You know when you ask someone's advice, and they give it, and you go ahead and ignore it? Well. Back at the beginning of March, we had asked our Cape Breton neighbours (the former owners of our property) about the condition of the road to the house, and whether it was navigable in a four-wheel drive vehicle. Their answer was, no, you won't get in there with any vehicle that we know of, and snowshoes are your best option.
Naturally, in the face of this sage advice, we flew out there anyway and drove our 4x4 Suburban with snow plow attachment up to the entrance to the road. When I say "entrance", what I actually mean is a metre and a half deep solid wall of snow. It was a Saturday, our neighbour's business was closed, and there was not a soul around for miles. With the four wheel drive engaged, Paul aimed the snowplow blade at the metre-high snow bank, and pushed. Nothing. He backed up and pushed again. Still nothing, and worse than that, we were well and truly stuck. Even with four wheel drive, the rear wheels just span on the ice. The snow was dense and heavy, and it took a great deal of shovelling to get the blade, and the car, finally free. I breathed a sigh of relief as the car reversed back to the clear area. Never one to be daunted on the first try, Paul had at it again, with the blade at a different angle. Once again, it got stuck. More shovelling followed. Finally, the 'Burb proved its worth and with a great deal of driving skill from Paul, broke free and we were in the clear once again.
Now, we had a decision to make: (1) Go back to Baddeck, book into a hotel and spend a week looking at each other; or (2) Walk in to the house. Did I mention that our snowshoes were at the house? Right. Did I also mention it was getting on for 4 o'clock in the afternoon? Right. How about the fact that we were wearing regular shoes and light jackets? Okay then. Naturally, as any normal person would expect under these circumstances, we selected option 2.
Armed with essential items for the journey (camera, laptops, beer) we set off on the hike in. You'll remember from my previous posts, that the road in to our place is 3.5 kilometres long? Luckily, it was a beautiful sunny, mild afternoon, and we set off in reasonably high spirits. The snow was deep, but my sturdy walking shoes took it on with aplomb and I tried to walk in Paul's footprints. As we trudged on, I found myself singing the Christmas carol "Good King Wenceslas" in my head: In his master's steps he trod ...
The walk in. The really messy tracks are ours, and the neat row running parallel are coyote tracks.
Paul enjoying a lovely bright March afternoon in the Cape Breton Highlands. Perfect for a walk ... ?!
Let me tell you something: 3.5 kilometres may not seem like a lot to you. But in knee-deep snow, without snowshoes, it's a helluva long way. By the time we made it to the house, our legs were like lead. When we finally caught sight of the house, our hearts sank: there was a literal mountain of snow banked up on the deck, completely blocking off the front door! Exhausted but undaunted, Paul kicked and dug away enough snow to open the door a crack, and we squeezed inside. Home at last! But once again (and not surprisingly), no water and no power. Snowstorm after snowstorm had whipped through the Highlands since we were last there, and there was around a metre of snow stacked on the roof. Inside it was cold, but dry. The sun was sinking fast, our legs and feet were soaking wet and cold; our priority was clear: get warm.
Survival Tip Number One*: You can do without light. You can do without washing. You can do without food for a while. You can do without drinking water for a short while. You cannot do without heat. The first thing we did was stripped off our wet clothes and boots, dried off with a towel as much as possible, then went and found some dry, warm clothes (which we had in the house). Wool socks (the Redhead brand are great) and wool or thick cotton fleece track pants, a dry cotton t-shirt, and either a wool or fleece hoodie, are essential items to keep in a dry storage area in the cottage or camp that you are headed to. It's a good idea to add a knitted hat and gloves to this inventory, and always leave plenty of clean, dry towels - believe me, you'll be glad of them.
*Note: I am by no means a survival expert; that's Paul's area of expertise. But this much I've learned through experience.
We are lucky enough to have three forms of heat available at the house: an oil-fired stove, a wood-burning stove and a kerosene heater. The kerosene heater is tremendously efficient as well as portable, and we placed that on the upstairs landing to warm the upstairs. The oil-fired stove is good but takes a while to start producing heat, but is excellent as a back-up or supplemental heat for the large downstairs area. The wood-burning Sweetheart stove is fairly typical of any wood-burning appliance: as long as you have dry, seasoned wood and some newspaper or other tinder to get it going, it doesn't take long to catch. The Sweetheart has a selection of dampers that control the draw of air. Eventually we'll figure out how to get the oven hot enough to bake bread! But that's a story for another time.
