Jacques and the Acadian Dikes

The first time I met Jacques he jumped in the air and tried to kiss my face. And then his mom took us all out walking. We were going to be in charge of Jacques for a month, so she wanted to show us his happy place. She took us across the street, down a grassy path, and through a meadow. We climbed a little hill and there we were, on top of the Acadian Dikes. There was farmland on one side, and salt water from the Bay of Fundy on the other. The wind was blowing and the tall green grass was bending. There were tiny lavender flowers under our feet, and clumps of goldenrod and purple thistles along the trail on top of the dike. You could see in every direction for miles. It was open and endless and free.

The next day we started walking on the dikes every day with Jacques, the big black water-loving poodle. Sometimes we went at the wrong time and there was no water for him to jump in; only wavelike crevices of mud, glistening in the sun. But Jacques always forgave us, and made the best of it, running through the tall grass, racing with us down the path, finding special rocks to carry home in his mouth, his joy contagious.

After a while we figured it out. We would look up the Minas Basin tidal chart on our phones, and plan our walks for high tide. We would hike through the meadow that belonged to Moose, the lonely horse,

and clamber up the ancient mound of earth just beyond his fence, and wonder what we would see. How high would the water be? What shades of light and shadow and color would appear?  

And every day it was different.

When the tide was high Jacques would go swimming, and fetch sticks we threw in the water for him. He was almost always sopping wet when we got home. And happy.

Sometimes we would meet other people on the dikes, riding bikes, or walking their dogs. They said Jacques was pretty, and the friendliest dog in the world. No one said he was smart. But we knew. After only a few days we had him trained to know when it was time to go home. We would set the music alarm on Gary's phone, and when the trumpets sounded Jacques would stop dead in his tracks. He would look down the path and consider, and then without a word from us, he would turn around and start heading home. Without complaint.

But what was it exactly that we were walking on?

We went to an Acadian historical site, and listened to the inspired guide tell us things we didn't know about these piles of rock and dirt that were under our feet every day. About the ingenious system of valves and water gates that allowed the Acadians to reclaim the soil of the salt marshes from the highest and fastest tides in the world, and turn it into rich and fertile farmland. About the enormous amounts of work and cooperation and patience this required. She told us about the great expulsion in the 18th century, when the British stripped all the Acadians of their rights, loaded them onto overcrowded ships, and sent them away to parts unknown. She told us how ten thousand Acadians were either deported or imprisoned, but that some of them had to be released in order to keep the dikes working, because the system was so complex. She talked to us about killing and trauma and terror. And one of the last things she said to us is that she wonders sometimes if all the terrible things that happen to people somehow stay in their DNA, and that's why we're all so messed up.

Which makes you wonder too.

And when you're not out walking on the dikes, or exploring Kings County, you turn on the tv to see what's happening in the world, and there is the leading Republican presidential candidate talking about building more walls, instead of tearing them down, and there is another shooting in another movie theater, and the same shrill voices saying if only everyone carried a gun everywhere, we would all be safer, and there are animals being tortured and children dying and the ocean is full of plastic. And the most logical response seems to be to go back to bed and pull the covers up over your head and never come out.

But the dog needs to go for a walk.

So you go out to the dikes again, and walk on history. And you think about terror and DNA, about how little you know about anything, and how helpless you feel, and how hopeless it all seems. And then Jacques runs by, leaping and jumping through the tall green grass. He's racing with you. He's searching for the perfect rock to take home and add to his collection. He's jumping in the water to get sticks. He's jumping in the water even if there aren't any sticks. He's smiling. Which makes you smile. And at least for today, it's enough.

Because of the Art

It all started with these:

I find them on a table the first day of our house-sit in Wolfville, Nova Scotia, pick one up, and start reading:

"The Uncommon Common Art exhibit locates visual art outside of the institutional context, presenting a public body of work that promotes the discovery and appreciation of the rural natural environment. The exhibit emphasizes finding the unexpected, thought provoking piece of art where you might not expect to. Installations are site specific with the location being a key component to the art piece. The installations are gifts to the observers of nature to find, explore, talk about, and share. Through this project we hope to engage and educate about art, environment, outdoor activity, and our rural community."

