Nothing personal, but when in Quebec, I like places where I won't see my fellow Americans. I like the look, sound and feel of genuine Quebec; the combination of Old France elegance and New France hardiness; the blend of things such as the Second Empire style of downtown Quebec City and the flannel of the country farmers and the grand, barren landscapes. For someone who wants a taste of the real province, one getaway is Tadoussac, nestled cozily between the Saguenay and St. Lawrence Rivers. From Quebec City, it is about 140 miles northeast — and even while traveling at the province's manic speeds, some five or six hours along narrow Route 138.

Tadoussac is called a resort town, but that is relative to the sparse area nearby–it's still a modest village a bit rough at the edges, and the visitor is rewarded by getting a view on an old world feel community, sparsely populated and very laid back. There are the sights of rugged stone mountains, fresh water streams, forests primeval, and mad traffic drivers who insist on trying to pass on winding two lane highways with extremely limited visibility….Incidentally, at some 400 years of age, Tadoussac is also one of the oldest "civilized" establishments in North America;, it was once a fur trade station, used by Samuel Chaplain to meet Indians coming down from the nearby Saguenay River from the north.

History aside, I wanted to go mostly to paddle with the whales that congregate to feed in the nearby St. Lawrence River. Late one summer, we started our trip by riding up through Maine's Route 201, and stopping at Jackman to do some brief mountain biking. For about 50 bucks we got a room at the Moose Lodge Inn downtown as well as a couple of serviceable bikes and headed off into the wilderness with a map—the sort that is all lines and dots and no colors. We stuck to one of the simpler trails and had a great time doing a loop by Jackman's Fish Pond, taking about an hour or so to finish, and hoping all the time–at least me–to see bears or snakes or even a day time moose. No luck

We crossed into Canada just after dawn the next day. We soon saw what may have been a wolf or a coyote cross the road, and were treated to the grand and bizarre spectacle of what appeared to be a heron taking off, its neck stretching out almost beyond endurance as its feet began to run, its long wings beating till it finally lifted up and over the highway. We pushed to the village of Baie-Sainte-Catherine and for about $50, checked into a one story motel , the Motel Le Vacancier nestled on a cliff that dropped into the St. Lawrence. The village was set on a hill, a few rows of streets and houses and below it was a beach. We should have pushed on to Tadoussac, where there was a semblance of night life, but that would have required crossing on the ferry and we were tired.

In the meantime, we decided we'd take up the offers on the many signs along the highway and join a whale watch. It wasn't like a Stellwagen Bank venture; everything seemed on a smaller scale, as the shore was clearly in sight while we pursued finbacks, belugas and minke whales. Here, cetaceans are a big draw–and have been since the tough Basque whalers started a fishery centuries ago. Around any given whale basking on the surface there would be a half dozen craft, from large ferry-sized boats all the way to small high speed vessels that sat just above the water's surface, to give you an eye to eye with the whales.

After supper in a nearby diner, we took a nap. When we awoke, it was dark and cold and the wind blasted the village. Our room had no phone and we realized the town, such as it was, had shut down. The next day, we crossed the Saguenay River on the free public ferry; the wind was cold and strong and sky clear and bright and it felt like autumn. On the other side was Tadoussac, a slightly bigger village on the edge of the St. Lawrence and the Saguenay in the Manicouagan region of Quebec. Behind the town were mountains bristling with pine and a silver lake that eerily reflected its surroundings like a bright mirror, at any time of day. The village seemed to be just barely emerging out of the wilderness; according to the historian Francis Parkman, this was always a tough region to survive in; it took several attempts to make civilization–as defined 400 years ago— take root here and a score or more of deaths.

Towards the water's edge there were a few blocks of motels, taverns, and red roofed houses that had a quiet understated charm. For about $50, we stayed in a comfy room at the Hotel Beluga, a few blocks from the water. There was a small harbor with a few dozen sailboats and yachts and it looked, I was told by a Frenchman, like a fishing village in France. Although there was one luxury hotel, the Tadoussac, the village itself was more cozy than coddled, and the view across the St. Lawrence, 26 miles wide here, made it feel oceanic enough even for a native New Englander. The Cafe du Fjord, at one end of town, almost THE end of town, was by far the most interesting place to eat. The entire wait-staff, including the bespectacled teen ringing up the bills, sang and played an instrument. Our waiter could belt out Spanish songs–presumably about love–with gusto on his guitar.

While staying in town, for 15 dollars or so, I was able to get a berth in the rear seat of a two man kayak; a pleasant young man from Paris took the front. He had a little bit of English and along with a guide and an inexperience young couple, we paddled around against strong waves and headwinds not far from the shoreline. Above all, I hoped we would have a chance to see some of the whales in evidence the day before, but no such luck; either they were elsewhere or we didn't go far enough. The lacquer black water was choppy, and we both got blasts of briny, freezing St. Lawrence in the face. A few times I was sure we might get tossed over on our side and have to do a rescue, but I always managed to keep us facing the waves at an angle and the weight of the kayak made it difficult to dump. The winds, however, did force the girl leading the trip to cut the voyage in half.

