- by David A. Robinson (catch up with chapters I, II, III,and IV)

Where were we?

The Gaspé is huge. It's a country. Crawling around its perimeter, one can only guess at the wonders that lie within. My guitar playing bandmate and neighbour Don loves to go back-country skiing in the Chic Chocs. I glimpsed the edges of this range. Enormous. Maybe it's because this part of the world got surveyed and developed by white people earlier than, say, northern Ontario, but the 132 Est, as it lopes over the tops of the hills near the coast, is awesome and intimidating. No rock cutaways here; the roads just go right over the full height of land. I have to say though, old as the road is, the surface and width for cycling is superior to any other province I've ridden through, and that's all but Nunavut, the territories and Newfoundland. Nice motorists too. People understand here. But the hills! Signs warning of 7, 8, 10, 12% grade are as common as signs for deer. Of course, there are no signs to warn you of steep uphills. For 4 days in a row, I was forced to get off the bike and push my rig up kilometres of steepness where my lowest gear lacked the physics to winch me up by pedalling. But, the change does me good, I tell myself as I walk. At these angles, the front wheel of the recumbent tends to lift off the ground. And then the downhills...safer to ride the brakes and descend like a nice slow escalator. I have nothing to prove; I'm too far from home to pitch myself off the seat at 75 kph. Besides, that little 16" front wheel, at high speeds, starts to behave like a shopping cart, and you never know what the road may have in store for you. There can be pot holes, road kill, divots, cracks, chunks of wood, whatever. But, if you're a thrill junkie and you love high speed long descents, the Gaspé is la place pour toi.

My camping continues to be a combination of off the road trees, and handy little single table picnic shelters. But once I got to Grande Vallée and picked up some food at the Bonichoix ("Goodychoice"), I had some advice from an old local to hit the town's campground. A bon choix indeed.

So, my camping neighbours were these two geologists. One, the younger, is Miguel. That day was his birthday. 20 years old. He is slight, fair, with his prospector's hat on, the string pulled up snug under his chin, and he is French. He has rosy cheeks, big eyes, and he's very nice. Basically, he looks like Pinocchio after turning human. He says, pointing to the other guy in the shade, " an dat's Jack de Bear"...or that's what I thought he'd said. I figured this older guy must be the quintessential Qu/becois woodsman. Actually, he's Jagabeer, and he comes from northern India. "Just call me Jag," he says. Neither of them had ever heard of Jack the Bear. Once I learn that they're geologists, I say "incredible!" Today, for the first time this trip, I've collected beautiful black and white stones from the shore, just back a couple towns. Jag gives a frown smile, sways back his head and says "yeah but those stones, they're not from around here". Right, the trillions of stones on the beach aren't from here. But I realize that a geologist's perception of time and space is not along the same scale as, say, a local bus schedule. These two are from Ottawa University, and they're researching and gathering data in areas of ocean turbidity, doing analyses and comparisons in the erosion of mud and sand. I say, "you know, my major in art college was stone carving. What a coincidence!"
But Jag, I think sensing the schism between the artist/sentimentalist and the scientist/ industrialist, sniffs in through his nostrils and says, flatly, "my Prof at the University, he is funded directly by six different oil companies. They are all based in Houston." I get it. Geologists are searchers for oil, not just romantic rockhounds. So he goes on, " the trend nowadays is to be drilling offshore. And, rather than waste millions of dollars turning up nothing, we look to geological research." I counter with something about how ironic, that just up on these hills, hundreds of new windmills are already generating power, while they're combing the tidal rocks of this mountain formation zone looking for signs of fossil fuels. "Okay", he says, schooling me, "pretend this water bottle has oil in it. The energy in this one bottle, it's like one hundred of the similar units produced by wind power. Oil is just so much more efficient. The only thing that beats out oil is nuclear, and nuclear has no carbon footprint, but..." I say, "you know I quit driving exactly one year ago. I have taken one car off the road, and I see the trend going away from fossil fuels". Miguel is just listening, bright eyed, spooning camp cooked pasta dinner happily, as Jag goes on: "we can't just switch everything off overnight you know. We would...be in the dark ages or something." I don't want an argument with Jag. He's too likeable, and these guys are my neighbours. So, I kind of cop out of the standoff with " well, yeah. It's a gradual process, all this change." Miguel meanwhile, wants to talk camping, biking and stuff. He has the identical Hennessy hammock to mine, and he loves the recumbent. I tell him go ahead, have seat, and he says "wow", as he pretends one of the handle grips is a twist throttle. He says, about his name "I don't know. My Mom and Dad are both French, from the north woods. Why did they give me this Spanish name?" (Ed. note: I've wondered the same about the Northern ON towns of Spanish and Espanola.)

On the other side of my site is a pair of young women on touring bicycles, both from Montréal. Dominique, the tall one, and Kemmy, who speaks perfect English. Their only problem is Kemmy's knee, which threatens to end the trip. I share my story of 36 years ago, about when my brother Greg and I had to return home from Kingston, after setting off on bikes to circle the Great Lakes. Such disappointment, but ligament attachments to bone are not something you want to mess with. I offered her the roll on "bio-freeze" that Richard W. had kindly given me in Toronto for my pulled rib muscle problem, which was now better. Kemmy told me the next morning that it really helped. Thanks, Richard!

