Log Trucks & Lullabies

Along Route 105 in Western New Brunswick, there is a gravel road which will remain anonymous unless you’re searching for a place to rest. A discrete sign with humble black lettering against a white background identifies the entrance. As your wheels pop over the crushed stone, water sits reverently on either side of your path, converging at the bottom to run between the banks of the Saint John River. To your left is a square floating barge, and on the raised platform sits a tired picnic table waiting for company, though it shows no concern for immediacy. On summer days, BBQs are lit under the clear blue sky, while nighttime affairs conduct secret missions beneath a starry canopy.

Further along and to the right is sacred ground. Sacred because the parishioners of the now empty Church have filled in the graves surrounding the place where they once assembled for service. Above them, the old grey headstones lean and crumble, their faded names a guesswork below patches of spongy green moss. Opposite this, rows of polished markers stand upright, topped with flowers to prove they live on in someone’s memory. One day, this modern section will seem as out of date as the founding monuments, abandoned and returning to dust.

Some people refuse to be buried here, worried that a possible spring flood could carry them off downstream like a floating barge to the next town. We all have our personal concerns for the state of our mortal remains; here, they long to remain exactly where they were planted, wishing even in the afterlife not to cross that county line. If you’re not certain that cemeteries should allow the curious to stroll and stretch their legs, perhaps this is where I remind you that cemeteries are for the living. 

In the distance, a small red car sits idle; pale elbows and arms stick out over the sides. I recognize the vehicle and approach it for an impromptu family reunion. I’ve ridden 4 hours to arrive at the county I grew up in, and this sheltered road leads me straight to one of my relatives. We don’t have family buried here, but we share stories to keep alive the memories of those we’ve recently lost before we part ways.  

I bike at a distance behind log trucks pulling loads of lumber across the province, trailing the smell of fresh cuts over bumpy roads, while the hot sun bakes the cedar chips into sweet perfume on the trees that remain standing. The same sun toasts me into a living BBQ under my protective leather jacket, and I tug the top of my zipper for a crack at air conditioning. If I were in the company of others, I’d ask them to forgive my own stale scent; another benefit of riding solo.

Along the river, the birds fly overhead, their heavy wings droop and slow as they umbrella their nesting young. Here they are sheltered just as I was, free to roam in a world where agriculture has shaped the environment and formed a simpler way of life. My motorcycle homecoming reverie ends as a hitchhiker joins my expedition, landing under my open collar to pummel me with stings. The first two puncture my back with a frenzied zest for life, while the winged beast claims new territory between my shoulder blades. I pull over to end the party while trucks laden with manure shake the ground and prod my senses as they pass by. I pinch the culprit between my fingers. He’s grown weary, and I finally have my hands free to do something about it. With a flick, he’s off, and he flies away ready to take on another helpless biker tied to their handlebars. It’s a wonder that this small insect can take on a 500-lb machine and win.

At the next gas station, I top up the tank and watch kids in bathing suits struggle to balance on bicycles far too big for them. The family box of hair dye has been passed around, resulting in shades of red on each of their heads. The oldest, claiming birthright dibs, sports a deep saturation, while the youngest settles for streaks. It’s a week before school ends, and they complain about the mean teachers while they wait for their mother to walk out of the store with sweets to litter their faces.

I look down at my wheels and notice my bottom spark plug boot hangs lifeless under the frame. It refuses to go back in, so I loop it in a knot to keep it off the clam shells and away from heat until I can tempt it back in later. Tip-toeing across the road ahead, a young deer makes eye contact, and with no traffic behind me, I take a minute to return its gaze. Deciding we both have more important things to do, we move in opposite directions. I have an hour to go until I arrive at my parents’ place, and my throttle is hesitant. I lean forward to crank on it, reaching underneath to get it moving. Instead of responding to a smooth flick of the wrist, it reacts to a stern tug, and we lurch forward down the road and shelve this problem with the other one.

The evening heat produces a hazy sunset, promising another great tomorrow, and I land at my parents' ready to scrounge their cupboards for a meal. Settled in for the night, we play games and catch up while I comb through old family photos, searching for lost memories within the still frames. There’s a distinct difference between my dad’s trained-eye captures, which see us lined up like the Von Trapp Family, and my mother’s candid portraits, caught off guard and in the moment. As midnight approaches, we fall asleep under the same roof, filling up the previously empty nest.

Continuing my reunion ride, I hop on my bike in the morning and trail along the river. My parents follow behind as I dodge potholes that have chewed gaps in the road like a rocky Swiss cheese. Known locally as the Bible Belt, the St. John River Valley has deposited churches of all denominations in every corner of this region; some of them display more personality than others, and we pull up to one with a boat perpetually docked on dry land. We enter the replica of Noah’s Ark built by the Pentecostal Church, which houses a small café. I attempt to order two of everything, but humour isn’t on the menu, so I settle for a single serving of tomato bisque and coffee.

My bike is running in top shape, minus the teeth wearing on the throttle mechanism, and I’m anxious to get moving again, knowing the parts to repair it are at the end of a network of long country miles. The final stop before this one-woman motorcycle show heads back home is at the top of Hunter Road; a connector lane nestled between rows of fields and open farmland, which used to belong to the family. Here, the vehicles are sparse, but what does roll by is hazardous on either end of the spectrum: the slow and curious clutching binoculars or the reckless and territorial chugging beer cans. My mother, never to retire from her duties, informs me that my blinker remained on for an extended period after the café and cautions against my neglect. She takes a position at the top of the hill, on self-appointed traffic patrol, while my dad and I ready the bike for a photo. Overlooking the valley, we aim to capture an image of a place I want to hold onto for a moment more, before this last bit of land is sold and we no longer own the right to be here.