Sweet with wildflower The air is sweet with a hint of salt midst wildflowers in […]
The drive from Tenerife-North Airport to Maliá Hacienda del Conde, my hotel destination in the […]
In Dingle for Bay Path University’s writer’s workshop I didn’t know what to expect when […]
Heavy is the ground that carries lost souls. Heavier still the voice of a man […]
Atop a short cliff overlooking the slant-roof village of Dingle, a stiff wind rolls off […]
An Orange Tree in a Field of Flowers I was driving with a friend, Norm, […]
I was on the tail end of a Greyhound backpacking trip around the United States, meeting interesting people and hitching rides when I could. So far, I’d been to the Grand Canyon, spent a few days in Las Vegas, and stopped at various cities along the way. Earlier, I’d caught a taxi to Mount Rushmore.
After fifteen minutes of walking, the city’s business district gave way to rundown restaurants and boarded up windows. The street became narrower, hemmed in on either side by parked cars. Scents turned from tantalizing to putrid. I didn’t pass anyone walking, although clusters of men, speaking Dutch, stood outside of a few bars.
At night, back roads along Nova Scotia’s southern coast are treacherously dark and terrifyingly narrow, especially when fog rolls in off the ocean.
Everything turns inky black.
That’s how it was around 12 a.m. one spring night in 2015, as I sleepily persevered behind the steering wheel toward Murphy’s Camping on the Ocean. Months before, my girlfriend, Brianna, and I had booked the camping destination online while planning a roadtrip through New England and northeastern Canada. We’d only seen vague pictures of pitched tents, ocean water, and campers; we didn’t know what to expect.