Sunday, Monday, Fundy

We waved goodbye to PEI this morning.

I failed to take representative photos of 1) cows in a pasture or 2) clothes on a clothesline, both of which were charming and comforting and common sights on PEI.  

I did take a photo of this:

We came to PEI by ferry, and we left by way of the Confederation Bridge, which is an impressive engineering achievement. This is a not very impressive photo of it, from the NB side.

One goal of this part of the trip was to locate and visit whatever remained of the boys' camp my TC worked at 47 years ago. At the NB visitors' center at the end of the bridge, he asked his "This is a pretty weird question but here goes. . . " to the two friendly middle-aged women at the information desk. 

"Oh, Camp Falcon? My mother worked there then," said one.  "She was the first-aid lady."

And the other woman knew, off the top of her head, the name of a man who lived on the same road as the camp, and she gave us his phone number. 

This felt very serendipitous! 

That was about as far as the magic went. We drove down a couple of "no trespassing" roads and used binoculars but couldn't really see the location. Didn't reach the man in time to help us, though he did call back later and was very pleasant.

Part of the investigation/search involved some young dude counselors at the still-operating, neighboring girls' camp, who cheerfully reported that they sometimes hiked out to what used to be Camp Falcon and that what remains is ruins of the swimming pool and some semi-collapsed cabins, and that the whole area is overgrown and untended. 

Here they are conferring with their own future.

Plot idea: Four teenage camp counselors in a remote Canadian town hike out to the site of a deserted and dilapidated camp and meet their future selves. Or the ghosts of their future selves. Our ghosts of the former counselors––who, it turns out is really them. 

Something.

Though I guess this has probably been covered by Stephen King.

I think I have veered far from the topic at hand.

We drove to Moncton and, amazingly, got there in time to see the tidal bore (see my Instagram for evidence) which happens only twice a day. (Tides, you know. It's all a mystery to me. Something about the moon.)

Then on to Fundy National Park. We got there quite late in the afternoon so we packed in a couple of shorter hikes. Our hike to the wonderful waterfall took place, appropriately, in pouring rain! 

Everything there was mystical and lush and beautiful.

Going DOWN 151 wooden steps to the Bay of Fundy is a breeze.

Bay of Fundy in rainy fog. Nobody else there. We skipped stones. TC did very well. I was proud to have a few successes, too, despite never having been to ANY TYPE OF CAMP as a child. 

Tonight we are in St. John, New Brunswick. It is thick with fog, so we're not entirely convinced there is a city beyond this block. We're in a 1902 Victorian house run as a B&B. Our room is called "Cranberry Wine" and every possible surface (walls, upholstered chairs, towels, SHEETS!) is burgundy. 

On the walk back from dinner (nearly seafood-free for a change of pace), we encountered this tribute to Benedict Arnold.

Perspective is everything.