Waiting Until

Not every abandoned road I hike is some nightmare proposition. A fair few are like this, essentially unmaintained, but no obstacles worse than a few muddy puddles or recently fallen trees. Gull Island Road is just over a kilometre to the shore. There are a dozen modern homes coming first from Highway 3, then the power lines end abruptly where the road narrows, leading you a little deeper into the past. On my way through the woods, I tracked two separate homestead sites. They were long-forgotten in the brush, overgrown and tumbledown, and a third one at the shore may have still been standing when I was born. These bends and curves come at just the right intervals to keep me fascinated, never giving away more than a minute ahead on the hike. Not knowing what's next is essential for someone like me. I'm no born hiker. Curiosity is the only call I've ever answered, just enough to drag me to physical exertion.

I'm rarely so far from home, but a call from Queens County Museum had me speaking about my latest book, appropriately on the subject of old lost lanes like these. "This River Was Once a Road" is as much about my heart as history, the deep drive of adventure in places that were modern once. It could well take a lifetime to connect all the dots, track down and discover what maps and deeds suggest. You never know for sure what's waiting until walking it underfoot. For example, a road with a name like "Gull Island" might suggest that you'd reach an impressive sight at the end. But it's little more than a surf-bound sandbar, kicking up a few whitecaps at high tide. Don't let that put you off, though. The beach is rocky and lovely with a small lagoon, and we all see the value in a public right of way when so much shoreline is stolen by private souls. There's something comforting with the late afternoon light for company, and I'm especially eager describing friendship as something I feel for myself as much as anyone else.

May 21, 2025
White Point, Nova Scotia

Year 18, Day 6401 of my daily journal.