackville. It had been nice to have a traveling companion for a while but I was also glad to be on my own again.
I continued into Nova Scotia and got as far as Truro at the end of the day. According to the pocket pamphlet of Canadian government hostels, there was supposed to be one in Truro. But there wasn’t. I was told that the arrangements for setting up the hostel fell through after the guide was printed. I met a guy from Newfoundland and he told me some people were staying in Victoria Park and I spent the night there.
June 20th, Margaree Forks, Nova Scotia
I had a long wait for my first ride. After that though, I didn’t have to wait long for rides. I got a succession of short rides with local people, all of whom were friendly. At Port Hastings, I got off the Trans-Canada Highway and headed north on Route 19, which followed the western coast of Cape Breton Island.
Vickie and I had had attempted to thumb around the coast of the island on the Cabot Trail the previous summer, but we turned back, at Vickie’s request, when it seemed the rain was unlikely to relent. This time I decided to travel clockwise instead of counterclockwise. The weather was perfect this time—mostly sunny with pleasant temperatures.
It seemed like I was getting rides from one town to the next—no one was going very far. That was fine though since everyone was so friendly. I got a ride with an older man to Craigmore. He was knowledgeable about local history and when I remarked about seeing French-sounding names in places, he filled me in on some of the history of the Acadian people in that area. [12] A young woman gave me a ride to Mabou, and a pretty girl named Joanie gave me a ride to Inverness. The weather was so good I spent a lot of the time walking, mostly from the center of the towns to the outskirts where I would start thumbing again.
Outside of Inverness, I got a ride with two kids in a pickup truck. The boy looked to be about 16 and the girl looked to be about 14. They asked me if I would like to have dinner with them and I said something like I would if it was OK with their parents. They pulled over at a farmhouse not far off the highway.
Inside there were five or six younger kids and no adults. I offered to help with the meal but they said it wasn’t necessary. The two older kids who had given me the ride prepared the meal, which was quite tasty—a kind of hearty beef stew that they served over brown rice, with a salad, and some homemade bread. The two oldest kids made all the younger kids wash their hands before sitting down (which embarrassed me into doing the same). One of the younger kids offered up a prayer before we started eating—it was his turn.
I was really curious about what the circumstances were. Were all the kids siblings? The two eldest kids were clearly not old enough to be parents of any of the younger kids. They seemed to be brother and sister. Why were there all these kids with no adults around? I asked a couple questions, hoping they would fill me in but their answers were vague. After the main course, everyone got a bowl of ice cream. For me, this was a feast.
I offered to help with the dishes but they declined. Instead, they indicated that it was time for them to return me to the side of the road. It was an odd interaction. I didn’t learn anything about them. I’m not even sure if I got anyone’s names. And, they seemed to have no curiosity about me. No one asked me where I was coming from or going to. Except for the youngest kids, they avoided eye contact. It felt a little eerie somehow. It was, however, a wonderful dinner.
Back on the road, I got one more ride with a local carpenter to Margaree Forks, where I found a place in the woods to camp for the night.
June 21st, Ingonish Beach, Nova Scotia
In the morning, I walked through Margaree Forks and got a ride to Margaree Harbour, where I mailed some letters. I realized there were a bunch of little villages called Margaree something or other, each a couple miles from another. Besides Margaree Forks and Margaree Harbour, there was Margaree Centre, East Margaree, Margaree Valley, Southwest Margaree, and Margaree Brook.
Rides were slower than yesterday, but the weather was still good and the scenery was beautiful so all was well. I got a ride to Cheticamp, which I was told was a good place to try some Acadian foods. I had an early lunch of rapure pie, which was more like a casserole than a pie. There was no crust. It had a layer of chicken between two layers of grated potatoes and onions and then the whole thing baked until it was crispy on the top and edges.
Out of Cheticamp I got a ride with a guy named Percy who was on his way to Pleasant Bay. Percy appeared to be in his late 60s. He had a lot of questions and was interested in my travels. Before we got to Pleasant Bay he wanted to stop by and visit his mother, who he said would be tickled to meet me.
I wish I had a picture of her house. She told me she had lived in the house her whole life. It looked to me like it hadn’t changed since the 1890s. There were lace doilies on the backs of all the ancient chairs and sofas, floral patterned wallpaper, and tassels hanging from the curtains and lamp shades. She insisted on fixing us both tea and sliced some roast beef and some homemade bread, served on blue and white china plates that Percy’s mother said belonged to her grandmother. Percy’s mother had to have been well into her 90s but she did not appear to be at all frail.
