Between Canso and Halifax on the Atlantic coast road of Nova Scotia there's a ferry over the Country Harbor River. Memories of this summer's trip to Canada and of that fraught day and the people I encountered have been coming back to me.
I'd spent the night at a campsite high on a bluff like a boat prow jutting into the river. High above, stars innumerable, but downriver a bright yellow light like a city in flames flicking just over the horizon.
In the brilliant morning following, driving down the steep road to the ferry I wondered if I had the right cash to pay. I made a U turn to go back to a store but changed my mind and in the process scraped my oil pan hard on the ridge in the middle of the road--an awful sound.
On the ferry, I met a self-sufficient American woman with an SUV returning to Florida after a summer in a yoga retreat on Cape Breton (which, alas, I was not able to reach this trip). I learned something about the politics of the different yoga schools as the ferry pulled itself across the wide smooth water. The dropgate down, we vroomed up the hiill and onto a upland road of low trees and bushes. Ahead the brilliant blue sea was visible. The Florida woman passed me as I noticed peripherally a flash on my instrument panel.
Nothing, I thought, but nothing is nothing. Soon the oil pressure light was coming on when I went downhill or around corners. Maybe I was leaking oil; why, oh why, had I made that sudden U-turn. Suddenly the uninhabitation of the landscape seemed other than picturesque. What was I going to do if my engine lost all its lubrication and froze? My eye spent as much time on my dash as on the scenery. No houses anywhere. If' I stop, the last of my oil will drip away. Who'll be able to help me then? No, I have to keep going to where help can be found.
The road turned inland up the St Mary's river to Sherbrooke. Ah, I thought, a town. Surely there I'll find a garage to look at my car, a general store selling oil. The ride up the river was beautiful, winding road through dark conifers beside a bright river--I would had loved to love it but my plight required my premium attention.
Yes there was another road which led off into the interior--I saw the Florida woman head up there--but the main drag was all eateries and souvenir shops. If they had what I needed, it must surely be ahead of me down the coast road since it absolutely was not behind. Keep moving, I thought. The Florida woman raced by.
At the little town of Marie Joseph, a huge abandoned fishing ship was pulled up on the shore and loomed over the road. The Florida woman had pulled over to take a picture. I only noted the big wall of rusty metal before I left the useless town behind.
Down on the coast with the shore, I passed signs welcoming me to the community of Ecum Secum, but it was solely residential, useless. Pretty houses looking out on the water but no good for me, I barreled through. A few desolate miles beyond, Necum Teuch. Intriguing names. I wished I could have stopped but the oil light was blinking like a police car flasher. Maybe I'm being stupid, I thought; maybe someone nice in one of these nice houses could tell me how much farther down the road there was a store, if any.
Surely in Sheet Harbor; what about in West Sheet Harbor; Spry Harbor? Aaagh! Was there nothing before Halifax still many miles down the road.
Finally in Popes Harbor, hurrah (if it's not too late) a store at last. Just I turned off, the Florida woman shot by.This is where my desperation disappeared and the day became beautiful again.
Inside a the standard odd collection of rental videos, boxes of cereal and a cooler full of beer, and yes, motor oil. Several men in the store, one promising to pay for something a little later. No problem, said the friendly, open-faced woman happy to be of service. Two quarts of oil please, and do you take USD? No problem, maybe my husband here can look at your car.
He led me out and went to a shed next door and came out with a funnel. Let's look, he said, and popped the hood, and took out the dipstick. Yep, you need oil, he acknowledged. Another guy came up, very voluble, very friendly, and took a look himself. No, nothing there.
The first guy looked underneath. No drips. No, I don't see any drops on the ground, said the second fellow. There oil glugged into the thirsty engine which smelled of smoky burnt oil. You've got a leaking head gasket, he told me. That may be where the oil has gone. Lots of discussion around this between the two as I nodded and wondered why my mechanic back home hadn't picked this up when I took the vehicle to him for a pre-trip checkup.
What you need, the mechanic said, is this special thick sealant oil, yes just the thing, and do I? yes I do have some. Then each of the two told me stories of oil disasters averted by this miracle material. I remember, said the second guy, putting a quart and a half of this in a tractor one day and then, when I lost my oil, still able to work all day and the engine as good as new.
These happy evangelists sold me a quart of the gunk, which worked, waved aside any payment, told me that they'd like to see Boston one day, that I didn't have anything to worry about now, and to have a good time with my uncle an hour and a half away in the big town of Halifax.
