That’s Canada on the horizon, though that sounds like something far away. It’s just across the narrow bay connected by a short bridge that will bring us to Campobello Island, but first there are things to do and places to be.

Quoddy Point Lighthouse. Sure, we’ve been here before, but that morning, it was foggy, and now, 17 years later, memories of the day are foggy, too, so a revisit felt perfectly in order. Then there’s the proven scientific fact that people can never get enough lighthouse experiences, well, at least people such as us.

Back at our lodge at the water’s edge, we were greeted by Jovana from Montenegro, who’s also rafted the Tara River in her home country. Our lobster benedict was a nice start, but the vibrant conversation with this temp worker really made our time in Lubec wonderful. From this tiny outpost in the Eastern United States, she’ll be leaving on Monday for a vacation that will take her to Miami, New York, and Chicago before taking the long series of flights that will return her to friends and family in Montenegro.

And in mere minutes, we arrived in New Brunswick, Canada, for our first lighthouse experience on this side of the border for this vacation. It is the Mulholland Point Lighthouse in Welshpool on Campobello Island.

See you later, America. From here, if you look hard, you might be able to see the Redwoods in the far distance, which is, of course, if you buy into the idea of a flat earth. Should you notice hints of familiarity with the previous image, that’s because this is Lubec in Maine from a new perspective that neither Caroline nor I have ever seen.

The ferry that will deliver us to Deer Island is arriving.

This is the Deer Island Light Beacon. Whose dumb idea was it to build beacons? A beacon is not a sexy brand; it’s a lighthouse or nothing. Once we were off the ferry, we followed the cars that took off like a bullet, as if they knew something we didn’t know. So, instead of stopping for photographs on the island, we maintained our position and raced along with them. Good thing my fox-like instincts were working for us because they brought us directly to the next ferry crossing, which was shortly upon loading for the next crossing. [Also, on this first crossing, we were able to spot the Old Sow from a distance in the water near that beacon. The Sow is a whirlpool formed by currents and tides between these islands, best seen at specific times of the day relating to ebb and flood maximums. Also worth noting, in my opinion, is that the first ferry is privately operated and cost us $30 Canadian, while the next ferry is operated by the province and free of charge. – Caroline]

Obviously, that’s Europe in the distance. Our next landing was in the small landing at L’Etete on mainland New Brunswick.

It’s a long way to Prince Edward Island today. Whoever planned this trip was entertaining an optimism that might have been misguided or maybe just forgetful of how often we need to stop and document something or other while we crawl over the landscape. With that in mind, we decided that it was, sadly, freeway time again. One option had us driving around St. John, and the other was to stop in town for lunch; we took the latter. Lock, Stock, and Barrels, a brewpub, appeared to be as good a choice as any if we were to continue our sampling of lobster rolls, and with an upgrade of our sides to poutine, we fared perfectly well. Afterward, we rejoined the freeway, but by the town of Sussex, after 47 grueling non-descript miles (75 kilometers), we left that stupid freeway and encountered Roachville Road and the speed of travel that serves us best.

Not as ubiquitous as corn, there are probably, though not exactly likely, more covered bridges than one could throw the proverbial stick at. Maybe if I had many sticks, I could throw sticks at them all, but then who really wants to create problems with poetic metaphors? Little could we have known that our detour and encounter with the Smith Creek #1 Tranton Covered Bridge from 1927 and other things along the road would add something special to our drive today, beyond all the lighthouses.

This peculiar roadside box plays a role in today’s adventure.

Smith Creek, seen here, while not playing an essential role in the story that’s about to follow, certainly adds to the beauty narrative that the freeway was failing to deliver.

This is the Alston Farm, and I wouldn’t have known that had I not been willing to stop and ask the man doing yardwork a question. You see, the peculiar box we’d seen was not the first one, different-shaped boxes, painted versions, and like right here, some houses had none. With this man in his front yard, we could confirm just what they were, though we had our hunches. Sure enough, they are trash bins, not Amazon delivery boxes.