After saying goodbye to Percy’s mother, we continued to Pleasant Bay, where Percy insisted on buying me a Schooner beer. After Pleasant Bay, the road, which had been following the coast, turned east into the interior of the island. I got a ride with some wild kids who were delivering a new windshield for an ambulance. The way they were driving over the mountains I wasn’t sure whether either the windshield or I were going to make it in one piece. A guy who worked for the Coast Guard drove me into Ingonish, where I found a place to camp for the night.
Photo source: A Complete Cabot Trail Itinerary - 22 Incredible Stops - The Planet D
A view of the Cabot Trail looking southwest (in the direction I had come from). Percy took me to this overlook (which he referred to as a "look off") on French Mountain, north of Cheticamp. It is probably one of the most photographed views of the Cabot Trail, which hugs the coast in this section. The Gulf of St. Lawrence is on the right.
June 22nd, on board the John Hamilton Gray on the Cabot Strait
It started raining before sunrise and didn’t stop until noon. I didn’t see any point in trying to hitchhike in the rain so I just stayed in the tent until the rain stopped.
Once back on the road, I got a couple short rides and then got a ride with a slightly past middle-aged, slightly above middle-class couple from Stratford, Ontario. I very rarely got rides with people like them in the U.S. but Canadians were, in general, friendlier towards hitchhikers than Americans.
The wife was driving and she must not have had any experience on curvy roads. She oversteered and we went careening into the other lane, where she panicked, oversteered again, and nearly took us over a cliff. Fortunately, there was no oncoming traffic but that ride is in the Top Ten of my list of scary rides, even though it only lasted a few seconds.
After everyone’s heart stopped racing, the husband took over driving and things were better. They were just out driving around. They asked where I was heading and I told them I was heading to Sydney because I wanted to catch the ferry to Newfoundland. We got along well and they eventually decided that they would just ride me to the ferry terminal. Maybe they felt guilty because they almost killed me.
The ferry was scheduled to depart at 5:15 pm and it was past that time when we pulled up to the dock. They were just finishing loading cars though, so I said a quick goodbye and darted onboard at the very last minute. The ferry was the John Hamilton Gray, a Canadian National ferry. I noticed that there were rails on the bottom level of the ferry, which meant the ferry could move railcars across the strait, although there were none on this trip.
It was a six-hour trip from Sydney to Port-aux-Basques in western Newfoundland. I got a little bit of sleep on the way over but not much.
June 23rd, St. John’s, Newfoundland
The ferry arrived in Port-aux-Basques around midnight. I met another hitchhiker on the boat, a guy named Doug from Windsor, Ontario. We both were looking for the hostel that was located somewhere outside of Port-aux-Basques. The hostel was called the Newfie Bullet because it was made up of old railcars from the coast-to-coast train of that name. [13] The locals, I later learned, referred to the hostel as the hippie camp.
We had heard that the hostel was about five miles outside of town so we hitched a ride heading east and got a ride with a guy who said he was going to Corner Brook. We never saw a sign for the hostel, so we just kept riding with him. We didn’t feel like we could ask him to turn back and look for it.
When we got to Corner Brook, our driver said he wanted to stop for breakfast. Corner Brook was a good-sized town but there was absolutely no place that was yet open for breakfast. It was just starting to get light. Doug and I were a little confused because he had told us that he was going to Corner Brook but now he told us he was going to continue further to Gander. I suspect he said Corner Brook so he could ditch us there if he decided he didn’t like us.
At Gander, we found an open place and ate breakfast. Then our driver told us he was going to continue towards St. John’s, so we ended up getting one ride the whole way—or so we thought. About 70 miles out of St. John’s he decided to stop and visit some friends, so we were on our own.
Doug suggested that we would have better luck if we split up. I let him stand up front and he got a ride before me. It took me three more rides to get into St. John’s. One of them was with a couple of guys whose Newfie accents were so thick I often didn’t know what they were talking about. It didn’t help that they were using Newfie slang. It reminded me of the ride I had with Mike in New Orleans. I wondered what would happen if Mike and these guys tried to communicate.
