Trip 45 — Prince Edward Island Walk

Day 6: St. Nicholas to West Point
Saturday, 2 August 2025

Yesterday: 93955 steps/61.95 km/38.49 mi/12h 14m
Total: 262524 steps/189.48 km/117.74 mi/35h 36m

The second-longest segment in the Abecedarian Walks by distance (significantly) and time (barely), but about 7000 steps more than its closest contender (Kangaroo Island day 4, 87076 steps/67.03 km/41.65 mi/12h 16m). Yesterday's slow pace and extra steps were attributable to some rough terrain through the Inverness Nature Preserve, its long distance due to a lack of lodging between St. Nicholas and West Point.

I left the Sunbury Cove Winery at 7 a.m. A crow on a telephone wire welcomed me back to Route 11 as the orange glow of dawn gave way to full daylight. Song sparrows were chirping their morning hymns: Here it was three medium-long, one very long, and five short. I came to the sobering realization that they may not have been communicating in Morse Code at all.

This edgy neighborhood was still the domain of mosquito gangs when I turned onto the dirt Barlow Road at a three-way junction. It was excellent going on Barlow Road; the surface was soft from recent rain but not so soft as to be squishy. Eventually the mosquitoes disappeared and I was accompanied by flies and bumblebees.

Marian's sandwiches had been so enormous that I couldn't finish them in one sitting. With sunscreen, two liters of water, the giant cucumber, half a cold-cuts sandwich from the night before, and half of Marian's chicken wrap from breakfast, my bag was almost triple its starting weight.

How did I mentally prepare for 60 kilometers? The number has lots of factors. Three kilometers in and I was already a 20th of the way there. Just one more kilometer onward and I was suddenly a 15th of the way. Good progress! At five kilometers a 12th, and at six — well, I had to do that only nine more times. And then go two extra kilometers at the end, since the distance was actually 62.

West Point had one restaurant, which would close at eight and presumably take last orders at 7:30. If I went five kilometers an hour — one every 12 minutes — I would reach my lodging at 7:24, giving me six minutes to drop my bag off and walk the hundred meters or so to the restaurant. That pace had to be an average and didn't consider any breaks — if I completed my kilometers in 11 minutes I could "earn" a minute's rest each. Walk 10-minute kilometers for two hours and I could have a solid sit-down for 24 minutes. Of course it would never go that precisely, but it was an interesting challenge to ponder.

Barlow Road was three kilometers long and I saw no one the whole time. I walked through the town of Wellington, which has some businesses and even a sidewalk, although the grocery store wouldn't open for an hour. On the way out of town I passed a gas station; I'd forgotten that those are usually additional places to pick up provisions.

Then it was a straight shot up Taddy Road, designated a tractor route. I found the Scotty & Tony Show on New Country 96.9, and as if on cue, they played "Thank God I'm a Country Boy." And then those songs with lyrics that made me laugh ("I hope she's gonna wear them jeans with the tear that her mama never fixed"), think ("I got everything I need and nothing that I don't"), and wistfully smile ("I'm supposed to be heart-broke, but I got a beer in my hand" — it was International Beer Day, after all). "I need some good news" was a good tempo to walk to.

At nine, I turned back to CBC for the news. Trump's tariffs had gone from 25 to 35 percent overnight on some Canadian industries, such as steel and lumber. This was a retaliatory move, because Canada has pushed back (pulling booze from the USA and canceling contracts and such), but he needed to perpetuate the lie about fentanyl smuggling in order to increase the tariffs by emergency executive order.

And I say, keep fighting, Canada. Anyone need anything when I come home to New York? I suppose my little Outlander backpack won't hold many logs.

CBC then played classical music, and a Dvorak Slavonic dance got me going faster. After 19 kilometers I reached the ballfield in Victoria West, and I sat down for some cucumber and to apply sunscreen and bug repellent — some mosquitoes had decided to be diurnal. I had more chemicals on me than a commercially produced potato.

I resumed walking at 10:49, slightly into my 20th kilometer, which was due to be completed at 11. I was right on schedule.

