As a way of promoting tourism and to make touring the area more manageable for the visitor, Nova Scotia has portioned its entire province into a series of driving “trails”. Each one concentrates on one particular area of the province and its named after an element of history (Glooscap Trail), landmark (Lighthouse Trail) or topography (Marine Drive). Each trail takes in several scenic attractions or vistas as well as significant historical sights. The provincial capital and largest city, Halifax, forms its own distinct section, but I wasn’t even planning to go near. Breaking down tent at six AM, fresh and well-rested, I set out into the town of Amherst and eastward on Route 6, main thoroughfare of the Sunrise Trail. This was well-tended farm country, rife with blueberry patches and stubbly fields where cattle grazed, and the early morning light made the conical bales of hay look like yellow soup cans turned on their sides. Just north was the Northumberland Strait, separating Nova Scotia from P.E.I. and home to some of the finest ocean beaches in all of Canada, but no resorts. Tens of thousands of visitors flock to these beaches annually, drawn to the unseasonably warm water of the Northumberland shallows. The local literature touts the waters of the Gulf of St. Lawrence as being the warmest north of the Carolinas.

The towns of Pugwash and Wallace were interesting, but hardly worth stopping. I chose instead, Pictou, blessed with a wide harbor at the confluence of three rivers. This was the first landing place of Scottish settlers, back in 1773. A replica of the wide-hulled ship that brought the handful of settlers here, the Hector, rests at dock. The three-masted vessel is an impressive one; the fact that the smallish ship carried 200 or so people across the North Atlantic without a single loss of life is impressive as well. The town is built up along Water and Front streets and a sprinkling of churches and other interesting homes cover the slight hillside above the harbor. A gorgeous morning and a splendid setting, disturbed only by the massive pulp mill belching smoke on the opposite end of the harbor. A causeway sped me past New Glasgow and back onto the Trans-Canada, boring through thick forest east toward the entrance to Cape Breton.

From a map, Cape Breton appears only barely an island, a chunk of land hardly broken off of the Nova Scotia mainland. But in reality, the Strait of Canso looks to be an impressive body of water, a wide canal-like strait between the two landmasses. Canso Causeway, completed in 1955, is the world’s deepest. Millions of tons of rock dumped into the strait allowed vehicular crossing possible and today it blocks winter ice from traveling through. Heading north out of the town of Port Hastings, the Ceilidh Trail begins. A profusion of Scottish names – MacAllister, Glenora, Campbell – are to be found on mailboxes alongside the road. Indeed, this area of rolling hills and a rocky coastline is the primary home of several of the great musicians that make up the long-established tradition of Celtic music. The Cape Breton style of fiddling, known the world over, is associated with this shore and the small villages of Cape Breton and it was one of the reasons I drove this far. The center of Gaelic education in Nova Scotia is the town of Mabou, about 40 minutes up the coast. Scots Gaelic is taught in the local schools here and An Drochaid, The Mabou Gaelic and Historical Society Museum, is also just off the road. Closed, however, on this Labor Day. The rustic Mabou Highlands begin just north of town. The narrow valley the road traversed reminded me of the Wicklow Hills south of Dublin. The Glenora Inn and Distillery is the only single-malt distillery – or so it claims – in North America. Set in the lush hills, the place, with its well-manicured grounds, looks like a real Highland distillery and the prices bear this out as well. Since it wasn’t yet noon and I was to continue driving, I couldn’t rationalize a dram of the tempting whisky (yes, as in true Scotch, no “e” in this), though I could have stayed awhile in this serene place, reminiscent of Scotland’s hilly Speyside.

Just north of Inverness, largest town on the Ceildh Trail, I pulled off onto a rounded bluff at Whale Cove, the most sublime scenery I had witnessed thus far. A lone sunbather watched her tot retreat from the light-dappled waves, the curling strand backed by a high sloping bluff of gravestones from the past two centuries. The gorse and heather pushed up to a blank space of air and sea; if I wasn’t careful, I’d find myself in the drink, but not before crushing my bones on the rocks below. Looking south, the bright sun made miles of steep Ceilidh cliffs look metallic. North, the forested mountains thrust quickly upwards: the start of the Cabot Trail.

The road crested and I found myself peering down on Margaree Harbour, its harbor strewn with fishing boats and guarded by two lighthouses. Over the salmon-rich Margaree River, I entered one of Nova Scotia’s several Acadian regions, and its three main villages – Grand Etang, Cap LeMoine and Cheticamp – signified that I was in French-speaking country. The Scottish flag I had seen so much of over the last day became replaced by the Acadian red-white-and-blue French tricolor with a gold star laid over top. And in a surreal circumstance only happened upon in travel, tuning in a French-speaking radio station: a reggae band skanking through a tune called “Me gusta la noche”. Equally beguiling was Joe’s Scarecrow Village, a roadside oddity assembled by, no surprise, a guy named Joe. Overlooking the broad St. Lawrence bay and the widely spaced houses of Cap LeMoine, Joe has festooned his trailer and yard with over 100 scarecrows, the heads of many masked in the plastic faces of world leaders past and present: Carter, Reagan, Chretien, Chirac. I liked the place for its obvious schtick and I was pleased that my country wasn’t the only to elevate it t