The man we were talking to was 88-year-old Bob Alston, the friendliest Canadian we’ve met on this trip so far. True, it’s only been a few hours in Canada, but this guy will be the yardstick to measure all others. Aside from learning about why he doesn’t use the trash boxes and part of his career working for the promotion of the Sussex area, New Brunswick, and Atlantic Canada (the term he preferred over the Maritimes), he also shared a story about the Oldfields Covered Bridge in nearby Mount Pisgah, that we had already passed but failed to visit. The area’s covered bridges became important to Bob and his wife Sandra when, for several years, before the nearby freeway changed the route that would take travelers right by their home, the husband and wife were selling all manner of memorabilia and souvenirs regarding the nearby landmarks from a small shop they set up in their home.

Back in the 1990s, Canada was searching for design proposals for themed provincial quarters that were to be minted in celebration of Canada’s 125th Anniversary of Confederation, and as luck would have it, the Oldfields Covered Bridge erected in 1910 was the one chosen out of the 400 submissions for New Brunswick. After telling us about this, he asked if we’d like one of those old quarters. Heck yeah, we would, telling him enthusiastically. He went into the house and brought out two, one for each of us, so we wouldn’t have to quarrel over them.

We turned our car around, drove back down the road, and waited patiently for the sun to find a way through the rapidly moving clouds. Another story Bob told us was that in their earliest days, covered bridges were also known as kissing bridges because they would allow young couples a moment of privacy when they could steal a kiss without anyone else seeing them. Turned around yet again, we stopped in front of Bob’s driveway and thanked him one more time for being so generous with not only the rare coin but with his time as we distracted him from his chores.

That experience and many others that Caroline and I enjoy are things that can’t be had when traveling on freeways; there is no human contact when we are speeding down major highways, and at best, we earn the anger of fellow drivers for their perceived grievances. It is, in large part, the chance of encounters such as today that make our efforts to go slow all the more worthwhile.

I thought we’d just drive by it. I can’t tell you why I was momentarily so delusional, but there I was with Caroline by my side telling me I needed to turn around because she had to have a photo of the Giant Lobster of Shediac. While I took the photo, I was more concerned with finding an angle to reference Gilles Deleuze in the paragraph, but then I thought I’d also have to mention Jordan Peterson. While I love the French philosopher, the Canadian professor is too far off in the weeds in my opinion, lacking credibility with his bologna concept of Deleuze’s “lobster god,” representing a rejection of traditional values and a celebration of nihilism and chaos, but this is a vacation, not a moment of delving into kooks and thinkers. Instead, celebrate the fisherman who hasn’t flinched or changed his gaze in 34 years, the world’s largest lobster, and my wife, like I do.

Every so often, we must stop for one thing or another, and so it was in Shediac. Leaving a gas station, we noticed a couple of young women who were fully set up and performing in French for anyone interested in town. Nice touch, Canada.

This is the southern end of Lake Boudreau on Route 133, which means we have another 40 minutes of driving ahead of us before we move from one Canadian province to another.

The relative size of a moose to a car is no joke, nor is being able to read these signs in French, though it is much easier to figure out with the English equivalent printed next to it.

Looking west from Jourimain Island in New Brunswick, our brief eight or nine-hour first encounter with this province has been a positive and beautiful one, though I knew nothing about this part of Canada compared to its famous places such as Vancouver, Banff, Québec City, Newfoundland, and Prince Edward Island. I’d imagine that if time allowed, there would be a thousand other beautiful locations in New Brunswick that would only require people to leave the expediency of the freeway and venture into the heart of the country.

Speaking of Prince Edward Island, this is the Confederation Bridge that crosses the Northumberland Straight and is Canada’s longest bridge, spanning eight miles or almost 13 kilometers. We have finally arrived but are still more than an hour away from our lodging.

Add a couple more minutes to our travels as the epic final moments of the sunset demanded that we stop yet again. Tired and only wanting to reach our hotel, we skipped grabbing a bite at a gas station or dipping into Charlottetown, figuring the restaurant at Shaw’s Hotel would be open; it is Friday night, after all. Wrong, they closed at 8:00, and it was 8:30 when we pulled up. While I was checking in, a staff member came over and told me that after hearing about our situation, the chef offered to make us something easy, like pizza, salad, or maybe both. We enthusiastically and profusely thanked them, saying yes to a pepperoni pizza and two small Caesar salads. When I asked about the bill, they booked it to our room and offered to deliver the meal so we could unpack our car. Here we were, on the edge of the universe facing the Gulf of St. Lawrence, around the corner from the North Atlantic, and we were going to have a hot, fresh pizza delivered to a cottage in the middle of nowhere. This is a privilege.