I was excited for the next part of the walk, because I had read Dori MacLean's "The View From Enmore Road" and was about to proceed along that very road. The village of Enmore has just one intersection, and after I crossed over a creek, the area was woodsy — an encounter with a bear wouldn't have been out of the question, if there had still been bears. The houses seemed modern; no doubt Dori's land and its associated buildings were set back, down one of the dirt driveways.

The paved road continued to North Enmore, with a sign saying "No exit," but there was a fair amount of traffic coming toward me. I hoped that any forced turnaround applied to motor vehicles and that I'd be able to proceed through the tangle of back roads to reach the Confederation Trail in Portage. If I couldn't, it would be a long detour.

This stretch was buggy; the mosquitoes weren't obeying the repellent. "Do your work, dragonfly!" I shouted at a mosquito eater that seemed to be neglecting its purpose. There were very few houses here.

The entrance to Bay Road said "Road closed." I proceeded anyway. It was a rough track impassable in a normal car, but there were the tire tracks of something more capable, along with a human's footprints and small hoofprints, perhaps those of a fox.

It might have rained the night before; it had certainly rained hard during my night in Summerside. I came to a puddle that stretched the width of the dirt road. Clinging to plants for support, I was able to get around it without getting my shoes wet.

I came to another puddle, and another. The frogs loved them. There must have been 20, each requiring artful footwork. It was exhausting. My 27th kilometer took 14 minutes. I would have to give up on dinner.

Between the puddles, I picked up my pace, exhilarated with the uncertainty whether I'd reach a block and have to go back. This would turn out to be among the most difficult days of the Abecedarian Walks, but also among the most rewarding. The point was to round the island on foot with the postulation that the land would take care of me. Had anyone ever tramped through this area to get to West Point?

Bay Road turned, crossed a bridge, and turned again. More puddles. A sign said I was in the Inverness Nature Preserve, and another welcomed me to the Acadian Marshes — Percival River Salt Marsh Natural Area. I finished kilometer 31, halfway through the day's journey, at 1:30 p.m. Bay Road went on for a couple of hours, and at last I heard traffic from the highway in Portage. I'd rarely been so happy to hear cars.

I emerged from Bay Road as if coming out of a dream. A house. Bikers. A paved road. There would be no more unknowns for the day, at least regarding terrain. I turned onto the Confederation Trail and sat down at the first bench. My feet tingled with relief.

I ate the cold-cuts sandwich and some more cucumber, resting for a half-hour. Ahead were about nine kilometers of Confederation Trail. My pace felt glacial. I was trudging at 13 or 14 kilometers per minute. I brought it down to about 11 by launching into a gentle trot for the first 500 steps of each kilometer. That was easier on the heels, but it wasn't sustainable.

It was almost 3:30 when I crossed the road in West Devon. A week from then, next Friday at the same time, Liz will be touching down at the Charlottetown airport. If all goes to plan, we'll meet up in Kensington a half-hour later. Close friends for two decades, we just started dating last year.

When we visited Colombia in December, we disembarked from the plane in Pereira and had to get to town to catch a bus to Salento. Several city buses came by, but they required fare cards that we didn't have; we needed a specific company's vehicle.

"How far is it?" she asked.

"Four kilometers."

Then she uttered the seven sexiest words I've ever had spoken to me: "Do you want to just walk it?"

And next Saturday, she will be the first person to join me for a full day on the Abecedarian Walks.

At the trail's junction with Route 14, two exits from Portage, I turned left into Coleman and headed south. I was midway through one of my 500-step sprints when I heard the dreaded barking.

Come on, not again.

It was three bullmastiffs, or perhaps English mastiffs. They ran out from a farmstead and toward the road.

"Stay back!" I yelled repeatedly. There were no large sticks handy to keep them at a distance. They came to the road but didn't approach me closely.

"Anyone there?" I shouted. There were no people. A passing truck provided brief protection between the dogs and me, and I proceeded ahead, away from their realm.

