Wild-eyed Kent lurched towards the cliff edge and yelled: “I’ll jump for ya!”
I must have given him a look that screamed CRAZY CANUCK because he quickly qualified his offer: “I’ve done it plenty of times. I grew up around here.”
And then he leapt, arms flapping like rotor blades, off the 20-metre cliff and into the foaming sea below. It seemed an eternity before his head popped, cork-like, out of the brine, and the breath I’d been holding was finally granted its exit.
Cape Breton Highlands National Park, on the northern tip of Canada’s island province of Nova Scotia, is no place for the faint-hearted. It’s a wild concoction of spectacular scenery – vertigo-inducing highlands, Tolkien-esque river canyons and craggy cliffs that plunge (like Kent) into the icy sea. I’d come halfway around the world to explore this earth’s-end landscape, on trails that snake along exposed mountain tops, through peat bogs and into coastal fishing villages, complete with centuries-old lighthouses that, it seems, time has mislaid.
And then there’s the wildlife. Moose roam free here, and spotting them can be nigh on impossible or ridiculously easy – I saw two ‘hiding’ in a sapling forest a stone’s throw from a perfectly groomed golf course (Highland Links – yep, there’s sophistication amid the wilderness). I’d spent the two days before that trekking up hill and down dale, and mired in peat bogs following moose tracks that afforded me not even a glimpse of an antler. Still, hiking boots covered in muck and legs stinging from the unrelenting exertion, it was worth every step.
Access to the park is via the Cabot Trail, without doubt one of the world’s most scenic drives and a favourite with motorcyclists. It’s 300 kilometres of smooth, bitumen road that hugs the rugged coastline and skirts a seemingly endless azure sea (the Gulf of St Lawrence on the north-western edge of the island, and the Atlantic Ocean in the east). Heading inland, it wends through spectacular Canadian maple forests that morph from lime green in summer to waves of red, orange and brilliant yellow come autumn.
When Kent finally made it back to the top of the cliff he was deliriously pumped. “Did you see that? Cool, wasn’t it? Buddy, I can do it again if you want… You wanna jump too?”
Despite the voice in my head screaming “Do it! Do it!” I declined. I had somewhere else to be, I explained. The Skyline Trail. Kent nodded his approval. “That’s cool. It’s a brilliant walk. Look for moose! The big guys hang out around there.”
The 9.2-kilometre Skyline Trail is one of the most popular tracks in the park, and loops atop an impressive coastal headland. I followed a grassy path through fir trees and over roots and rocks to a bog surrounded by sweetly scented pines and earthy peat moss. There were moose tracks everywhere. Promising, Kent, promising.
As I walked west towards the coast, the forest thinned to reveal expansive views of the sea. It was spectacular; the frothing waves of the Gulf of St Lawrence – the world’s largest estuary and the outlet of the Great Lakes of North America – lapped at the horizon.
Roughly halfway along the track I joined a boardwalk that traced the spine of the mountain. The panorama was sublime: to my left, row upon row of pine-clad peaks, and to my right, nothing but deep blue sea. At the boardwalk’s end – a viewing platform at the edge of the cliff – I pulled off my pack and sat, watching the waves roll and roll and roll. Amazingly, I spotted a pod of long-finned pilot whales not too far offshore, flukes slapping on the surface (a practice known as lobtailing).
Difficult as it was to drag myself away from such beauty, back on the Skyline loop I became immersed in the plant life – the pines were stunted from years of being lashed by wind and the peat bogs were a drawcard for all manner of animals, from the snowshoe hare and white-tailed deer to the black bear. I’d stopped to check out a golden dragonfly hovering over a pitcher plant when I heard the press of heavy hooves on soil and looked up to see a moose. It was a male, with antlers as wide as he was long. He took one look at me and ambled away. Breathtaking.
The park is littered with walking tracks like this – scenically stunning and not too hard on the heart. But if you’re looking for one that really gets the blood pumping, try Franey, a steep 7.4-kilometre loop to the 425-metre peak of craggy Franey Mountain. From here the 360-degree view takes in the impressive Clyburn River Canyon, which cuts a path eastward to the Atlantic Ocean. For moose spotters, the three-kilometre Benjie’s Lake trail is most likely to deliver the goods, while beaver lovers should tackle the 1.7-kilometre Freshwater Lake trail, on the southeast edge of the park.
In total, Cape Breton Highlands National Park has 26 designated hiking and mountain-biking trails, as well as eight campgrounds. It’s a wildlife haven, and tucked up in my tent at night I’d hear the forest rustle with movement. A moose? A bear? A cheeky lynx trying to sniff out treats from my dillybag, which was hidden away in a nearby bear-proof food locker?
