Motorcycling in the Mouth of History: Exploring Canada's Gaspe Peninsula

By Thomas Jamrog

(published in Rider, April 1997, pages 52-56)

There was never any question but to escape North. Maine was trapped in a stifling heat wave that evaporated my well, and forced a daily slow melt of the asphalt under my motorcycle kickstand. This past summer, five motorcyclists and one passenger headed up to the cooling breezes of the Gaspe Peninsula in eastern Quebec. We had one week of vacation time with me on a new BMW R1100 GS to field test. Moto-touring in this foreign country is only a day's reach from home. For the gastronomically inclined, there's the chance to eat platefuls of seafood at reasonable prices with the constant discount US dollar bringing an all time high of $1.33. We departed from Bangor, Maine. Bangor has now assumed international prominence as the home of horror novelist Steven King, who I spotted in my neighborhood this summer riding a Harley Davidson. He was supervising the filming of his latest screen attempt,"Thinner". Four hundred miles later that day, we reached Carleton, on Gaspe's south shore. After spending the night at the municipal campground ($15.09 CDN per campsite) we headed east and hung a left on Route 290. Don't miss it. The twisting road overlooks the historic Cascapedia river, where you can watch fly fishermen spend up to $1000 per day hooking and releasing trophy-sized Atlantic salmon. We Climbed and leaned through the Parc de la Gaspesie, passing the majestic Mount Albert, where snowfields were still surviving the July sun. The Gaspe is one of the oldest land masses on the planet, extending 175 miles along the St. Lawrence River to the north, with the Atlantic to the south and east. Riding on the Gaspe is like a glance backward in the rear view mirrors of time. It was originally occupied by nomadic native tribes, visited by the Vikings, and eventually settled by the French, who established fishing villages in order to harvest the abundant cod. There are only three roads: the perimeter Route 132 and two interior highways that traverse the Chic Choc mountains. Route 132 on the north shore is one of the best motorcycling roads in the northeast. Dive through ravines, lean into forested hills, and charge up the sides of mountains- repeat as needed. You get the idea. How about riding for nearly thirty miles on a narrow roadway elevated several yards above the icy waters of the St. Lawrence, with the roadside blasted into the base of an endless wall of nearly vertical black rock? Caution in rain and wind is recommended, as the waves crest over the road in rough weather. If you are heading for the south shore, stay on Route 132 rather than cutting across on the inland Rt. 190. Take my word for it. The inland road was dusty, relatively dull, and heavy with huge logging trucks. If you choose to circumnavigate the whole peninsula, you will soon encounter the town of Perce, dominated by a three hundred foot high monolith of a rock that is 1,420 feet long, and estimated to weigh 500 million tons. It sits just offshore of the town and you can park your motorcycle and walk to it at low tide. Rocher Perce is one of Canada's leading tourist attractions, that has spawned a raft of gift shops, galleries, restaurants and bars. Snag a boat ride out from the wharf to view the bird sanctuary at Isle de Bonaventure, the largest gannet sanctuary in North America, home to a summer colony of 50,000 of the large white sea birds. It's a break from the asphalt to be on the water for a few hours. You will be assaulted with a caucauphony of shrieking white waterfowl, the smell of decomposing guano on the rocks, and snow-like down from moulting feathers filling the sky. Every conceivable crack and crevice of the protected cliffs is a nesting place. Bring plenty of film as the small boats move relatively close to the side of the cliffs. The Gaspe is famous for seafood. Chez Mona is a tiny white house one kilometer north of the lighthouse in Cap-des-Rosiers near Forillon National Park. Order the bouilabaisse special. Make sure you are sitting down when Mireille muscles the tureen of spicy seafood in front of you. The steaming bowls of rich herbed fish broth heaped with of salmon, halibut, cod, sole, redfish, shrimp, and scallops may alone inspire a return trip. Your wallet will be lightened of $13.50 US for the stew and the salad, garlic bread, coffee and dessert. Manifique! We spent the second night at Forillon National Park. The sea is ever present, and there are several campgrounds available, each with lavish facilities- clean restrooms with hot water showers and cookstoves complete with dry firewood for cold spells. Our hillside site at Cap Bon Ami campground cost us $35 CDN for our total group. But we had bigger fish to fry, and we were up before 6 to catch the early ferry from Riviere au Renard. Our real adventures were about to begin. We were headed for Anticosti Island in the mouth of the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The "graveyard of the gulf" claims over 400 shipwrecks, with several still intact for exploration. We were told by the marine wildlife interpreter on the ferry that we were some of the few motorcyclists and the only Americans to explore Anticosti that summer. High on the observation decks out on the open ocean, we watched grey seals, porpoises, and several minke whales surface and dive. After landing at Port Menier and there is only one itinerary. Stock up at the store and hit the dust for 100 miles or so. Motorcyclists on Anticosti should be prepared for wilderness camping and be comfortable riding on dirt roads. Anticosti Island