The hostel was in an old tuberculosis sanitarium. When I told one person where I was going he said, "Oh, yes, the ol’ san." It was on Topsail Road, which everyone pronounced as Topsle. I ended up getting to the hostel before Doug. He got into St. John’s before me but had some trouble finding the hostel. We had hitchhiked coast to coast across Newfoundland in one day, a distance of 561 miles, because the highway made a big arc to the north and then back south again.
It was called "The End of the World Hostel." The people staying there were sociable and the manager was friendly and helpful. Some of the guests brought in a huge quantity of capelin to share. Capelin are a smelt-like fish. They sometimes come up onto the beach to spawn in huge numbers and in certain places it was easy to collect a large quantity with either a hand net or sometimes even just a bucket.
Everyone was invited to have some capelin—as long as they were willing to help clean them. That wasn’t easy since they are small, slender fish. Fortunately, it wasn’t necessary to remove any bones. They were small enough that the bones were edible. We breaded some, but most of them we just fried uncoated. We combined what other foods we had for some variety.
I went to bed early since I’d only had a few hours of sleep in the last 24 hours.
June 24th, St. John’s, Newfoundland
Doug and I agreed to hike around and explore St. John’s together. The hostel manager told us to be sure to check out the harbor because there was a wooden-hulled fishing sailboat from Portugal docked there and they didn’t see many of them anymore.
Photo source: 0d5005f48b30c801a2ed4ace1b36b15e.jpg (1024×723)
The older part of St. John’s is known for its hilly terrain and many rowhouses. The rowhouses date to the 1890s. Many were built after a fire destroyed much of the downtown in 1892. They are typically three-story buildings with a mansard roof and dormers on the third floor. They are now sometimes referred to as Jellybean Rowhouses because of their bright colors. In 1974, most of them were not as colorful as more recent photos indicate.
We thumbed a ride downtown and then hiked through the narrow, rocky streets of the Battery neighborhood and then up to the top of Signal Hill, where we could see St. John’s and the harbor on one side and icebergs floating in the Atlantic Ocean on the other side. On the way back we stopped by the waterfront to check out the Portuguese fishing ship. Some of the fishermen were playing soccer along the piers.
I was amazed to see that there were still four-masted fishing sailboats still operating in 1974. Contrary to what the hostel manager told us though; it had an iron hull. I regret that I failed to write down the name of the ship but some internet research leads me to believe that the ship we saw was the Santa Maria Manuela. [14] It was one of the few Portuguese sailboats that was still active into the 1970s.
The Portuguese had been fishing for cod on the Grand Banks off the coast of Newfoundland for centuries, as had fishermen from other countries. Due to the increasing use of large trawlers through the 1950s and 60s, the tonnage of cod caught increased each year. Fearing a collapse of the fishery from overfishing, Canada extended their exclusive fishing boundaries in 1969 from three to 200 nautical miles from shore to better manage the Grand Banks fishery. This meant the Grand Banks were no longer international waters. As the amount of cod caught started to dwindle, countries like Portugal were given smaller and smaller quotas of fish that they were permitted to catch each year. By 1974, few Portuguese ships were fishing for cod in the Grand Banks.
Foreign ships did, however, continue to fish for cod in areas outside the exclusion zone and would visit St. John’s harbor for supplies, bait, to receive mail, for shelter from storms, and to obtain treatment for sick or injured fishermen and crew. In the 1950s, there were sometimes dozens of Portuguese fishing ships docked at the St. John’s harbor and there was a social club for Portuguese fishermen. The ship we saw was the last gasp of trans-Atlantic, commercial sailing ships.
The crew of what was most likely the Santa Maria Manuela were living through history in another way as well, of which I was also oblivious at the time. The ship had left Portugal in early April. On April 25th, there was a military coup in Portugal with popular support that toppled the authoritarian regime that had been in power for almost 50 years. It was likely that the crew was unaware of what was going on at home in Portugal until they arrived in St. John’s. They had left Portugal under one government and would return under another.
Watching the fishermen having fun kicking around a ball on the docks, disguised the fact that working on a Portuguese fishing boat was grueling, dangerous work. The fishermen did not trawl for fish from the deck of the ship. They lowered about three dozen one-man dories into the ocean and fished using 50-meter (or longer) lines that they trailed behind the dories. There was a baited hook every meter. They fished until their dories were full or until the captain signaled them in.
After transferring the cod from the dories to the hold, the fisherman still had to scale, clean, and salt the fish. If the fishing was productive, the men usually got only four hours of sleep. If it were exceptionally productive, they worked around the clock.