There are also sleepy coastal villages in which you can rest your weary bones (away from the wildlife) and soak up the island’s rich maritime and Scottish heritage.
Scots first came to the island in the 1770s, and today it’s home to the largest Gaelic community outside Scotland, which continues many fine traditions from the homeland, including Celtic fiddling, step-dancing and producing the best melt-in-your-mouth shortbread I’ve ever eaten. Drizzled with the ubiquitous Canadian maple syrup, it’s fuel for all-day adventuring.
The towns of Inverness on the west coast and Baddeck on the east both brim with Gaelic-inspired food and culture, and in homes, restaurants, pubs and community halls, céilidhs raise the roof pretty much every weekend. Informal social gatherings featuring Scottish dancing, music and storytelling, they’re as much a part of the fabric of the island as the word ‘eh’ is to Canada as a whole.
After a week in the wilderness I stopped in Baddeck to sample a local delicacy pulled straight from the sea. “So what is planked salmon?” I asked of my host at Baddeck Lobster Suppers. While my friends dug into steaming bowls of seafood chowder then a bucket of freshly steamed mussels followed by lobster (a steal at roughly $22 per kilogram, compared to $65 in Australia), I watched as my thick fillet of salmon was laid on a plank of timber in an outdoor cooking hut 15 metres away and drizzled in maple syrup over and over again, before being skilfully squeezed between two grill plates and sizzled over hardwood coals. It was well worth the wait; the sweet and fishy flavours danced a delicious jig in my mouth.
Later that night, in the jovial embrace of the Thistledown Pub, I listened to the lilting voice of a local Scot who reeled off song after song in praise of Nova Scotia and, more specifically, Cape Breton. “Music is central to our lives,” he said. “You’ll find most families play the fiddle or the bagpipes or sing or step-dance. It’s just who we are.”
Renowned for its music, Baddeck is equally celebrated as the beloved home of inventor extraordinaire Alexander Graham Bell. Born and raised in Edinburgh and most famous for inventing the telephone, Bell moved to Baddeck with his family in 1885, looking for “a place of salt water, mountains and valleys” where he and his wife Mabel could “put [our] little girls in trousers and live a simple, free and unconventional life”.
Located in Baddeck, the Alexander Graham Bell Museum, a national historic site, is an intriguing place. Bell was a prolific inventor (according to one of his biographers his work ranged “unfettered across the scientific landscape”), and his countless creations are on show here, from a metal jacket used to assist in breathing (a precursor to the iron lung) to a device for locating icebergs. There are also composting toilets, air-conditioning units and the biplane Silver Dart, which, in 1909, made the first powered flight in the British Empire. It took off from the ice-covered waters of Bras d’Or Lake, over which the museum presides.
His ever-enquiring mind and appreciation for the raw beauty of nature allowed Bell to see the value in a geographic journal of record, and in 1888 he became one of the founding members of the National Geographic Society.
A small plaque in the museum sums up Bell’s thoughts on the society and, I suspect, his move to wild and untamed Cape Breton. It reads:
“We should not keep forever on the public road going only where others have gone; we should leave the beaten track occasionally and enter the woods.”
Like its milky, viscous cousin pulque, mezcal is made from the fermented sap of the maguey plant, a form of agave. It tastes smokier than tequila and can sometimes be found with a large larva worm floating near the bottom.
Some believe drinking it can help control hypertension and diabetes, while others would rather think it’s an aphrodisiac. In Oaxaca, it’s traditionally served with a side of fried larvae.
There are many bars and stores selling mezcal in Mexico but the most popular and trendy spots are in Mexico City and Oaxaca, a region where many of the finer spirits are produced. You can take a tour of a distillery to find out how small-batch, artisinal mezcal is produced (yes, sampling is encouraged!).
Check out Corazón de Maguey, Los Danzantes, La Botica, Mexicano and Muruka in Mexico City.
Ah, Aspen… Loved by celebs with private jets and people with so much money they could buy the whole mountain if they so desired. But for one week each winter, this mountain resort turns into the biggest LGBTQI party you might ever encounter, and at Aspen Gay Ski Week there’s as much action off the slope as there is on.
Après-ski hot-tub ragers, friendship dinners, art nights and dance parties take over when the hikes, downhill costume parties and bootcamp classes are done for the day. There’s also a (slightly) serious side: all money raised during the festivities goes to the Roaring Fork Gay and Lesbian Community Fund, which supports ventures promoting tolerance, understanding and diversity.
No matter what time of year you get the bug to strap on the skis (or the board), you can take to Oregon’s Mount Hood. Here, you’ll find Timberline Lodge at about 1,200 metres.
