Day 31 – Rogues Roost to the Northwest Arm
We rose before six and hauled anchor to get moving. The winds were forecast to become too strong for comfortable sailing around noon; we planned to be on a mooring by then. We left the protection of the Roost, as a gentle orange sun appeared below low clouds, and motored out between Betty and Shannon, two islands, into moderate swell.
We passed Pennant Bay and entered an area marked on our charts with warnings: “Explosives dumping ground”, “Sunken unexploded torpedo”. I was not sure the type of ordnance made any difference, dropping the Danforth or the Rocna both seem ill-advised for a variety of reasons. The soundings showed reassuringly high numbers; we debated how long a rode one would need to safely anchor there. A very long one.
We entered the channel through the numerous rocks and shoals between Sambro Island and Bald Rock. As we rounded Chebucto Head the swell lessened and we were greeted by a large oil tanker heading out to sea. Caly celebrated the calmer seas by throwing up in the cockpit, as usual, three times, her standard operating procedure.
As we drew between McNab’s Island and Sandwich Point the smooth black back of our ninth whale broke the surface off the stern. We idled up the Northwest Arm and studied the ocean-front-multi-million-loonie houses crowding the shore, with massive cabin cruisers tied to their docks.
Andrew called the Armdale Yacht Club to ask about a transient mooring and we were told only dock space was available. So we pulled up to the their gas dock and double checked with the attendant, who gave us mooring thirteen, lucky. We filled our gas and water reservoirs, tanks and jugs, and left Isla on mooring thirteen as we rowed to shore. We set off on foot towards downtown Halifax on Chebucto Road.
At Halifax Commons, we passed the softball fields and the public track / ice rink. Which, in its summer guise, was dotted with bikes, roller blades, and their thusly wheeled humans. We climbed the hill above, towards signs for the citadel. We were pleasantly surprised to find Caly was allowed and in celebration of Canada’s 150th birthday, admission to it, and all national parks, was free. We entered the victorian Fort George past a frozen guard, plaid kilt, antique rifle, red jacket, and were awed by the size and bustle hidden within the quiet grassy slopes outside.
Camera-toting families milled about within the huge courtyard and on top of the high stone walls above. An officer hollered commands at a misfit group of kilted soldiers, tour guides informed small crowds in English or French. We circled the top of the walls, failed to pivot a single massive cannon by any hint of a degree, and looked out over the city and harbor below.
We exited the thick walls towards downtown, found a Timmy’s, and bought a sandwich and a “bah-gul” before setting off north on the harbourwalk. At the casino we watched a duck boat, which put the Bostonian equivalent to shame, drive off a ramp into the water with gusto. We passed a paused, passenger-less bus and stopped to look at some significant fraction of the Canadian Atlantic Fleet docked in the harbor. The bus moved forward and stopped directly behind us. I turned to the sound of the opening doors; the smiling driver emerged and asked about Caly, our porbeagle, and then went on to show us a cell phone video of a the beagle puppy he had recently adopted. Dogs might not be allowed to use the Halifax Transit buses, but our poor beagle could have ridden that one.
We circled up to make a loop on Barrington Street and wandered up to the public gardens. Dogs were explicitly not welcome, and presumably sharks were not either, so we alternated dog duty and garden-ing. I found myself in a hugely impressive, and regrettably unphotographed, variety of flowers, trees, and ponds. It was all centered around a brass band sized gazebo. A brass band was playing a Sunday afternoon concert in front of a modest audience. I found Andrew getting coffee while Caly missed him, loudly, from the foot of a nearby tree.
It began to rain lightly while Andrew toured the increasingly fragrant gardens and eventually we met on the opposite corner of them. I passed a boy taking pictures of a dandelion just off the sidewalk with his DSLR and wondered if he was oblivious to the amazing plants across the street, or just a devout dandelion documentarian.
We doubled back on the harbourwalk, passed the Museum of Immigration, which required more loonies and less beagles than we would have liked, and made our way along the docks by numerous interesting and well traveled yachts.
Finished with our loop, and hungry from all the walking, we searched for dinner. A bar with outdoor seating couldn’t serve alcohol outdoors, a deal breaker for Andrew and Caly. Next door we found a shark and beer friendly covered porch and enjoyed our food while a band played blues inside.
Andrew grabbed a six pack from Propeller Brewing on the walk back and when we finally reached the marina we took long overdue showers. According to my phone we walked over 13 miles, that explained the blister my shoes had rubbed into my pinky toe.
