Scott D. McLean, MD

Albeit reluctantly.

You understand that a 2023 Ford Transit Trail, a class B campervan RV, has limited credibility. Even among quantum physicists. And the physicists’ cats. But that’s an inside joke that’s not trying to get out.

My reluctance stems from another paradox – that if one spreads the word that a remote and pristine shoreline on Grand Manan Island had delighted and inspired, that such a place might become overrun and lose the qualities for which it is cherished.

We drove into New Brunswick a few days ago via Calais/St. Stephen and took the ferry (my third this trip!!) from Black’s Harbor to North Head, Grand Manan Island. My drivers, Scott and Paula, had not realized that the crossing of the border meant a change in time zones, from Eastern to Atlantic, and therefore were the very last to roll up the ramp to the vehicle deck of the Grand Manan V for the 90 minute trip across the Bay of Fundy.

We found Shore Road Oasis as members of Harvest Hosts / Boondockers Welcome. Didn’t quite know what to expect. Sheesh, that’s all day every day for me, but this was a gem. Turned left off the paved road onto good gravel, through pines and maples, opening up to a couple of broad, flat areas broken up by a grove of trees and grass and a pond. Two other rigs were there, and a pickup, idling. The driver, our host – Morton – hopped out to get us oriented. We had a spot right on the shoreline. 50 Amp hookup with a long electric line, water, kayaks and life preservers, grill and propane, a pot for boiling lobster, if we wanted to get some just down the road. Boil only in salt water!!

The view, the quiet, the rain. About 4 inches (what’s that in centimeters?) the first night.

End of day with an eastern vista and a slack tide meant watching calm waters and listening to crows. The juvenile gulls, feathers mottled brown, took Jonah crabs from the flats to the promontories of metamorphic rock, there pecking and ripping and leaving shell after shell. We were set to turn in when there was a soft knock on the door.

Nobody ever knocks! It was our host, Morton, who was inviting us to join him and his wife and the other boondockers a little bit up the rocky beach to a bonfire and conversation. We brought a bottle of Riesling. Other roasted hot dogs. We talked in the orange light and the occasional gush of smoke. A convivial, crescent moon, well chosen by the stars that night. Morton was a Grand Mananer, in the salmon and lobster business. His sons, too, whose fine houses could be seen down the coast.

We have camped and boondocked west to east in the US and Canada. This was one of the best.