Amos, QC >> Roberval, QC >> Baie-Comeau, QC >> Matane, QC (via ferry)
734 miles ridden/18 hours (+40-mile/3 hour ferry crossing)
A crazy last few days, the longest haul being the northern route from Amos to Roberval, Quebec, last night, which took 10 hours due to a holdup in the Cree First Nation of Waswanipi. Following the advice of the VTX riders I met in McBride three weeks ago, today I took Route 381 south at Saguenay and made it to Baie-Comeau by 4p, which wouldn’t have been possible if I hadn’t made it to Roberval yesterday.
Despite the rain and fog, Route 381 is the type of road one dreams of riding: there was one roller coaster moment where the bike was screaming to make it to the top of a ridiculously steep hill and at the crest as you start to pick up speed again, the stomach-churning realization that you can’t see the road in front of you. I half expected to be suspended in the air momentarily, like Wiley E. Coyote in a Road Runner cartoon, leaving a puff of smoke behind me as I plummeted back to earth, but the road magically appeared under my tires and I thankfully remained grounded.
On a less thrilling note, I discovered the new camera remotes I bought in Bismarck, ND, don’t even work half the time, so that’s annoying. Not terribly surprising, but annoying nonetheless.
But back to how awesome this road is: It may even outdo those around Sturgis, although for different reasons. After reaching peak elevation (just shy of 1,000 meters), the tarmac descends in a toboggan/bobsled run-like manner: Down, down, down you go (wondering where all the elevation came from) leaning left and right through a series of banked corners that brought an achingly wide smile to my face. I traveled this route riding north to south and can’t imagine it’s as fun in reverse. I really lucked out; a trip highlight.
At one point I was stuck behind a logging truck – not where you want to be on such an epic road – and was trying to figure out how to get a sightline to pass after he flipped on his left-hand turn signal and started braking, then never turned. If only I was in a crow’s nest above the fray, I could see past the rolling roadblock in front of me. The next time his blinker – I’m from New England, look it up – came on, I realized he was being my second set of eyes, and that this was an indication it was safe to pass. The legend of polite Canadians lives on!
Feeling completely energized from the thrills, twists and turns encountered, I was surprised at the intersection of Rte. 381 to learn I was only 360km from Quebec City, and therefore, a mere 9 hours from Boston. And while I had somewhat arbitrarily chosen Baie-Comeau as the next major milestone of the trip, as I turned the bike east and rolled back on the throttle, I knew there was no heading home early.
The coastal drive to Baie-Comeau, I’m sure splendid on a clear day, offered little beyond fog-induced whiteout conditions to the water’s edge and out to sea. Tangentially related, I’ve taken more ferries on this trip than I ever could have imagined, a pleasant surprise.
There was one moment en route, however, that rivaled the roller coaster: Passing the first of two three-truck caravans hauling half a house each, accelerating into oncoming traffic to beat the lead car, and leaning into a corner at 100 (mph or km, I’m not sure), feeling triumphant and perhaps a bit cocky, when a pair of frost heaves put me back in my place: that split second of fear, wondering if the bike is going to topple, leaving me sliding across the highway, all my possessions racing me to the ditch on the other side.
It’s what we live for and live in fear of: those heart-stopping, gut-wrenching moments that make life worth living; they remind us we’re mortal and reward us for taking risk. Oddly, by almost dying, we reaffirm the value of life. Of course, ask me if I still feel this way when I’m picking myself and all my possessions up off the road and I may have a different opinion on the matter then.
The road is king, and we are lucky to be on it.
All that drama and excitement aside, I made it to Baie-Comeau in one piece by 4p. Since the ferry didn’t leave until 8p, I had four hours to debate which of two routes I’d take to Newfoundland: whether to drive 350 miles north on Quebec’s Route 389 to Labrador, and once there, cross the province on Route 500 to a ferry to Newfoundland; or hop on the ferry to Matane, QC, and drive the coastal route to the Nova Scotia ferry to Newfoundland.
The Baie-Comeau tourism office had plenty of literature about the road to Labrador (Route 389): maps offered daily mileage suggestions; road conditions (mostly paved, a few long gravel stretches, but nothing major); fueling/lodging options along the way; etc. But once you reach the Labrador border, you fall into an information black hole. I asked the woman if there was a similar tourism office at the Quebec/Labrador border, and she had no idea. (Somewhat oddly, the woman at the V.I.C. in Baie-Comeau barely spoke English. Granted, I’m in French Canada and my French is rusty, but are they not expecting foreign-language speakers? What if I only spoke German?)
What little information that was available indicated that Route 500 across Labrador was 90+% gravel, making it sound on par with the Dempster Highway, the Dalton’s nasty cousin. And unlike Tok and the Top of the World Highway, the Quebec tourism office had no information about the condition of this road. So while Route 389 looked readily navigable without incident, this 600-mile stretch across Labrador looked like more of a crapshoot than I was willing to undertake alone.
Granted, the bike had recently been outfitted with two new tires and a bunch of functioning electronic components, but should there be another incident, I’d rather be nearer to civilization than the vast expanse of northern Quebec or the Middle of Nowhere, Labrador.
Admittedly, I feel like I’m trying to reason myself out of this leg of the trip – one I was originally looking forward to – and maybe I am a wuss, but I’m tired and would prefer the rest of this journey to be averse-incident free. Realistically, I could probably come up with excuses not to ride across Labrador until the end of days, which is disappointing, but at this point I’m not sure the risk is worth it. Maybe I just don’t have it in me… Why should it matter if I was rolling solo or in a group? Or if I had a satellite phone? Or could change a flat on my own in less than an hour? Looking at that list, perhaps I’m really not that well prepared. Maybe I lucked out on the A.C., TotW and ALCAN. Sitting in the ferry queue, I felt like my nine lives were almost up and I had better not push my luck any further.
So I’m waiting to see if I can get on – perhaps this is the sign I need – feeling a bit down, but a bit relieved. A bit like a sellout. A bit confused and disappointed in myself. Hopefully, the rest of the trip will be amazing enough to make me forget about it.
[2nd journal entry]
That’s funny. After a brief conversation of painfully stilted French (mine) and equally horrible English (his), a guy who used to work on Route 389 just told me that the last 70 miles of gravel would be impassible on my bike – “wrong machine” we agreed on – and that my route to Newfoundland via ferry was the correct choice. Small world. By the way, who else is reading my mind?
Oh yeah, saw my first Massachusetts license plate today. Pretty psyched.
I had a revelation during my 4-hour wait for the ferry: If I’d been riding a Hayabusa on this trip, it would have only taken half as long.
Also, the Quebec V.I.C.s don’t have maps with campgrounds labeled on them. But you know where I saw one that did? On the wall of the ferry to Matane. Not for sale in the gift shop or otherwise available, naturallement.
