Returning home from Moncton on Wednesday, I happened to fall in
behind a truck towing a power-boat north on Hwy 530. Now, Wednesday
had, hands-down, the nicest weather of the week, so my first thought was
that someone was being a just a tad optimistic. But the driver
eventually turned into the driveway of the local boat hibernation
grounds, so I’m assuming that they were having some tweaks or
maintenance done. Which makes more sense, although I still think I
caught a whiff of wishful thinking.
But it’s a reminder that we’re on the downswing of winter, even with the 25-40 cm of snow that next week
is throwing at us. Which means it’s time to start prepping L’Acadie
for the spring rush of cottagers and summer rush of tourists.
The
first order of business, of course, is to melt all the ice and snow.
Fortunately, Canadians have figured out how to harness their two
national resources in tandem to accomplish just that. My Gentle
Reader is of course aware that snow and ice reflect sunlight. But it
might never occur to her/him to juxtapose the timing of maple syrup
production with the end of winter.
Of course, tourists
don’t visit New Brunswick in the winter, so they don’t see the huge
parabolic reflectors that collect and concentrate the reflected
sunlight. (The reflectors are ferried away to Shediac
Island around April 1st, which is well before anyone is willing to come venture north of the border
to see if New Brunswick even has daylight yet.) The
energy is harnessed to boil the maple sap in ginormous underground
vats. Once the sap has been reduced and caramelised into syrup, it
travels through long and winding pipelines. Its transit transfers all that heat to
the ground, which melts the snow and incidentally cools the syrup enough
for bottling.
Clever, huh?
Naturally, the whole point of a tourist economy
is to give people experiences they can’t have at home. One obvious
choice in these parts is moose encounters. But for moose, the novelty
of having their photo taken wore off even before the advent of the
instant camera. So to compensate for that, some areas have taken to
lining their roads with tourist-friendly “Moose Crossing” signs. Huge
lettering, big flashing lights. Facebook-friendly enough that people
like pulling over just to photograph a road sign. I probably
shouldn’t let the proverbial cat out of the bag, but the moose are
usually hiding just a skip off into the woods, laughing into their
hooves. Apparently, it never gets old for them.
Anyone who’s seen the tourism brochures for New Brunswick will likely recognise the Hopewell Rocks.
The current story is that they were formed over millions of years, but
in fact the area was the development ground for the “crystal growing”
science kits that were a thing back in the 70s. (In the early days,
matters got a little out of hand before the product was ready for the
market and, well, there you go…) Unfortunately, after the fad ran its
inevitable course, interest dropped off. So the Tourism Board fell
back on the boring, hokey old “natural wonders” shtick to keep the
credulous
coming through the gates.
There’s a darker side to our tourist economy, however, and that’s the slaughter of countless lobsters for the p’tits pains d’homard
(lobster rolls) that are the staple of nearly every eatery hereabouts.
Mind you, the buoys and boats are just for backdrop—nobody around here
actually fishes for them. No, no: It’s much more sinister than that.
Anyone
who’s driven through Shediac on Hwy 133 can’t possibly miss the
“World’s Largest Lobster,” and they can be completely absolved of
assuming it’s pure kitsch—I mean, it’s right next to the Tourism
Centre, after all.
What outsiders don’t know is that,
every year, the lobster is trawled out to sea to make an
appearance. Because years ago, the locals were able to convince the
lobster tribes of Maine and the Maritime provinces that the giant
lobster is their god—a god that demands sacrifice. So each tribe is
required to provide a given amount of tribute each year. Which in
itself is bad enough. But that set up perpetual war between the tribes, so
that what it turned over each spring and summer is largely captives. A
horrible, horrible secret history of this place. Which is part of the
reason I refuse to eat the stuff on principle.
But
don’t hold it against all of us up here, okay? There is a movement
afoot (aclaw?) to put an end to the madness. Sadly, we all know how it
is when humans develop a taste for religion and war: We can’t expect
lobsters to be better than we are, right?
On the more
positive side, we go to a lot of trouble to spruce up the joint for
visitors. Mulching all the (unclaimed) skis and snowshoes lost under
meters of snow. Paving the snowmobile trails we’ve commuted over for
months. Cleaning half a meter or so of dead maple leaves from the half-submerged bathtubs just so the Virgin
Mary statues don’t give us the side-eye when we put them out to soak up
the summer sun. Pulling out our flashcards and re-memorising our French
and Chiac to do our part for “local colour.” (Another guilty secret:
Everyone speaks English when no one from out of province is
listening.)
And though we can’t eliminate the
mosquitoes, we have been able to selectively breed them to apologise
after they’ve zapped you. (These critters survived the extinction of
the dinosaurs, for cryin’ in yer Molson’s; there’s only so much even
genetic engineering can do.) Unfortunately, we haven’t figured out how
to make it loud enough for you to hear yet. We’re working on it.
So make sure your passport is up to date, and do give Acadie and New Brunswick a second
look as you’re planning your summer vacation. You’ll have plenty of
amazing stories to take back to the folks at home, guaranteed.
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* Credit due to Dennis for the inspiration of the Hopewell Rocks.