was owned for many years by the Frenchman Henri Menier, who purchased the island in 1895 and then populated it with imported white-tailed deer, caribou, elk, rabbit, and red and silver fox. Henri was fabulously wealthy, and he made his millions through the manufacture of chocolate. He turned the island into his own private fishing and hunting preserve. There is a small museum in Port Menier that houses remaining furniture and memorabilia from Monsieur Menier's reign. Relics of his hand carved mansion are all that remain, as the building burned to the ground decades ago. I discovered a flat rear tire as I was unpacking my motorcycle at Wilcox campground. On Anticosti there are no services or repair shops. Half of a staple from a packing crate was imbedded in my tubeless tire. I wasted a great deal of glue and tore up two out of three plugs before finally seating the last scrid in the tiny hole. I inflated the tire with a collapsible hand pump and drove a mile to the campground maintainence shed where I found a tank of compressed air. Even after thirty eight pounds of pressure my spirit deflated when I heard the sound of a hiss coming from another hole an inch away from the first. I trudged a mile back to the campsite and borrowed our party's last tubeless patch kit, which I rapidly ruined as I tore more plugs to shreds by attempting to force them into the tiny puncture. We succeeded in enlarging the puncture with a medium sized screwdriver, which provided the necessary widening for the hole to accept the last plug. I now carry multiple tubeless repair kits and advise readers to practice repairs on old automobile or motorcycle tires before tackling the real thing. You will have numerous wildlife encounters on Anticosti Island. With a population of 120, 000 whitetail it was no surprise that I saw a half-dozen deer on the ride to Wilcox campground. That evening, sitting around the campfire under the light of the full moon we witnessed a deer crash through our site and plunge down the steep thirty foot embankment to the water's edge, with a angry fox in hot pursuit. The fox remained above the plateau above the beach, growling in frustration as the deer raced down the rocky shore. The next day was spent exploring Anticosti. Chute Vaureal was the most impressive natural wonder of Anticosti, in spite of the rugged twenty five mile ride through rocky footing and choking dust. The canyon walls are vertical and reach close to 300 feet in height. A spectacular waterfall cuts through a sidewall perpendicular to the main flow of the water below and falls some 200 feet to the floor. Our second stop on the TransAnticostian highway was at La Caverne a la Patate, Quebec's largest cave. Reaching the cave required a steep ride down a two and a-half mile gravel roadway, and then a hike through 8 kilometers of ancient limestone river bed littered with more than 120 species of fossils, glacial till, and multicolored blooming wildflowers. The cave begins in an immense room , then splits off to several 500 meter passageways, that require eventual duckwalking. Be sure to bring along flashlights, and watch out for some rapidly decending ceilings. For a cheap, non-drug-induced hallucinagenic break, turn off all your flashlights and sit in the silence. Within 5 minutes you imagine hearing voices, and maybe even motorcycle engines emanating from the bowels of the earth. We spent the night back at the campground crowded under a large makeshift tarp eating homemade stew as the only rain of the week dampened the parched countryside. On next ferry trip to the north shore of the St. Lawrence we experienced the worst and the best that the ocean has to offer. The winds were blowing hard enough that we tied down our motorcycles. The ferry had a very shallow draft, and a bad habit of rolling in the choppy seas. I downed a double dose of dramamine and held on tightly. The captain invited our group below deck and to view the engine room. The chief engineer, Louis Knegje, cheered when he heard us speak English. We moved from the control desk out into the engine room itself and were deafened by the roar of four 1800 horsepower Paxman turbodeisel v-12 motors. Louis showed us a spare piston that was about a foot in diameter. The heaving quieted down when the ship changed course and began to run parallel to the north shore. Our hunger kickstarted and we idled into a three course meal of soup, salad, and fish, with wine, rolls, and pie. A complete nine dollar surprise. At about 8:30 p.m we we finally docked at Havre St. Pierre. The municipal campground was full but we soon found ourselves idling past endless ranch houses until a gentleman waved us along the side of a garage into Josie Goudreau's back yard. $15 CDN bought us tent space, coffee, and a bathroom. Route 138 west out of Havre St. Pierre was created for all of us who yearn to ride by the sea. For 300 miles the majestic St. Lawrence was on our left as we headed for home. The road is fast two-laned highway, with mile after mile of beaches, and occasional fishing villages interspersed with slightly larger populated areas. There are very few services to be had in this stark open land. On a previous trip here, after breaking camp on a shimmering isolated beach, we drove for 100 hungry miles before we found breakfast. Consider riding your motorcycle up to Quebec. For me it was 2600 miles on a new BMW, a foreign country with five of my best friends, instant discounts , and a break from the sweltering heat. I hauled water for two months after I came home, but I didn't care that much. Heck, the Gaspe is only one day's ride away. And then there's the bouilabaisse.