Kemmy rides a cool Marinoni, and Dominique, a kijiji- sourced Norco. Great bikes. I asked Kemmy if she had seen the documentary about Marinoni, "Fire in the Frame". She had, and it had inspired her to buy the bike. "I ride every day" she says. "I don't know why my knee is so sore. Maybe it's the new shoes". I hope she's okay. The two cook, laugh, and play cards at the picnic table, while next to them is Aurélie, another, slightly older woman also on a touring bike, who rode up across the Gaspé from New Richmond in the south. She has super strong legs, and a sweet smile. I delighted in seeing these women out doing basically the same thing as me. On this trip I have met eight women, all Quebecois, touring on bikes. I've seen one man. Aurélie keeps to herself, sitting by her campfire, gazing at the St. Lawrence Gulf, and the waves down below this high edge where we're all camped. I'd like to ride with someone for a change, but this socializing will suffice. Next to Aurélie, a dark haired young French guy car camping, strums his guitar. It's a perfect evening.

So, after the extreme labour of climbing all those hills, I decide to stay two nights. I need the rest.
On to Gaspé town next. More hills of super-size variety. More beautiful coastline, forest, villages, gosh this is a special place. I get to Gaspé town, stay in a motel, because I feel I have to, and next day I treat myself to pizza at Café des Artistes, which is full of, yes, works of art, one central piece being a polished, carved wood yogic feature in an impossible looking pose. The only thing the artist has left to the imagination is the actual negative space of a certain key orifice.

Now, it's on towards Percé. Will there really be that fabled rock there? As a kid, watching too much television, too late at night, I would see Percé rock in the TV channel's signing off with O Canada, the camera fast tracking across the whole country. The day is changing weather. It's chilly, windy in the wrong direction. I put on the jacket because it starts to rain. Then, I overheat, as the rain stops and the sun comes out. Off comes the jacket, which gets annoyedly stuffed under a bungee. A stop at a grocery store finds a large grapefruit, a box of maple cream cookies, and a 710 ml can of Black Label, plus a coffee crisp this for second lunch. And on again. The rain starts again. Why do I do this?

On a drizzly stretch of road, I look out on my left and I see it. La Roche itself. I notice right beside me that someone's mailbox is cut to exactly the same shape. So, dutiful artist that I am I stop, cross the road and, balanced on the guardrail I sketch the magnificent rock, at this point pretty far away because I'm not in the town yet, with the black ball-point that I "borrowed" from the woman at the restaurant, and then stow the book and push on, my day's stretch almost over.

But now what? Another steep climb. Walking again. Then coasting down and...why am I wobbling? Oh, curse. Ohh swear. It's another rear flat. So, in the muggy rain I get out an walk. It can't be far. The road winds up, and behold, a chasm of downhill, swinging crazily up again to a record breaking height. No I think. I can't bear it. But then, God or someone provides another picnic park on my left, just up a gravel ramp, with washrooms, water, tables, shelters; everything I need to spend the night, and fix the damn bike in the morning.

Sometimes, alone on a bike trip, facing the grim unpleasantry of problematic circumstances, you start to take things out on yourself. There will be no supper tonight. It's not worth the trouble. Just gin, and the journal to complain to, and then to miserable bed. The windnight howls like jet engines, coming in unabated off the Atlantic. I sway under the rafters of the shelter and commence to freeze. At least it doesn't rain.

Well, next morning after some cold oats in powdered milk, I start to carefully do the mechanic thing. The tire is done, just like Monsieur Gagnon at Hobby Cycle in Rivière-du-Loup said it would be in 500 km. He's right on. He'd sold me a good used spare for five bucks and God was I glad to have it.
So, finally finished and pumped up again, sun shining again, I go to wash my blackened hands, and rounding the cliff edge lookout post, I check out the wide, calm bright blue sea. And then, I see them. Whales!
Now, I had to gaze, pinch myself, whoop and holler. A hundred, more, a huge pod of, I think, Pilot whales, all diving, coming up, spraying (I think) and I just stayed there, for a half hour, in reverent amazement. I have never, ever seen a real live whale before. And now, there they were. I'd ridden to this land's end, suffering through with my demons and my tribulations, and this was making it all worthwhile. A man with a camera walked up. Keith, from Kitchener. Nice guy. Someone to witness what I could hardly believe.

And I got sentimental again, like I did over the black and white stones. At time, at the earth. At the perfect Zen nature of being a whale in the first place. Whales have no couches, no TV, no sleeping bags to curl up in. How do they sleep? Do they close their eyes and just drift in the ocean currents? Who could ever harm a whale? So many thoughts and feelings were spinning out and through this moment . Keith was asking me about the bike trip. He didn't mention legs. My hands were still dirty.
Later, as I got rolling finally, torn away from the spell of the feeding frolicking pod in the ocean, I thought, it's all worth it. I had to walk up that last giant hill, and there was Percé village, all quaint, colourful, seagulls squawking, Percé rock parked right offshore, so close up now. I often sing that pop song from the hippie days; "It's all too beautiful, it's all too beautiful--uh ah.." And I thought "this kind of moment, this kind of beauty and wonder, it surely calls for another pizza."