The brochure says the founder and curator of UCA is originally from Chicago. I'm from Chicago too. Sort of. Technically I'm from a suburb of Chicago. But that's not what I usually say. The other thing that catches my eye and quickens my pulse is the grid at the back of the pamphlet, with numbers corresponding to each of sixteen art installations. At each site there's supposed to be a stamp in a little metal box so that as you find each one you can fill in the matching box in your booklet. The lure of the grid and the stamps is powerful. The next day we start looking for art.

Stop one is easy to find. It's right there on the side of the road.

Opportunity Knocked - by Nicole Evans and Patrick Farrell

And when we drive a little farther down the road we find this.

Evangeline Beach. Which might look a little bit mucky and brown, but that's because the world famous Bay of Fundy tide is going out and exposing the mudflats. And those mudflats are the place where thousands of sandpipers return every year, to eat up all the uncovered mud shrimp they can find, and fatten themselves up for their long migration. A journey that also takes them to Cheyenne Bottoms, Kansas. And Kansas is where we were just a few days ago, visiting some of my people. Because I might say Chicago is the place that I'm from, but Kansas is where I was born.

And when we drive a little farther, we stumble upon the Grand Pre National Historic Site. The site that commemorates the tragic tale of the expulsion of the Acadian people from Nova Scotia during the French and Indian War. And we realize we don't even know who the Acadians were, and here we are walking around in their world. So we go inside, and listen to the passionate eloquent fact-full guide tell us everything she knows about their story. We learn about Longfellow's epic poem, Evangeline, a Tale of Acadie, and how it's a fictionalized version of what happened. And we realize we both must have been absent from school that day, because neither one of us knows anything about any of this.

We go out looking for art almost every day.

Migration  - by Sanna Rahola and Douglas Drdul

When we find Migration, we also find the botanical gardens on the campus of Acadia University. And when we peek in the windows of the biology building next door, we find this peaceful elegant room that is open to the public every day. A room with soft couches, and trickling water fountains, and free wi-fi. A place we will come to more than once in the days ahead, with our computers and our books and our ceaseless searching thoughts. And when we wander through the gardens among the indigenous plants, all laid out in sections for the different habitats, we think about our daughter back home in Hawaii, and her love for the native plants there, and her tireless efforts to protect them.

The Garden Room, Acadia University

We keep finding art, and stamping the numbers in the back of the UCA booklet.

When we find this one, we also find Miner's Marsh. Which is a place where the good guys are trying to preserve the native marsh eco-system. A place where they're working to save the "water, wetlands, and wildlife for the generations of tomorrow."

Pasture Gate - by Brad Hall

Some of the pieces try to get us to think, and some make us see ourselves as we might rather not.

And some are just silly in stacks.

Pyramid Scheme - by Twila Robar-DeCosta

Some are easy to find, and some are the farthest most opposite of that. As we search we discover farms feeding people, and nature preserves, and houses like outdoor art museums. We get bitten by the most giant mosquitoes ever known to man, and chased by angry and persistent yellow and black flies. We get lost, and then found. Our car falls into giant potholes that almost break it in half. We get irritated with each other, and sometimes we laugh. We ask questions, and try to understand. Or not. We remember how small and connected it all is, and how much there is yet to learn. We remember that sometimes the good guys win. And we think of our daughter, and everyone's daughters, and know hope.

Frost Path - by Alan Bateman

The Cape Split Trail

The zen music alarm on Gary's phone wakes us up gently at 2:45 AM, but before we really get up we check three different weather apps one more time. The girl in the outdoor store in Wolfville told us she hiked Cape Split to see the sunrise, so now we are inspired to do the same, except it won't stop raining. One app shows a sun with a cloud over it, one shows a cloud with no sun at all, and one shows a bright yellow sun at 6 AM. Sunrise is 5:56. We decide to believe in the bright yellow sun. So we get up and put on our dri-fit clothes and our rain jackets, and pack up our backpacks with extra socks and fig newtons. I grab the walking stick in the hall, and we start driving in the dark. At first it isn't raining, but as we get closer to the trailhead we see it slanting down sideways in the headlights and beading off the hood of the car. We keep driving, telling ourselves we can always call the whole thing off if it's pouring when we get to the parking lot. But I think we are both still believing in the bright yellow sun at sunrise.

