From Trail’s End by Hal Amen

Where: Cape Breton Island, Novia Scotia

Wender: Hal Amen

I’m used to salt in my mouth. Sweat and road grit simmer into the unmistakable tang of adrenaline.

But this was different. The curtains of drizzle blowing up the steeps of French Mountain and into my face were five parts saline sea spray, lifted from the Gulf of St. Lawrence far below. They struck in salty blasts that, at this height, chilled.

There was only one way to go, to align my two knobby tires with the thin ribbon of pavement, point them and pray.

A film of salt crystals and fine mist coated me as I plunged forward, past the pull-offs littered with RVs, past the moose grazing just beyond the scalloped guardrail. As the gulf rushed up towards my handlebars, I imagined it was the tormented white foam of the sea itself that lashed my face. My ears filled with the slicing of tires on wet tarmac and the high whistle of a gale.

Minute upon minute of euphoric fall. Then at last the slope subsided.

Traffic didn’t. It picked up as I approached the town, and the wind only drove harder, provoked by the frenzied ocean waves, surging into my flank and tilting me diagonally as I pedaled, desperate and drenched, inches from passing cars, one shimmy from disaster.

***

But all that’s over now.

My wild descent into Chéticamp marked triumph, the final mountain challenge of Cape Breton Island’s Cabot Trail. The weather had shifted, stormed itself out as I slept in the province’s most comfortable bed, depositing the bright glare of a forgotten sun in its wake.

Now my pedals circle freely above the flat pavement, pulling me south over the road that rides the curves of coastal cliffs all the way to Margaree Harbour.

It’s here that I leave the trail.

I park the bike at a dirt pull-off, leaning its bulk against a pile of pink-gray stones. The slick pannier fabric glistens, still sticky from the salt spray but dry now. Ocean musk is heavy in the air, but only the familiar, savory zest of sweat spices my tongue today.

For the last time, I look back. The road strings itself out beyond my sight, back between the plump green hills and the sea. But maybe in the distance””maybe””I make out the black hump of French Mountain, a shadow still, soon a memory.

Freelance writer Hal Amen has been an avid traveler for as long as he can remember, and he wouldn’t have it any other way. He is a contributor to Matador Travel, and his writings appear frequently across that network. Hal also maintains a personal travel blog, WayWorded.