Into the park the mountains vaulted into the sky and several trails invited the hiker to explore the forest interior or the boulder-strewn beaches on the Cabot Trail’s west side. With my ankle still aggravating me from a slight sprain from hiking the week before, I took a short one: Le Buttereau, which climbed a hill to reveal some ruins of eight 18th century Acadian homes, now a small melee of rocks overgrown by trees. Alexander Graham Bell’s oft quoted comment, “ I have traveled around the globe. I have seen the Canadian and American Rockies, the Andes, the Alps and the Highlands of Scotland, but for simple beauty, Cape Breton outrivals them all.” made some sense in this sublime weather. The region’s most famous resident (who lived for over 25 years in Baddeck, not far from here) was of course referring to this area, where the Cabot Trail – named for explorer John Cabot – carves a teetering course between mountain and ocean. Surely one of the premiere drives in North America; one can look for miles and see its paved path bounding over forested ridges, not more than a few feet from the cliff edge and the sea below. After several viewpoints at Grand Falaise, Cap Rouge, (named for its dramatic sandstone headland), and Presque’ile, the road cuts inland and over the high plateau of French Mountain. Here, the spruces thin and grow short and scraggly at the upper elevations. Due to heavy precipitation and poor drainage, bogs can be found throughout the Maritimes. The ecosystem more accurately called a slope fen, the trail here takes in stunted spruce and delicate orchids that grow amid a plush carpet of sphagnum moss, as good a place as any to spot moose. As the road dipped and climbed, I could take in awesome expanses of pine and birch running far to the horizon to the east and down a thousand feet to the water’s edge to the west. Three razor-sharp switchbacks brought me to an awesome vista of Pleasant Bay, a village just outside the park. In the piercing late afternoon sun, the aggregation of homes looked as if it was burning.

I started in with a crusty old seaman lounging next to the docks and he asked if I’d like to go see some whales in his boat. For an embarrassingly low price I paid and sought out a campground. I was afraid of having to set the tent up in the dark. This way I could double back to Pleasant Bay, take a 2-3 hour boat ride and return to my tent and collapse. I had been on the road, with several excellent diversions, for nearly twelve hours. He backed his flat-bottomed boat – really a floating tub - out of a hilariously tight space and pulled out past the breakwall where four-foot rollers tossed us about like a rubber duck. I hadn’t eaten much all day – in all the excitement I forgot, really – and now I wasn’t feeling too swell. Cappy steered a course north and we had the waves behind us, lifting us up like some hotrod and pushing our tub up along the coast. The dirt track outside of Pleasant Bay ends about two miles north at a Buddhist Monastery. Past this, no roads ply the rugged coast or mountainous interior all the way to the tip to the province. Steep cliffs fight off the persistent waves all around. After an hour we could spot no whales but the captain seemed calm as he chain-smoked and scanned the horizon. Inexplicably, years ago, a handful of cows were dropped off on the only spot on shore to possibly permit a boat to land. At Pollett Cove, the odd sight of small patches of clipped grasses amid the conifers drew me in until my foreground was interrupted by something black rolling among the waves.

We crashing a rollicking party: a pod of at least 100 pilot whales feeding and mating. The whales, their sleek, black bodies like large dolphins, surrounded us on all sides, breaching and diving in twos, threes and fives. Mating whales came close enough to touch as they rolled over in seeming ecstasy. Some smacked their tails on the water’s surface and we listened to the chorus of song – more like a soccer chant - via underwater microphones. We remained in that spot for well over an hour, savoring the unforgettable sight of breaching pairs diving in before a ruby, setting sun. Cappy said he had never seen so many in twenty-seven years at sea. Three locals from the village had joined us and one woman – fifties, with the craggy, chiseled face of one who’s spent time on the sea – became elated at the sight of the awesome mammals and her enthusiasm was infectious. As we headed back after the sun dipped and huddled near the pilothouse to avoid the seaspray, I asked, “I guess you never quite get used to that, eh?” unconsciously utilizing the Canadian vernacular. “Never seen ‘em before, ‘cept from the kitchen window.” “You’ve never seen whales at sea?” I asked, thinking that in these waters, part of the migratory route of at least three species of Atlantic whales, it would seem impossible not to come upon similar pods from time to time. “I’ve never been on a boat before” she replied. “Really? In a town of 100 or so people, most of whom work as fisherman or dockhands, as I understand, you’ve never been on a boat?” “Nope. I work at the restaurant.” Amazed at my chances of meting such a person, I had to ask, “So why, of all days, did you decide to come out today?” She looked at me somewhat quizzically then paused. “Seemed a good a day as any.”