The next day, we drove up Route 172 to the Baie Sainte Marguerite section of the massive Parc du Saguenay, where there was a large nature reserve that cost a few dollars to park in. We followed a wooded path that ended at a raised wooden observation deck that looked over the confluence of a fresh-water river that ran into the Saguenay. Without doubt, with its cliffs, woods and deep dark water, Baie Sainte Marguerite was the most remote, grand and bleak spectacle of the trip.

According to the signs here, sighting the white-dolphin like Belugas had once been common; however, locals told me their appearance had become rare. Below the deck the sound of the wind rustling the many pine trees dotting the mountains and hills all around mixed with the rush of the water into one steady din. The Saguenay's dark waves lapped the rock cliffs like a cow's tongue on salt, greedily and without finesse. In the distance, looking up the Saguenay into the northern wildness, there were purplish blue mountains looming under dark clouds. The wind whipped up the waves even more and they began to splash harder. It made me feel more insignificant than usual.

On we drove through about forty miles of rocky mountains, pine forests and running rivers until finally stumbling over a speck on the map called Rose du Nord, a cluster of houses set around a concrete dock. A company offered a boat cruise of the Saguenay, which we took. The tour guide took us aside and kindly explained to us in English what she had already announced in French. She noted the Saguenay was roughly 800 feet deep, a rather eerie fact as roughly 80 versions of me could be drowned simultaneously end to end. She explained that the fjord might have been carved out by a glacier; it also could have been the result of the earth's crust collapsing and the water pouring in to fill it.

Pollution, even out here, had been a problem, but she said at least the logging companies no longer floated their trees downstream. One of the most striking parts of the fjord was the Baie Eternitie, which includes Cape Trinity, whose rock face rises from the water 1600 feet to stab the sky. Standing among the cliffs over us was a large statue of Notre-Dame-du-Saguenay –a gift from a Quebec businessman who had crashed through the ice here some 130 years ago and promised he would build the statue if he survived. We viewed the Virgin to the strains of “Ave Maria,” which was sort of like overkill. After wards, we turned around and headed home.

The Charlevoix-Manicouagan region is a wilderness that has survived logging and industry–so far–untutored and grand, and sees few Americans and has no arcades or video games. Basically it just exists–rather like us–and is a fine place when we need reminding that just existing is our natural and pleasant state.

So, the casino bill refuses to die.

Visited Mohegan Sun and Foxwoods in past months. The video machines are clever: The Lord of the Rings slot machine ties Frodo's quest somewhat into the jackpots; similar deal with the Wizard of Oz game. Tolkien and Baum no doubt would be vomiting if they weren't dead. Anyway, contrast that with Suffolk Downs yesterday. Dangerous and beautiful horse racing. Add slots–and this old gentleman of a park will get a dose of lethal crystal meth that will kill off the elegance immediately.

One of the banners hanging there was none other than that of Seabiscuit.

By the way–casino gambling is a really really bad, lame, sad excuse for an economic plan. It was that way 20 years ago when the Aquinnah band tried to push it and it still remains so.

The presence of a gang of Middle-East youths speaking Arabic made some passengers—not me—nervous, until they began to demonstrate they were members of an alternate lifestyle, and thus exempt from enrollment in a fundamentalist terror brigade. Indeed, they would have been candidates for the beheading block in the Saudis' fiefdom. (I guess that's okay, they're our allies.) Anyway, Block Island, with its cliffs, ponds, rolling hills and charming taverns was as pleasant as ever and worth biking on.

But we certainly were never safe. In fact, San Diego had a power outage last week that left the city effectively crippled. The cause—terrorists? Nah. Good old fashioned deregulation—or put it short, greed and incompetence. Those billions might protect us from some terrorist attack that's hypothetical. The collapse of medical, educational, transportation, financial, power, etc. infrastructures are real and ongoing and deserve those dollars far more. Anyway, the Coast Guard boat was at least a good photo op for the tourists.

Some have considered Disneyworld as a type of enforced concentration camp of fun–but one that costs lots of money. The White Mountains are more distributed–so one doesn't feel too enclosed. The natural disgust I feel about a complex that is built with shoddy pseudo buildings as a shrine to the kiddie-id-pleasure principle doesn't engorge me in New Hampshire. The hard granite surfaces of the mountains and cold climate offset it.

Then there are the vistas–the majestic views from Mt. Willard, the Zealand trail, from the porch of the Mt. Washington Hotel, to name a few of my favorites. And given it's New England, it will always be understated–it won't be over the top, self destructive and shamelessly hedonistic like Orlando. There was something there as a foundation–a bunch of Protestant puritans and not just gators. Their ghosts, real or imaginative hover to forbid the impious…. The mouse ears won't cap Mt. Washington–at least, not anytime soon.