During the summer months (from June to September) you’ll find plenty of skiers higher up the mountain at Palmer Snowfield. The best part is you can get up early to do a bit of skiing, then head down to Portland for some craft beer and doughnuts, or go a bit further to enjoy the amazing coastline. Take in artsy Cannon Beach, wander the promenade at Seaside or catch a wave at Indian Beach.
Pack your wettie and your skis and take off on a thrill-seeking Californian day trip. Spend your morning surfing the friendly Bolinas break locals have tried so desperately to keep secret (they remove road signs almost as soon as they’re put up), then buckle up for the four-hour drive to Squaw Valley, host of the 1960 Winter Olympics. There’s no need to rush – runs are floodlit by night, giving you plenty of time to ride the legendary slopes.
While some wring their hands at the mention of shrinking glaciers, a beautiful side-effect of glacial retreat peppers Alaska’s Prince William Sound. A 16-kilometre trail of ever-changing ice sculptures graces the bay, creating a striking landscape best explored by kayak. It’s a two-hour water taxi trip to the Columbia Glacier, but keep your eyes peeled along the way for seals, sea lions and, if you’re lucky, whales.
When you arrive, swap the motor for a paddle and coast around the vibrant blue shards, listening as great chunks of ice crash from the terminus of one of the world’s most rapidly changing glaciers. Scientists predict its retreat will halt in the next five to 15 years, when it will stabilise and cease shedding.
With events including coffin racing, a hearse parade and frozen turkey bowling, Frozen Dead Guy Days seem more like a scene in a Tim Burton film than an annual festival in the quiet mountain community of Nederland, Colorado.
Dreamed up by a cryonic-crazy family that has kept its Grandpa Bredo on ice for years (and across continents), it’s hard to decide if the story behind the festival or the festival itself is more bizarre.
For some, getting choppered to the top of a sheer drop and left to find your own way down sounds like a very bad and somewhat dangerous joke. But for thrill-seeking downhill adventurers, heliskiing is the last word in must-do experiences.
There are a number of operators in Alaska, but we’re into Alaska Heliskiing. Why? Because while the operation is located right on the Canadian border near Haines and ventures to places with runs you can usually only dream about, it’s also got a huge range of options, including some for those who may be light of pocket. For instance, you can go for the whole package – seven nights in a fantastic lodge, 30 runs in the heli, everything included – for about US$6,250, or you can do a day in the big bird for about US$1,050.
Of all the gin-soaked snow slopes in all the USA why would you choose Heavenly? Its eye-popping location on the shores of sapphire-blue Lake Tahoe doesn’t hurt, but it’s the nightlife that sets it apart from the country’s many other ski resorts. Because it’s located in both California and Nevada, there are enough casinos – and all the cheap entertainment and drinks that go with them – to stop you from sleeping. But even if you prefer to stay away from that sort of action you can’t miss one of the most outrageous parties on the slopes.
Unbuckle at Tamarack Lodge runs for just two hours each afternoon, but in that time gets real hot and sweaty. Shake it off with the Heavenly Angels dancers, imbibe some half-price drinks, pose in the photo booth, then ride the gondola back down to South Lake Tahoe. You know you want to.
There was no denying the cinematic setting. Lush, leprechaun-green hills as far as the eye could see launching into a cobalt-blue ocean. Abundant sunshine only made it all the more panoramic. That the backdrop was the swanky Lodge at Torrey Pines resort in “chill, babe, it’s San Diego” only punctuated the life-is-good moment. The occasion? A bites-and-brew Beer Garden celebration of the city’s delicious and famous craft-beer scene.
Then some guy said, “I don’t like beer.”
OK, not entirely expected. This is a city, after all, that’s managed to blow those Budweiser horses off their slick advertising double trucks by cultivating an Evel Knievel culture of I-dare-you-to-brew-that handcrafted beer. A city where the once marginal and now legendary Stone Brewing Co.’s Stone IPA (Indian Pale Ale) slides down a bar just as fast as a Ballast Point Victory at Sea Chocolate and Coffee Porter.
Those beers, and just about every variety in between dreamt up by San Diego’s redoubtable craft breweries, are the focus of San Diego Beer Week, held annually during the first week of November. “When we started San Diego Beer Week in 2009, we were hoping to share our unique brewing scene with locals,” Matt Rattner, president of Karl Strauss Brewing Company and board member of the San Diego Brewers Guild, confides in me. “Five years later, we’re internationally recognised for our innovation, quality and collaboration.”
The event now spans 10 days and takes place all over the city, from local boîtes and spiffy tasting rooms to assorted breweries for beer-pairing dinners.
My first discovery during my first Beer Week this past November was that, in San Diego, beer is as vaunted as wine. Arrive with the idea that beer is trashy, not as posh as wine, and you’ll be chased out of town faster than a bartender can pull a pint.