Canada, gorgeous scenery, yes, but I remember your unguarded friendliness of your people just as much.
I'd spent the night at a campsite high on a bluff like a boat prow jutting into the river. High above, stars innumerable, but downriver a bright yellow light like a city in flames flicking just over the horizon.
In the brilliant morning following, driving down the steep road to the ferry I wondered if I had the right cash to pay. I made a U turn to go back to a store but changed my mind and in the process scraped my oil pan hard on the ridge in the middle of the road--an awful sound.
On the ferry, I met a self-sufficient American woman with an SUV returning to Florida after a summer in a yoga retreat on Cape Breton (which, alas, I was not able to reach this trip). I learned something about the politics of the different yoga schools as the ferry pulled itself across the wide smooth water. The dropgate down, we vroomed up the hiill and onto a upland road of low trees and bushes. Ahead the brilliant blue sea was visible. The Florida woman passed me as I noticed peripherally a flash on my instrument panel.
Nothing, I thought, but nothing is nothing. Soon the oil pressure light was coming on when I went downhill or around corners. Maybe I was leaking oil; why, oh why, had I made that sudden U-turn. Suddenly the uninhabitation of the landscape seemed other than picturesque. What was I going to do if my engine lost all its lubrication and froze? My eye spent as much time on my dash as on the scenery. No houses anywhere. If' I stop, the last of my oil will drip away. Who'll be able to help me then? No, I have to keep going to where help can be found.
The road turned inland up the St Mary's river to Sherbrooke. Ah, I thought, a town. Surely there I'll find a garage to look at my car, a general store selling oil. The ride up the river was beautiful, winding road through dark conifers beside a bright river--I would had loved to love it but my plight required my premium attention.
Yes there was another road which led off into the interior--I saw the Florida woman head up there--but the main drag was all eateries and souvenir shops. If they had what I needed, it must surely be ahead of me down the coast road since it absolutely was not behind. Keep moving, I thought. The Florida woman raced by.
At the little town of Marie Joseph, a huge abandoned fishing ship was pulled up on the shore and loomed over the road. The Florida woman had pulled over to take a picture. I only noted the big wall of rusty metal before I left the useless town behind.
Down on the coast with the shore, I passed signs welcoming me to the community of Ecum Secum, but it was solely residential, useless. Pretty houses looking out on the water but no good for me, I barreled through. A few desolate miles beyond, Necum Teuch. Intriguing names. I wished I could have stopped but the oil light was blinking like a police car flasher. Maybe I'm being stupid, I thought; maybe someone nice in one of these nice houses could tell me how much farther down the road there was a store, if any.
Surely in Sheet Harbor; what about in West Sheet Harbor; Spry Harbor? Aaagh! Was there nothing before Halifax still many miles down the road.
Finally in Popes Harbor, hurrah (if it's not too late) a store at last. Just I turned off, the Florida woman shot by.This is where my desperation disappeared and the day became beautiful again.
Inside a the standard odd collection of rental videos, boxes of cereal and a cooler full of beer, and yes, motor oil. Several men in the store, one promising to pay for something a little later. No problem, said the friendly, open-faced woman happy to be of service. Two quarts of oil please, and do you take USD? No problem, maybe my husband here can look at your car.
He led me out and went to a shed next door and came out with a funnel. Let's look, he said, and popped the hood, and took out the dipstick. Yep, you need oil, he acknowledged. Another guy came up, very voluble, very friendly, and took a look himself. No, nothing there.
The first guy looked underneath. No drips. No, I don't see any drops on the ground, said the second fellow. There oil glugged into the thirsty engine which smelled of smoky burnt oil. You've got a leaking head gasket, he told me. That may be where the oil has gone. Lots of discussion around this between the two as I nodded and wondered why my mechanic back home hadn't picked this up when I took the vehicle to him for a pre-trip checkup.
What you need, the mechanic said, is this special thick sealant oil, yes just the thing, and do I? yes I do have some. Then each of the two told me stories of oil disasters averted by this miracle material. I remember, said the second guy, putting a quart and a half of this in a tractor one day and then, when I lost my oil, still able to work all day and the engine as good as new.
These happy evangelists sold me a quart of the gunk, which worked, waved aside any payment, told me that they'd like to see Boston one day, that I didn't have anything to worry about now, and to have a good time with my uncle an hour and a half away in the big town of Halifax.
Canada, gorgeous scenery, yes, but I remember your unguarded friendliness of your people just as much.
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