We get to the parking lot and it's barely sprinkling. We're the only ones there, and we step out of the car into darkness and silence. A silence so complete it catches me by surprise. There are no sounds anywhere. Of anything. Until we hear a coyote way off in the distance, in the opposite direction of the trail head, and just then Gary hands me a folded-up knife. Which I try to attach to my waistband but can't, so I tell him I'll put it in my pocket instead. He says it won't do much good there, and in my mind I'm thinking it won't do much good anywhere. But I finally manage to attach it to my waistband, under two shirts and my rain jacket, where it's harder to get to than if it was in the little zipped up pocket on the leg of my pants. We put on our headlamps and I pee one last time in the compost toilet at the trailhead. Gary finds a walking stick, and at 4:27 we start out on our sixteen kilometer hike.

The trail is dark and wet and muddy, and almost the first place we come to is a stream bed with rocks, and we can't tell which way to go. We pick a direction and find the path, and I realize water has already come through the mesh of my shoes. As we walk there is a constant misting rain and little toads are hopping in front of my feet. Our lamps are lighting up the trail, and we are squishing in the mud and trying to find ways around the really big puddles. Gary keeps talking about coyotes, and I try not to think about the story we heard about the girl that was killed by them while she was hiking alone in Nova Scotia a few years ago. It wasn't this trail, but still. They say you should make noise so the coyotes know you are coming, so I start singing Joy to the World, but Gary doesn't want to sing, so we talk really loudly to each other about nothing at all, and Gary keeps glancing left and right into the dark woods with his headlamp, looking for coyote eyes shining back. As we walk there is a small and steady rain, but our pants and jackets are repelling the water.

After more than an hour the sky starts to get lighter and we hear the first bird and what we think is a foghorn, but it doesn't really sound like a foghorn, so we call it a nautical sound instead. It's off to our right in the bay somewhere. The rain is getting harder and harder and soaking through our pants now, and it feels like we have to be almost at the end. Gary takes out the rain-cover for the camera bag and tries to figure out how to put it on, and when his back is turned I look past him and see something on the trail that could be a small dog. I start to yell and make big noise, and it turns and runs off into the woods. But I'm not afraid. And it's not because of the folded-up knife attached to my waistband.

The sky keeps getting lighter and pretty soon we take off our headlamps and the trees start to thin out and we see a meadow up ahead. When we emerge from the forest we have missed the sunrise. But it doesn't matter. We step out onto the edge into a watercolor painting. The rain has stopped. The colors and the light and the clouds are pastel muted newborn clean. There are seabirds on the cliff yelling at each other and playing waking up games.

There are wildflowers everywhere and giant dark green pines, and I'm glad we didn't look up pictures of this place before we came, because everything is a revelation. We wander around on the paths made by other people's feet, and find the split in the rocks that makes it Cape Split.

We look over the edge of a cliff and it looks like there's a hidden waterfall flowing into the bay. We're not sure what we're seeing. So we check from another angle and decide that it's the tide flowing fast into the bay. Because the tides here are the highest and fastest anywhere. We are stopped, and stilled, by the tide, and this spot. We're soaking and freezing and the mosquitoes have found us, but we don't want to leave. I want to fold it all up and push it down deep and keep it inside forever. We take out our fig newtons and look at each other. We smile and say cheers.

Finally we find our way back to the trail. And everything is different in the light. The forest is primeval. Made of myth and mist and magic and moss. Wildflowers and ferns are everywhere.

The trees are all bent in mysterious shapes, fallen over and growing in strange ways. There are upended roots like sculptures, and the trail is a river from the hard rain earlier.

Our clothes are drenched, and our feet are sploshing in our shoes, and we are tired and achy and cold. And it feels like we've been to the end and the beginning of everything anyone knows. And as we're walking we stop and just listen, and the silence feels like a prayer, here on the Cape Split trail, where we stood for a while in a painting, and shared a fig newton, and toasted the world.