Like the circus, the profitability of the entire operation seemed to hinge on cheap labor. The fishermen tended to be poor men who were desperate enough to be away from their families for six months to make some money. They also got a military exemption at a time when the Portuguese government was fighting independence movements in Angola and Mozambique.
After exploring the docks, Doug and I wandered around on Duckworth Street, which had some odd shops that catered to visiting sailors. We also found the provincial museum, where we spent some time. Then we worked our way back up Water Street to Hamilton, and then Topsail Road to the hostel, where we shared a dinner with the other wanderers.
Photo Source: The Battery, St John's, Newfoundland Photograph by Patrick J. Wall
A view of the rocky neighborhood called the Battery, which Doug and I walked through on our hike to the top of Signal Hill. The houses in this more recent photo appear to be in much better shape than the rather ramshackle shanties I remember walking past in 1974.
June 25th, on board the Ambrose Shea
I was up and hit the road early. I had decided to take the long ferry back to Nova Scotia, which left from Argentia. [15] The ferry from Sydney to Port-aux-Basques was about a six-hour trip, but the trip from Argentia, because it left from eastern Newfoundland, lasted about 12 hours.
I got one ride to the TCH and then a ride right to the ferry dock with a guy who worked for Canadian National, which operated the ferry. I ran into a guy from Sweden, who I had met the first night at the hostel. I hung out on the deck with him looking for whales—we saw some but they were distant. After it got too dark to see anything, I went inside and found a long couch in the lounge and went to sleep.
June 26th, Amherst, Nova Scotia
The ferry docked at Sydney around 11:00 am. We had to wait for a freighter to leave. I got a ride into town with a guy who left me off right on Route 4. A trucker hauling limestone rode me into Irish Cove.
I got a ride with a guy from British Columbia who went by D.H. He was on a summer exploration tour of Canada and was heading up around the Gaspé Peninsula. At this point I had decided I was heading toward Québec City so we were heading in the same direction. He told me I could ride with him as long as I wanted since he could use a navigator and someone to talk to. D.H. drove a pickup with a cap over the bed, which held all his gear. He was about five years older than me.
We got along quite well. We discovered that we liked a lot of the same music and had read many of the same books. It wasn’t until mid-afternoon that D.H. discovered that I was from the US and his whole demeanor changed. It was like a switch flicked. Once he knew I was American, he seemed to search for things to criticize.
He asked me how I thought I was going to be able to manage in Québec. I told him I wasn’t fluent but I thought I had enough French to get by. He said no one would understand my French with my atrocious American accent. I didn’t what to make things worse so I didn’t ask him how he thought he would manage on the Gaspé peninsula without any French at all.
I almost expected him to ask me to get out, but he didn’t. We drove through Port Hawkesbury, New Glasgow, and on to Amherst, where there was supposed to be a government hostel. But there wasn’t. It appeared to be another situation where one was planned, but the plan fell through. Someone directed us to Father Curry, who opened the gym of the local Catholic school and let us sleep on the floor. There were a couple of other wanderers there, as well.
June 27th, Campbellton, New Brunswick
The morning raised the question of whether I should continue riding with D.H., assuming he was still willing to give me a ride. We were, after all, still heading in the same direction. Riding with D.H. had become so unpleasant though that I told him I thought I’d head out on my own and give him a break. He didn’t object, which came as no surprise.
It wasn’t quite that easy to disentangle though. I didn’t have any long waits getting rides and three times during the day I saw D.H. drive by. I waved but he pretended he didn’t see me. I only remember ever passing him once, so he must have pulled over a couple times. The third time he passed me he had a pained look on his face.
There was a hostel at Campbellton, where I spent the night. I was already there and talking with some of the other travelers when D.H. arrived. He had a look on his face that said, "What do I have to do to be rid of this guy?" I asked him how his day went but he didn’t respond. Campbellton was close to where our paths would split so I knew I wouldn’t be a source of torment for him much longer.
June 28th, Québec City, Québec
It was one of those days when I didn’t have to wait long for rides. I got a long ride to Kedgewick, a short one to St. Quentin, and another long ride to Edmundston. I got a ride to Montmagny, about 40 miles from Québec, with a friendly guy who was born in North Africa, moved to France, and then to Canada. He spoke French, English, Spanish, and Arabic. I got rides into the city with mostly French-speaking people, who didn’t seem to have any trouble understanding my French, despite the atrocious accent.
