Heart of the Matter
["Ready to load onto the motorcycle in Halifax"]
["Peaceful spot in Ketch Harbour. Next up - Pennant Point"]
Part 4 - Lost in the Woods
Lord, I just wanted the day to be over. I stood facing the end of the deadest of dead ends in a thick part of a woods near Pennant Point, close to the Atlantic Ocean, 35 kilometres out of Halifax. I didn't know which way to turn. The S.S. Silver Walnut, a wooden boat that I'd built in my basement a month before to hold my father's ashes, weighed over 100 pounds. My motorcycle boots weighed another 50, my clothes were also heavy and sticky with sweat and I could hear but not see other hikers on some trail not far away, but exactly where I couldn't tell. So I decided to toss the damn boat into some brush and go home, that's if I could find my way out of the woods and back to Halifax.
I said, "No one will ever know."
I'm not sure, but that statement might be the stupidest I've ever made. Surely I have never felt as hot and damp or discouraged and dejected as at that moment, and if there'd been a prize awarded that day for the saddest of sad sacks lost in the woods I would have won. And, quite honestly, the day had not started out too badly.
I packed the boat upon my bike at an early hour and because it was a cool morning I dressed warmly for the ride to the Atlantic Coast. I exitted Halifax without a hitch (a busy and confusing traffic circle at Quinpool could have caused a major one) and enjoyed pleasant scenery along the way.
Closer to my goal, however, I needed help with directions, and after asking the way to Pennant Point from a cashier at a variety store in Sambro (she gave me directions to West Pennant or Pennant Bay, I believe now) I got myself into a real mess. Only after exploring a few dirt roads that took me to places and bits of shoreline that I can only recall with the help of photographs, I found my way back to the way I came and discovered the road I needed to help me arrive safely - though much later than expected - at East Pennant and some walking trails to the point of land I desired to visit.
["So, I want to get to Pennant Point"]
["One dead end will lead to another"]
I parked the bike, stowed my motorcycle jacket, unpacked the boat and placed it in two or three sturdy plastic bags, added two books (containing passages I would read once I reached my destination) to the weight, listened attentively to a few tips from a hiker entering his car and made my way to a trail that seemed to go in the right direction. I felt I was beginning the most important leg of my 2,300 kilometer-long journey, the promise to my father would soon be fulfilled. I just had to find a quiet, private spot on the Atlantic coast.
I soon learned that locating a private spot was easier said than done and the hiker I'd met back in the parking lot had forgotten to mention a couple of significant items. He didn't mention how popular Pennant Point was and that privacy along the shore was hard to find. I spotted people with fishing poles or cameras in hand, couples sharing blankets and some in tight embrace. He also forgot to tell me the clear trail ended at a rugged part of the coast and various poorly managed trails led inland and would take hikers off in all directions. I was soon thinking I'd picked the wrong place, or the right place on the wrong day, and I was soon making my way inland to escape the possibility of stumbling upon lovers' trysts.
At about the same time the temperature seemed to reach the high 30s, the package I carried reached 100 pounds and the trail disappeared before my eyes. I stopped long enough to remove my sweater and wrap it around my waist but the heat only seemed to get worse. When I stumbled down a ledge and found myself in a dark corner with no path ahead - only more thick brush - I felt I'd reached the end of the line. I prepared to toss the boat into a dark corner where no one would find it. I made a stupid comment.
"No one will ever know."
How badly I must have wanted the day to end. Within seconds, however, I knew how wrong I was. I shook my head at myself. My father would know. And I would know and forever kick myself. But what could I do?
Words came to me from out of my experience as a long distance runner. Take one step up that ledge, I told myself. Take one more step. Take three or four more steps. Look at that. You're out of your hole. You still have good legs. Take three or four more steps. Come on. One more short walk to that small trail. One more mile to the finish line. Get out to the shore and take one last look.
And I ultimately arrived at a point of land with a view of the shore and I soon thereafter found, what I call today, my spot. A refreshing breeze from the Atlantic revived me. I made it. With dad's boat, some books to read, some flowers in my free hand.
The next hour is a blur. Thank goodness I took vivid photographs and videos.
["Clear trail ends at the left side of next beach"]
["That looks like a good spot, except for the people"]
["Private spots are hard to come by"]
["I can finally sit down, cool off and pull out a good Navy book"]
With the sound of waves splashing at my feet I read a few words I knew my dad would appreciate. I planted one foot (the motorcycle boots came in handy after all) into a wide crack so I wouldn't fall into the ocean and swung dad's boat back and forth. Then I gave her a darn good toss.
I've crossed a lot of finish lines in my life. None felt better than that mighty toss, let me tell you.
["The S.S. Silver Walnut heads off to Scotland"]
More to follow.
Link to Halifax and Another Hard Promise
Photos GH
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