The Trail Along the Road
People only ever refer to a place as their hometown if they’ve left it, Jamieson thought. This place was just home. People who moved away from Cape Cullow didn’t return, save for family visits in the summer. In the winter, the snow gripped the sea soaked roads and quickly turned them into death traps. Cape Cullow was a fringe community with a shrinking population and little industry outside of fishing cod in the summers.
Jamieson made his way to the town post office after finishing his morning routine of scrolling through his phone until the absolute last minute in order to make it work on time. His drive to the post office was six minutes, twenty-seven if it was warm enough to walk.
Outside of the post office stood an older man, somewhere in his sixties. Of the 400-some-odd faces that Jamieson had come to know in his nine years working at the post office and lifetime resident, this one did not belong to anyone from Cape Cullow. Jamieson put his car in park and noted the time. 9:03. Nobody ever comes early enough to know when I’m late, he thought.
“Good morning,” Jamieson greeted the man, “have you been waiting out here for very long?”
“Just a few minutes, not very long,” the man replied.
“Sorry about that. Let’s get inside – can I help you with something?” Jamieson shifted his keys in his hand to grab the key to open the front door to the post office and inserted the key into the lock, pushed his foot down against the base of the door to allow the lock to come loose when he twisted it, letting it loose.
“I’m just looking to set up a mailbox for myself.”
Jamieson walked past the counter and switched on the lights to the lobby of the post office and placed his bag on the floor as the man entered behind him.
“Yes, absolutely. I’ll just need a copy of your I.D. and then I’ll get you to sign a few things, go over the fees with you and you should be all set.” Jamieson moved to his left and opened up a cabinet to retrieve the registration forms as the man reached for his wallet and presented his driver’s license.
William Cochran
42 Cabots Hill
Cape CullowA0H 6Y6
DOB: 1956/03/17
It wasn’t uncommon to see older folks move to Cape Cullow. A lot of people thought that this village could be a decent retirement destination. Cheap housing by the sea, large properties, enough stores to not have to go to the city, relatively quiet. Most folks only made it a few winters before giving up and going back to the mainland, where most of them seemed to come from. Ironically, Jamieson’s parents had moved away from Cape Cullow and to the mainland, where they bounced around from town to city to town only to complain that it was too warm each time.
“Ah, new to the village. Welcome to Cape Cullow, Mr. Cochran,” Jamieson said.
“Thank you, William is fine,” the man smiled as he replied. His politeness came as a relief considering Jamieson was late.
“I’m gonna photocopy your driver’s license. I’ll just need you to read the bottom portion of the second page and sign and date underneath saying you have read and agree to the charges for opening a mailbox.” Jamieson slid the two pages across the counter to William and grabbed a pen from the shelf below the counter for him to use.
William took his time examining the fine print of the agreement while Jamieson ran the photocopier. “It says here that postal service isn’t responsible for any fee repayment in the event of a post office closure or relocation. I don’t have to worry about that, do I?” he asked.
“Well, I’m supposed to mention to everyone that sets up a mailbox that this outpost is currently under review, which means that they’re currently deciding whether or not it’s viable to have a post office here. If it’s deemed unnecessary, the next closest location will be in St. Agatha, about twenty-five minutes from here.”
“Will there be any notice if that were to close this location?”
“The review has been going on thirteen years now, which is longer than I’ve worked here so I’d say you’re fine,” Jamieson chuckled.
William laughed with relief and signed the remaining paperwork. Given a key and shown his new mailbox, Jamieson watched him wrote a note to himself remember which one it was.
“Once again, welcome to Cape Cullow and if there’s anything else you need just let me or one of your neighbours know,” Jamieson said. He knew the family that lived at 46 Cabots Hill, Mr. and Mrs. Fenly, and their teenage son Eric, and an older daughter Molly that has since moved away to go to college on the mainland. They were about as nice a family of neighbours as you could get, and they’d certainly invite William over to welcome him to town.
“Actually, yes,” William replied, “would you be able to tell me how to get to Barter’s Ridge?”
A strange request. There wasn’t a whole lot to do at Barter’s Ridge this time of year. The way there was simple; it was only a 5 minute drive up the hill to reach the top.
“It’s not too difficult. It’s actually really close to this post office. What are you looking for up there?” At the top of the hill sat an old lighthouse that no longer lit the way for ships passing the cape. It was now just a gift shop for local delicacies and goods made by some of the locals. The only car Jamieson would see drive up the hill frequently was the car belonging to the family that owned the gift shop.
“I’m thinking about attending the Festival of Lights,” William replied.
That was the one time of year when people who didn’t reside in Cape Cullow would visit the town to see an elaborate display of string lights and artwork from communities all around the seaside. “The festival isn’t for another five weeks, you’re a little early,” Jamieson remarked.
“I’m also thinking about setting up a booth at the festival so I wanted to see how they’re spaced out. Have you attended the festival before?” William asked.
“Only every year since I was three years old,” Jamieson said. He had made a point to attend the festival though it never seemed to change. It was a break in the monotony of only seeing local faces. Jamieson could spot the difference between someone from the seaside region and someone from the city or mainland. The mainlanders were almost always underdressed and assumed that a sunny day meant it was warm. The wind atop the cliffs was too chilly for them, making many of them seek out warmth in the lighthouse gift shop. People from the seaside region usually dressed in warmer clothing and more comfortable shoes for walking on the unpaved parts of the hilltop, venturing from tent to tent. That and the accents were a dead giveaway.
“It’s almost a straight shot – when you leave this parking lot you’re gonna turn left and then take the first left again and drive straight up the hill. There’s another road that will fork off to the left but that’s just parking for the cliffside trail, you’ll want to go straight,” Jamieson informed him.
“What’s the trail like?” William asked. Jamieson didn’t think he’d be interested in the trail. The only people who took the trail were avid hikers from out of town.
“It’s kind of old. Run down. It takes about ninety minutes at a good pace but there’s parts of it that are a little iffy in terms of safety,” he replied. The iffy parts weren’t all that bad. The narrower parts of the trail were only enough for one person to walk at a time, which wasn’t a problem since it was never too busy. At its narrowest, the trail was about two feet wide and ran alongside an open part of the cliffside. It was enough to walk on your own with little noticeable trouble but the locals installed a chain rope into the cliffside to grab onto if you were feeling nervous.
“I think I’ll take the trail. Thank you Jamieson,” he replied, glancing at his nametag on his post office uniform.
A sense of obligation came over Jamieson. A man his age shouldn’t be doing the trail on his own, and especially for the first time. The trail wasn’t very hazardous to Jamieson but he hadn’t been on it in years. For all he knew the trail could be easy since he’d done it about a hundred times. It was hard to remember the first time since that would have been over twenty-five years ago when he was just a toddler.
“You should let me take you if you’re gonna do the trail. I’ll show you where all the tents are set up for the festival too,” he suggested.
“You really don’t have to, but thank you,” William replied. His response felt like typical politeness to Jamieson.
“No really, I’m not just saying that. If you’re going to do the trail why don’t you come by here at 5:30 when I’m done work. I’ll park my car at the top of the hill and we can park yours in the trail lot, it’ll save you from having to walk all the way back down to the lot when you’re finished.” Jamieson figured framing it this way would make it more practical to William, and there’d still be enough light left to do the trail in the evening this time of year.
“That’s very kind of you,” William replied, “are you sure you want to spend your evening being a guide to the oldest man in Cape Cullow?”
“Positive,” said Jamieson. William was hardly the oldest in Cape Cullow.