Once we had a decent amount of heat on in the house, Paul cranked up the generator and we got some lights on. We did have a store of bottled water, but our First Need water purifier works so well, there's no need to waste expensive bottled water. It's easy enough for even me to use! You may say, how did you get water if there was no water on in the house? Well, you know all that snow surrounding the house ... ? It takes a while to melt down enough snow to get a decent bucketful, but it's doable. It's only after you've gathered and melted enough snow to provide water for one toilet flush, that you realize the amount of water one household uses during one day! You also develop a new appreciation for the simple joy of turning on a tap and having a limitless supply of water.
One of the things I really do appreciate in the house is the propane stove. Even without electricity, it lights with a match and you can have hot food. We always keep cans of soup, chili, beans, corned beef, and the like in the house so that we can make a hearty meal. Once the house had started to warm up and we'd had a hot supper, there was only one thing left to do: go to bed! For tomorrow is another day.
The next morning, we faced another decision. If we were to stay the week at the house, we needed fuel, the battery charger that we'd bought in Sydney, some essential tools, parts for the hydro system, and some other gear. We had no snowmobile, not even a wooden sled of any kind, nothing whatsoever with which to transport the items we needed. Paul had a scout around in the barn, and then hit on the brilliant idea of using the old canoe that the previous owners had left. Here is a picture I managed to snap of said canoe, being unceremoniously pitched out of the hayloft doors:
Unfortunately as the weather that morning had turned milder and overcast, the snow's condition had deteriorated. This is not to say that it had melted much, but instead it had developed the consistency of wet cement. This meant that the canoe did not slide easily over the snow as per our first assumption; rather it dragged and stuck every few metres. We taped aluminum cushion wrap to its bottom, but it really didn't help much. Nonetheless, the decision was made to give it a try, and so Paul slung a rope around his shoulders and pulled it along. Even with snowshoes now, it was tough going. Bearing in mind, the canoe on the way down was empty ...
We left the house at 9 a.m.
When we arrived at the car, loaded up our gear, then turned around to go back, as soon as Paul made that first tug on the rope I knew we were in a world of trouble. The canoe wouldn't even budge an inch. There was absolutely no way he could pull it one metre, let alone 3.5 kilometres. But we had to have the fuel, and the charger, otherwise there was no point in even going back - we might as well throw in the towel and head to a hotel for the rest of the week. But we'd come this far ...
I looked at him. He looked at me. We looked at the canoe, and I could swear it stared back. Finally we emptied out our cases, taking only the bare minimum needed, and of course the essential fuel, tools and that damned heavy battery charger. Still, the canoe weighed around 500 lbs. Paul gave it a try, and the canoe moved .... just a little, but it did move. He braced himself, and pulled. I walked behind him, at times pushing, at times walking ahead to break the trail down more. It was a long, slow, painful process. How painful for Paul, I didn't realize at the time. Hour after hour the distance dragged by, stopping every few metres to rest, with a complete stop and a water break every so often.
Sometimes when I was walking ahead, Paul would shout to me if we were at the beaver dam yet? It seemed to me that every time I thought we'd reached the beaver dam, I was wrong. Eventually it got to the point where I was thinking to myself "surely this must be the beaver dam just around this bend!" but it never was. Funny how a drive that is so short in a car, is the longest walk through hell when bogged down in a metre of soggy, gluey snow. And funny how the road seemed to be all uphill on the way back! For the last kilometre we were having to stop every couple of minutes because Paul was just exhausted. Finally, the avenue of pines that leads to the house, and the pond and the barn came into sight. Heaving and pushing the canoe up the last stretch of hill took every last ounce of strength, and we abandoned the canoe and carried the gear the rest of the way.
When we got indoors, and Paul took off his snowshoes and boots, then took off his shirt, I almost cried. The blisters on his heels had been rubbed raw by the boots, and his arms were covered in purple bruises and welts from the rope. How he carried on I'll never know, but if the term "British Bulldog" can be applied to anyone in this modern age, it can most certainly apply to my husband. Here are a couple of photos I took of his heels:
This was caused by badly-designed boots. Raised stitching inside the heels rubbed and basically acted like a cheese grater. To compound matters, the boots did not have a moisture-wicking lining. This is essential in a hiking boot, as sweat builds up inside the boot, waterlogging your skin and making it more vulnerable to blister damage.
Here is a detail of the stitching inside one of the offending boots:
The journey was difficult enough without having this kind of problem. Needless to say, these boots have now been thrown in the garbage.
Oh, remember I said we left the house at 9 a.m.? We arrived back at 3:30 p.m.
You know what? I think this is enough for one post. I'll write Part II tomorrow.
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