An hour later, in Milo village, a black dog ran down a long driveway, barking. I stood in the middle of the street with my hand out so an approaching driver would slow down and see what was happening. When the car passed and I walked away, the dog retreated.

About 15 minutes after that, two large dogs barked at me from a yard. The black one ran into the street and jumped on me; then it ran back to the yard.

"You keep your dogs at bay!" I yelled as loudly as I could. "You control your dogs and keep them off the street!" There may have been a few extra words that rhyme with the gerund for opening oysters. I've had many encounters with aggressive dogs, but even the mouth-frothing pack on Niue didn't touch me.

When I passed the next house, the neighbor said, "How about a kick in the head? That's what I did."

"At least you keep your dogs under control," I said.

"Well, my pit bull died," he said, suggesting that the credit I'd given him had been premature.

"What's the address there? You're eighteen seventy-five."

"I have no idea," he said, going back to his cigarette.

Who doesn't know their neighbor's address?

I'm not positive he wasn't the owner, I thought as I headed out of Milo. From here it was a straight shot for eight kilometers, due west to Glenwood with the setting sun in my eyes. I needed another break, but there wasn't anywhere to sit, and contorting myself to get onto the ground (and back up) would be painful and time-consuming. I finally found some large rocks among flowers and bumblebees, next to a sawmill.

After 20 minutes I trudged forward. This would be a painful final hour of walking.

Two drivers stopped to offer me rides. The third, and his passenger, were people I knew. They were staying at the winery.

"Did you go to West Point?" I asked.

"Just to the restaurant."

"I'm staying exactly there."

"It's very close!"

"Maybe in a car. I've still got forty-five minutes," I said.

I reached the West Point Beach House — formerly the fishermen's cookhouse, which had been run by the current owner's grandparents — shortly before nine, just as the sun set. In one of the front rooms was a bare mattress, and I lay down, not ready to venture toward the bedroom in back or those upstairs. Much later, I got up and ate the chicken wrap.

I stayed in bed this morning until nine. My back and quads hurt more than my feet. I descended the stairs side-saddle, facing the wall.

There wasn't much to do in West Point, and that was among its most attractive qualities. I walked the length of the harbor, where boats with names such as Seas the Day and Fishfull Thinking had their respective slips and sheds. Hundreds of lobster traps were stacked along the pier. If it had been lobster season, I could have purchased one directly from a boat and cooked it.

I had a long lunch at Lighthouse Willy's, entertained by singer Lucy Blu and her guitarist and saxophonist — mostly covers and a few original songs. They were friends with Pierre, an especially exuberant patron who recently moved to the Wellington area and has dozens of cousins there.

"It takes me an hour to walk down the street!" he said.

He was Acadian, a descendant of the earliest French settlers. He had recently acted in a play, "Belle Alliance," which tells of the plight of the Acadians: how they were expelled by the British, who later tried to sell back to the returning Acadians the land they had stolen.

In the afternoon, I walked at a starfish's pace over to the West Point Lighthouse, a kilometer away. The restaurant was named after William McDonald, the first of two people who operated the lighthouse from 1876 to 1963, when it became electrified. There's an interesting museum on the floors leading up to the lantern room; of note was an automatic lightbulb changer. I need one of those at home — it takes me weeks.

They also have rooms at the lighthouse, and for months I had been checking the availability and seeing that the only two blocked-out dates for the whole summer were exactly the ones I needed, last night and tonight. When a wedding party showed up at the restaurant, I understood the reason. But the West Point Beach House is lovely, and being there saved me a kilometer yesterday.

The restaurant was so popular that, upon exiting from lunch, I had to reserve a spot for dinner. But I was the only one out on the balcony for the last hour of service. The sun was setting too far up the coast for me to see it, but I enjoyed the dusk colors over the beach. Even the dredging boat just outside the harbor wasn't too ugly. But its roaring mechanism wasn't nearly as pleasing to the ear as Lucy Blu's "Hot Shot Boogie."

Go on to day 7