Trip 45 — Prince Edward Island Walk

Day 19: Souris to Georgetown
Monday, 18 August 2025

Today: 57543 steps/47.35 km/29.42 mi/7h 31m
Total: 903548 steps/647.03 km/402.05 mi/119h 13m

It rained overnight. I took the back roads from the Library Inn, past the Dingwell Funeral Home — which Liz had initially read as "Digwell" — until they brought me back to Main Street. I reached the boardwalk, where we'd dined at the Lobster Shack, and continued as it ran between the road and the shore. There were three drops of rain, and then clouds and cool air.

Placards described the history of shipbuilding and the railway's terminus here, as the boardwalk looked out over wetlands and the red cliffs of peninsulas to the south. It was lovely on the boardwalk, away from the road. It remained cool, with just enough tincture of gray in the clouds to suggest more precipitation. I kept my sweatshirt and raincoat with me today.

I realized the boardwalk was about to dead-end. It had veered away from the road, and there was no way to continue without retracing my steps. Frustrated, I rushed back, climbing down from the boardwalk at the first opportunity that wouldn't land me in a marsh.

Souris is about as far as Julie Nesrallah can reach over the radio waves. Between moments of audible fuzz, she was mentioning the outcome of a recent survey evidently taken primarily by CEOs of office workers. Those polled were asked the length of the ideal vacation.

The result? Eight days.

Now, it's obviously possible to see and do a lot in that amount of time. But I hardly think it's optimal. It takes two days just to get to Japan from New York, once you factor in the time change. You can walk only a third of the way around PEI in eight days, and that's if you're rushing. You can spend almost that long on one train ride in Russia. It took me two days just to leave Lalibela, Ethiopia. I'm cherry-picking, of course. But I vouch for two weeks, minimum.

Annoyed with myself for getting off course on such a long day, I was defiant in making up the time. I hurried past two construction zones, the kind with flaggers to stop traffic in one direction at a time. The resultant breaks in the noise were welcomed.

With that momentum, I kept moving. Faster than I realized. I looked to the left and saw the trees go in and out of view smoothly, gracefully, as if I were viewing them from a tram.

No, I am the tram, my course determined, unwavering, unyielding. My part of the road, this accommodating shoulder, safe, constant.

I am gliding, almost noiselessly, swiftly. My sixth kilometer in 8:36. My seventh in 8:28. I've never had speeds like that.

Is it the cool weather and breeze? The good road? The medicinal bandages Liz found to give me extra padding and heal the remains of my blisters? The accelerando at the end of the "Lyric Quartette" by the African-American composer William Still?

Glide, glide, glide. Pine, cedar, elm, sugar maple.

No, you idiot, I tell myself. It's the stamina gained from walking regularly for the past three weeks.

Forward, forward, forward. Horses. The first sheep I've seen on the island. Alpacas. Alpacas? Yes, they're looking at me. The first fox — or what remains of it, in my path, after it lost an encounter with a vehicle.

A turn. Leaving Route 2 to go south on Route 4.

Trucks. So many now. Oil tankers. Timber trucks. A truck carrying another truck. Too many trucks. Shucks. Sucks. When the biggest ones go by, I'm slammed with a wall of air. It doesn't affect my speed. It makes me more defiant. This is my lane. The tramway.

Twenty kilometers in three hours.

News. Air Canada flight attendants were told by the government to return to work. They refused. The strike was declared illegal. Does it matter? Aren't all strikes acts of defiance?

"Affairs of the Heart," a violin concerto by the Canadian composer Marjan Mozetich. Elgar's "Enigma" Variations. A piece by Steve Reich for two marimbas.

Twenty-three kilometers. Liz passes me. There's a car behind her. She doesn't stop. I don't want to stop, either. Should I? Twenty-three is about as far as I can usually go without a break. Is it dangerous to keep going?

I don't know. I'm not tired. Up and down, following the road, in my own space. Yellow flowers, purple flowers, white flowers.

A police car stopping in front of me. I debate detouring into the road, even when he motions for me to step left, onto the dirt. This is my lane. At the last moment, I go left. We wave.

More news. The wildfires in Canada have been the second-worst on record this summer, cumulatively destroying an area the size of New Brunswick.

That orange numskull again. "I like the concept of a ceasefire for one reason, because you'd stop killing people." I imagine it written in crayon, with some of the letters backwards. How did this puerile mind get elected? Twice!

A Cybertruck goes by.

A vintage car, something long and wide, strays outside its lane, coming toward me. It's deliberate. Another one an hour later, maybe the same one. It has a "For sale" sign. The driver still reckless. He can't possibly be trying to sell me a car, can he be?

Twice I look over my shoulder to see drivers using the lane near me as a passing lane. They're a little too close for comfort, but I'm used to it.

Still under ten minutes per kilometer. No urge to stop. Thirty kilometers in four hours and 35 minutes. Could this speed be the new norm?

A pair of extremely difficult modern piano pieces by Alice Ping Yee Ho. The host for this afternoon's "About Time" radio program this afternoon is Philip Chiu, who commissioned three movements from her inspired by their native country of Hong Kong. I start thinking about the preludes I've considered writing based on the Abecedarian Walks. I finger a possible musical theme on my leg, using the rhythm of the song sparrows.

I turn onto Route 321. A smaller road. Just before a little bridge, I finally stop, at the Clam Diggers restaurant. It's on a hill and I have to walk around the hill to get up there. I'm not as tired as I expected to be, but I wonder what speed I'll have when I resume.

A giant salad with strawberries, mango, blueberries, onion, feta, and almonds, and then a scallop po' boy. The server has the intuition to bring a water pitcher after I've finished my first glass. I remember that the next stretch is on a spur of the Confederation Trail, and that keeps me going.

The clouds are gone, but now I'm on the trail, shaded by pine and apple trees. Glide, glide, glide. Around ten minutes per kilometer now, but I'm happy with that. The little tram keeps chugging.

I turn onto Route 3. Four huskies bark at me from a lawn, but they don't get close. The road turns right into Georgetown. I reach the inn. Liz finishes a session and I hobble up to the room. A flight of 17 stairs, then a flight of 14.

Two blocks to the Wheelhouse for dinner. We reserved for 8:15, after Liz's last session. During lunch, they had called and tried to get us into an earlier time slot and sounded disappointed when I declined. We might be the last people to eat dinner on the island. We catch the end of the sunset before we enter.

Tempted by a lobster melt and chowder recommended by Allison from the Library Inn. The chowder is in a bowl large enough to sink a schooner. We want something on the healthier side and the closest thing is mussels in a tomato broth. Done.

"Huuuuuh," this tram moans after many steps and much food.

"Whuuuh," Liz answers in a whisper.

Two blocks back. Seventeen steps up, then 14. G-l-i-d-e, g...l...i...d...e, g...l...

This tram has reached the depot. A pinch of potato-based fudge Liz brought from Souris. More "Breaking Bad." Legs horizonal, engage. Power down. Sleep.

Go on to day 20