I found a hostel on Avenue Taché. I made a friend immediately with a girl named Angela. I heard her bemoaning that a seam had ripped on her favorite pair of pants. I carried a bit of thread and a needle for occasional repairs and I volunteered to repair her pants for her. It wasn’t elegant stitching, but her purple corduroy pants were again wearable and she seemed delighted to have them back in the rotation.
It wasn’t a large hostel—there were two other, larger hostels in the city—and there were only a handful of people staying. There were two girls from New Jersey, Karla and Judy, traveling together, Doug from Seattle (not the Doug I traveled with in Newfoundland), Bill from Connecticut, and Steve from New Orleans. Angela was from an island off the coast of British Columbia and was the only Canadian. We all seemed to hit it off. The hostel had a kitchen we could use and we collaborated on dinner. Afterwards we went for a stroll together on the Plains of Abraham, the huge city park on the bluff looking over the St. Lawrence.
I don’t remember exactly what the circumstances were but the seven of us ended up sleeping on the floor in the common room of the hostel. There were a couple bunk rooms upstairs but they were segregated by gender. I think we all spontaneously decided to sleep in the same room. The manager didn’t seem to care.
June 29th, Québec City, Québec
I was up before the others and went for a walk in the neighborhood on my own. The hostel had a convenient location near the Citadel and the massive hotel called Le Château Frontenac. The Plains of Abraham were just across the street.
In the afternoon, the seven of us hung out in the common room (what must have been the living room when the hostel was someone’s house) and told traveling stories. Angela had just gotten back from traveling around solo in Europe and was in the process of hitchhiking coast to coast in Canada. Karla and Judy told a story about how they had inadvertently ended up at night in the Combat Zone in Boston. At the time, the Combat Zone was an area of strip clubs, seedy night clubs, and peep shows and was notorious for prostitution, drug dealing, and occasional violence.
To make matters worse, there were hundreds of sailors on shore leave. Karla and Judy had, I think, just graduated from high school and were on the verge of freaking out. Fortunately, some Boston police officers helped them out. Walking through the Combat Zone was at the top of a list of experiences the girls were compiling that they had agreed they would not tell their parents about when they made their required calls home.
Photo source: unknown
The giant hotel called Le Château Frontenac casts an imposing presence on the city. It sits on the bluff above the St. Lawrence and there are probably few places in the city from where it isn’t visible. It was built between 1892 and 1893 by the Canadian Pacific Railways as luxury lodgings for railroad passengers. It has been expanded and renovated multiple times since then and now has more than 600 rooms.
The architectural style is called Châteauesque, based on the style of French Renaissance châteaux in the Loire River Valley. It features heavily ornamented spires, turrets, towers, gables, dormers, and steeply pitched copper roofs. Since 2001, it has been called the Fairmont Le Château Frontenac. Currently, nightly rates for rooms there vary from 300 to 1000 dollars. In 1974, several blocks away, a night at the Avenue Taché hostel cost 1.25 Canadian dollars.
In the evening, six of us walked to the old city and drank a few beers. Angela stayed behind because the hostel manager paid her to fill in for him so he could have a night off. We went to one place called Faubourg and another called L’ostradamus, which was pretty lively. Bill and I did most of the communicating with the bartenders since we were the only ones who knew any French. I developed something of a crush on Judy over the course of the evening.
June 30th, Québec City, Québec
In the morning, Angela, Bill, and I wandered around the lower town—the part along the river at the foot of the bluffs. There was an incline (which they called a funicular) to get down the cliff, but we found some steps and a steep street to get down. Bill was something of the goofball but was fun to hang out with.
In the afternoon, Judy asked me if I would go with her over to L’ostradamus. She had accidentally left her favorite hat there the previous nightt—a gray felt hat with a Humphrey Bogart pin. She needed someone who could speak some French to ask about the hat. Of course, I was more than happy to go for a walk with her. Unfortunately, her hat wasn’t there—someone had probably left with it.
Everyone hung out in the common room or the front porch at the hostel for the rest of the afternoon. I played chess with Steve from New Orleans and we all talked politics. Most of the indoor hostels kicked everyone out during the day, but the guy managing the Avenue Taché hostel didn’t seem to care and hung out with us for most of the afternoon. In the evening, I could tell that Angela was upset about something.