Which intrigues as to why someone in the midst of this fermented demimonde might exclaim they’re not into brews at all. Luckily his attitude is inconsequential to the brewers and bystanders who realise all this guy needs is an education. The civilised response? “You just haven’t tasted one you like yet.”
Tasting a beer you like, much less sourcing one, is not a problem in San Diego. Unlike conventional breweries or even other cities that have raised a ruckus over their craft beer, San Diego is the capital of cockiness. If it blows or grows, you can be assured a brewer here is throwing it in a vat hoping for a palatable lightning bolt.
A beer for breakfast here is not out of context. In the woodsy garden grotto of Karl Strauss – on a Sunday morning no less – I lingered over a feisty brunch tamped down with a Peanut Butter Cup Porter. “We threw in cocoa nibs and a bunch of roasted peanut powder,” explains Karl Strauss brew master Paul Segura. “It fell short of what we’d anticipated. So we threw in another bag of the powder – figured what the hey, let’s see what happens.” I wasn’t the only one who left with a growler of the velvety, deep-roasted peanut and cocoa brew, evidence that the prevailing wisdom of run-it-up-the-flagpole-and-someone’s-bound-to-salute approach works here.
That was echoed in Ballast Point’s spiffy new Little Italy–located brewpub. Here, ‘pub food’ means serious eats turned out by Colin MacLaggan, a Le Cordon Bleu–trained chef. At all hours the sleek, bright pub and trendy cafe hybrid is packed. “Nothing out of the ordinary,” jovial brew master Colby Chandler assures me as he directs my gaze to the LCD monitor above the bar with a beers-on-tap display. Ballast, like most craft brewers here, encourages employees to spin the hopper and go all in with an original brew. With that in mind, Chandler hands me an Indra Kunindra Curry Export Stout. “Beware, it’s spicy,” he warns. Too late, it turns out, since I’ve been hit already with a slightly noxious-yet-fragrant burst of Madras curry, cumin, cayenne, coconut and kaffir lime leaf. It’s potent, refreshing, tingling and dizzyingly aromatic – in short, a beer that would call to the carpet even the most Indian food averse.
All of this was just a warm-up for the uber beer pub experience: the new Liberty Station compound of Stone Brewing Co. – a name now synonymous with San Diego craft beer. At 2200 square metres, it’s a candidate for its own postcode. It’s so huge I got lost. The former military barracks in Point Loma has a rough-hewn-meets-Rem Koolhaas vibe that effectively masks its capaciousness yet doesn’t mask the brilliance of the beers. Yeah, the go-to Stone IPA is here, but so are scores of others, including the Suede Imperial Porter, a collaboration with Oregon’s 10 Barrel Brewing. I felt it only right to slide towards the truly far out, an altruistic IPA Stone created for Operation Homefront (a military charity organisation). An orange peel brew that’s hopped with Chinook and Cascade varieties then rested in fermenters atop maple Louisville Slugger baseball bats, the beer is, well, woodsy. In a good way.
It was in the spirit of embracing such beer bombast that The Lost Abbey’s marketing guru Adam Martinez slips into the conversation. “International beer enthusiasts love this week because it’s a chance to be part of the San Diego beer revolution,” he says. “Better yet, they get to taste what it’s all about. They have a chance to meet with all the brewers in intimate settings, ask questions, and learn the inspiration and method behind the each beer.”
My beer initiation wasn’t all drinking. It wound down in true San Diego tradition: sailing. So prevalent is San Diego’s nascent alcoholic local treasure, it comes as no surprise the captain of my little skipper was a burgeoning hard cider brewer, who regaled me with tales of his garage-based operation while expertly navigating tranquil Mission Bay. The boat danced upon the water, a bright sun overhead, as we heartily parsed the sublime marriage of roasted pumpkin stout and homemade crème fraîche gelato. It was the basis of a craft-beer ice-cream float at Mike Hess Brewing’s beachside beer-pairing dinner the night before at Paradise Point Resort’s Baleen restaurant.
From there it was back home to celebrate Thanksgiving and the home stretch into Christmas. The season was spiked with a reminder of my recent education: Karl Strauss’s Four Scowling Owls, a citrusy, spicy Belgian ale (diggin’ that toasty note finish) and cult favourite Green Flash’s seasonal Green Bullet Triple IPA, which takes its name from the bitter New Zealand hop. I can assure you, after a swig of each or both, champagne is an afterthought.
By the way, the guy who foolishly declared he didn’t like beer? Guilty as charged. I stand not only corrected but also enlightened. Come November, when it’s once again time to mingle with the beer collective in San Diego, I bet I find myself on that same stretch of rolling green on a sunny Sunday afternoon. At which point I am sure I will exclaim, “I can’t find a beer I don’t like!”
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