For more, check: http://bostonshipwrecks.org

Finally, our trip from Marshfield to Provincetown via kayak is done, as of Sunday, September 21.  We picked a perfect day with an outgoing tide and a westerly wind.  We arrived in Marshfield at about 5 a.m. and it was hard to see where we were going and then assemble the kayak in the dark. It was also cold, and the prospect of paddling 24 or so miles wasn't too appealing.

Nevertheless, this had required a commitment of time and money and there were other people depending on us, so sure enough we got the kayak inflated. As the sun rose, with pleasure boats one after the other being dropped off and launched at the dock, we managed to get in the floated kayak and start paddling.

There is nothing quite like being on the ocean early in the morning at sunrise. It is like entering a new life. As we came out of Green Harbor, one of the chase boat party noted we looked like the Union warship Monitor. A kayak puts you right on or under the surface of the water. The two of us in were in skirts making us appear to be attached permanently to the kayak, and evoking the ironclad's low waterline and turrets.

Navigation was simple. We just kept paddling directly into the blinding sun, which left a shimmering reflective bar of white light for us as a guide. The outgoing tide and lack of an easterly wind worked strongly in our favor. A few times we were picked up in two foot waves, but that just served to help us along.

A two man kayak is a Siamese twin. We divide the functions: Ed, the Portuguese navigator, can see what's ahead and perform checks with the compass. I stay in the back and check for landmarks, assess the wind and waves and monitor progress. You must have complete harmony with the partner or there are going to be problems fast.

We flew along at first, doing perhaps five to seven  knots with the tide. I presume we also had a favorable current. Once we sighted the thin needle of the Pilgrim monument on the horizon, I knew the destination would be ours. I won't say it didn't hurt, because it did. We were tired, sore, and cramped, but the taste of the finish was in our mouths. Regrettably, we saw no whales, as we had hoped. The chase boat also saw no fish, either.

By 2:30 p.m., we pulled up on the beach south of Race Point and got out to celebrate our trip. It was time to head into town for the victory round.

Incidentally, we had passed a few boats out in the deep 200 feet water in the middle of Massachusetts Bay. I've heard the lobstermen, from Marshfield, had seen an orange kayak passing them and were a bit incredulous. The fishermen didn't have a high opinion of our intelligence, but that's okay. Nobody trusts a visionary until they are proved right.

Special kudos to Captain Leo, who kept his crew ship shape and made it from Marina Bay, Quincy, to Green Harbor, in the dark. The voyage completely ended when we were in the blue lights on the windows of the ritzy apartments on Marina Bay.

Now it's time to plan to sail from Cape Anne to Provincetown.

During my visit and chat at Ft. Trumbull, I also thought of O'Neill's recurring foghorn motif in "Long Day's Journey into Night." One couldn't avoid hearing that sad unhappy croak periodically reminding you of some danger out there, awaiting….Fate is in the fog, always there and unapproachable. O'Neill used the same device in "Emperor Jones," except that it was the drums….the drums….

Then it was time for some Thai soup. Fate didn't intervene that night.

There on Sunday, we treated ourselves to Monument Mountain. The wind was cold and icy and unforgiving. The snow and ice were thicker the higher you ascended. Fierce, the way I like it. The trees like bare poles on a ship awaiting a storm. That dry crusty snow crunch under my boots was encouraging. I couldn’t get the cheesy music from “Where Eagles Dare” out my mind.

There at the small and perilous top, where there were hardy trees of different sizes to cling to, we didn’t’ approach the edge. Too icy and we lacked crampons. There was an opening in the trees, a perfect viewing spot for the idyllic Berkshire countryside (minus the highway and cruddy commercial sprawls). Below was a drop of 40 feet—the first fall, and then a worse drop even further below. But the view was open and wide. It was a prize. We approached it VERY cautiously.

There was the all—the absolute edge we are seeking. The thrill, the pleasure and fear.

We took our pictures and regarded it for a moment. It is rare to be so close to an absolute–but it was a palpable absolute to me just then.

And then back down to the mortals.

The mortals, it turned out, weren’t so bad (excepting the barbarian who left a used prophylactic behind him in the parking lot). Someone found my Shuffle up near the top—I had been listening to Gibbon’s “Decline and Fall,” which, to me, reads like a contemporary novel. In the rush and bustle at the top, I didn't notice the device come off. Sure enough, when we drove back, he saw us looking for it in the parking lot. The fellow climber gave it to me, no questions asked.

The clowns playing "Tequila Sunrise" offer quite yet another. The viewers want something to scream at while drunk. Somehow the parade goes on, year after year, never really meaning anything coherent. But everyone gets something from it.

I myself like the bagpipes. Don't know why, they aren't melodious. But I do, and keep coming back.