Bienvenue au Quebec: Don't worry, this will only hurt a lot

September 25, 2016

I don't know what this building is but I like it. Pembroke, Ontario.

Being in Quebec felt awkward and a little bit wrong. It was like leaving a bad relationship only to find myself showing up at my ex's place one day. Again, awkward and wrong.

I tried to put the past behind me and instead enjoy Quebec's famed Route Verte, an extensive cycling network said to be one of the best in the world. I had high expectations, perhaps too high.

It was a bit of a letdown. Yes, the concept was fantastic, the signage good, rest areas and even toilets wrre frequent, the grades on the Cycloparc PPJ (the part I was riding) gentle, but the path itself was often unrideable, the gravel too deep. I had to ride on the road for much of the first section.

The scenery was drab farmland, but I can't blame the Route Verte for that, but helped make a long day feel even longer.

This part of Quebec was defiantly anglophone, and while the road signs were in French, most of the other signs were in English and I was served in English as far into the province as Otter Lake. I developed a theory: homes with Canadian flags were English, homes with Quebec flags were French, those with both could go either way. Today Canadian flags were predominant.

There is no escaping language politics in Quebec; it is the core component of Quebec culture today.

Close to Campbell's Bay, a bee or wasp flew into my face and became entangled in my nostril. Not up my nose, but definitely in a sensitive area. Before I could brush it away, I felt a pinch: it had stung me!

A second later, the base of my nose was on fire, my eye watering, my nose dripping, and my bike flung to the ground as I made a beeline (HA HA HA) for the first aid kit.

I couldn't see a stinger, and after a couple minutes the pain subsided enough for me to stop hopping around going "ah ah ah" and swearing, so I dabbed some disinfectant on it and spent the rest of the day flinching every time an insect came near my face.

And for many hours, that was the "highlight" of an uneventful day, the pain lingering until late afternoon.

Near Campbell's Bay, the drab farmland ends and the scenery improves.

At Campbell's Bay, I took Highway 301, which spot checks of Google Street View had reassured me had a shoulder.

It turned out to only have a shoulder intermittently, which would've been a problem had there been more traffic. But Quebec drivers have no qualms about crossing the centre line right before a blind curve, so they were able to give me plenty of space. Still, I don't think I'd take that road on a weekday when there will be trucks on it.

All the way along the 301, nothing continued to stand out. There were more sleepy towns and not much else. I knew there was a ton of Crown land in the area and intended to camp on some tonight.

There was one section where Crown land was directly adjacent to the road, but when I reached the spot, there was a truck parked there. So that was out.

I looked for a side road, a small track, anything that would lead me to public land, but everything was posted in English or French or both, and legally accessing public land was proving impossible. I didn't like that at all--how can landowners essentially claim public land behind their property all for themselves?

After a while I gave up and decided I'd camp just off the next rail trail. It was further than I wanted to travel, but at least tomorrow would be a shorter day.

The trail wasn't in great condition. These cycling paths are also snowmobile trails and seemed like snowmobiling was the focus for this one. But there was nobody on it, and despite lots of marshy areas and fences near the trail, I was confident I'd find a camping spot.

And just as the sun was setting, I found a perfect spot in a clearing just up a small hill. I left my bike and walked up the hill to scout it, pushing through waist-high plants, happy and relieved my day was finally over.

Then I heard a gunshot, very close by. I spun around and went back to the trail, and pulled out my phone to find a real campground because no way was I camping in the woods where people were shooting nearby.

It took a few minutes to find a place and work out how to get there, and I had only heard the one shot. I started pedalling, immediately rounding a bend in the trail, revealing a slovenly man in an old baseball cap and about three decades of heavy drinking on his face. His was starting up a shiny dirtbike or something; I didn't see exactly what it was. What I did see was the strap he was swinging over his shoulder, and the rifle it was attached to.

Motors and guns are both illegal on that trail. He hadn't even been hunting or anything, he just went out there to shoot--what?

He stared at me as we passed each other, and I gave him my best what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you look. He didn't stop to shoot me, possibly thinking that I had a companion in the vicinity.

Hm, I really shouldn't be camping in the woods around here; not only are there people shooting illegally, apparently it's also Anglo hunting season.

It was dark when I got to the campground, located on a busy road with a shoulder, where everything was closed even though people were still staying in trailers there. I had to look up the number and call them, and the woman was reluctant to give me a site until I told her I was standing outside. Camping Pionniers, definitely more of a trailer campground, but I was happy to pay $25 plus tax for a patch of grass where I wouldn't get shot.

Today's ride: 154 km (96 miles)
Total: 839 km (521 miles)

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