ROADBOSS travelled cross-country through snowstorms and border crossing searches to meet what we’d heard were the hardest of North American truckers, travelling back and forth across the breathtaking Bay of Fundy in Nova Scotia hauling the finest lobsters in the world
It takes two-and-a-half hours by ferry to cross the Bay of Fundy, the ancient body of water that separates Canada’s oldest city of Saint John, New Brunswick, and the wild and rugged province of Nova Scotia.
The freezing waters of the bay are so dark they hardly return a reflection; its biodiversity is often compared to that of the Amazon Rainforest, and the tides sometimes reach 16 metres, the highest in the world.
It’s what’s in these pristine Atlantic waters we cross that draws men like Corey Goreham to go ‘to and fro’ multiple times a week – the Nova Scotian lobster, said to be the finest in the world.
The town of Digby, while quaint, looks to be literally frozen in time. Like a movie set from the ‘80s, full of old pickups and aged timber storefronts. I’m certain we drive past a video store.
It’s the extreme cold of the Northern Atlantic that makes it so good. The cold waters force slow growth, which naturally yields meat that is exceptionally more succulent, sweet and firm.
I’d heard lobster is one of the most sought-after meals for prisoners on death row, perhaps an old wives’ tale, but I’d imagine they’d request the best?
I’d also been told that the hardest of North American truckers could be found travelling back and forth across the breathtaking Bay of Fundy, either full of priceless lobster destined for anywhere in North America or on the return journey home.
On a whim, I’ve driven cross-country through snowstorms and border crossing searches to find Corey and his Merry Men in hope they’ll let us photograph and travel with them. And here they all are, the famed Lobster Hauliers of Nova Scotia.
It takes 2.5 hours by ferry to cross the Bay of Fundy, the ancient body of water that separates Canada’s oldest city of Saint John, New Brunswick, and the wild and rugged province of Nova Scotia
So significant are these men, the mighty Fundy Rose, the 124-metre ferry we’re aboard, has its own dedicated truckers’ lounge. I pull open the curtain of the truckers’ quarters and find half a dozen burley Nova Scotians lounged out amongst tatty sofas.
It looks like the backstage of a rock band past their use-by-date. Bearded, tatted, hardened-looking men. Ones you know have seen a thing or two.
Ahh, they’re friendly, I sigh in relief as they invite me in. One asks to see a photo of “them fucken road trains through the desert”. Australia-Canada relations are at an all-time high. No wonder they call Canadians ‘Snow Aussies’, our humour and banter are similar, conversation becomes easy. Burly Nova Scotians lapping up any talk of the outback, trucking, snakes and sharks.
Just don’t mention ‘Maine Lobster’ in these parts – the equivalent of a derogatory slur or insulting one’s mother.
We have to truck Nova Scotian lobster to Maine. Trust us, you want Nova Scotian lobster.
“We have to truck Nova Scotian lobster to Maine,” the man with the giant octopus tattooed across his forearm says in disgust. “Trust us, you want Nova Scotian lobster.”
As the Fundy Rose nears the port town of Digby, an announcement screeches over the vessel’s speakers, calling all drivers to their rigs currently parked in the bows of the boat.
Who’ll let us jump in, I ask the group. “You can fucking trust your life with him,” Corey says, laughing, pointing at fellow lobster haulier Ron, the bearded man in the corner who’s barely said a word.
The temperature reads negative 10 degrees and is windy. Welcome to Nova Scotia.
The hardest of North American truckers can be found travelling back and forth across the breathtaking Bay of Fundy, full of priceless lobster destined for anywhere in North America
Ron, behind the wheel of his new red Peterbilt, is one of the first trucks off the boat. He’s on the return journey and is looking forward to a few days off.
He works for BMC Seafood, one of the largest seafood wholesalers and exporters of live lobster in Canada. The company’s headquarters in Meteghan is roughly 50 minutes south of Digby, the scallop capital of Canada.
Life in these parts seems simple. The town of Digby, while quaint, looks to be literally frozen in time. Like a movie set from the ‘80s, full of old pickups and aged timber storefronts. I’m certain we drive past a video store.
Meteghan isn’t much better, a harbour full of boats and a Tim Hortons, the Canadian Starbucks, is about all that’s there.
Apparently, you guys are like the final frontier of North American truckers. Is that true? Well, pretty much. Yeah, we’re the only crazy ones left.
“Apparently, you guys are like the final frontier of North American truckers. Is that true?” I ask.
“Well, pretty much. Yeah, we’re the only crazy ones left,” the unshaven Ron says as we arrive at the BMC depot in Meteghan. His smooth French-Canadian accent is a change from the American sounds we’ve been hearing.
Ron coughs and wheezes, probably from the cold air and ciggies, as he excitedly directs me inside to show us to the live lobster tanks.
Expecting to see glass tanks filled with lobsters, I see nothing, just a cold, wet warehouse. But I can smell them, the intense seafood whiff hits immediately before it mellows.
Ron with his new red Peterbilt, which he steers on behalf of BMC Seafood, one of the largest seafood wholesalers and exporters of live lobster in Canada
Ron points down; we’re standing on the tanks, I quickly realise – wooden floors with a metre and a half of water underneath, all filled with live lobsters.
About 22.5 tonnes of prized lobster, in fact, right beneath our feet, all to be sent across the world, many destined for China or high-end restaurants in New York City.
Ron bends down and opens a hatch from the floor and emerges with a nine-pounder from of the tank. “Probably going to China,” he says, and most will be gone by dinner time tomorrow.
A sucker for an authentic experience, I ask Ron what’d take if I wanted to buy the nine-pounder from the BMC local marketplace, a whopping $150 quickly evaporates my keenness or over $200 if I wanted it cooked.
You’ve gotta try a hot lobster – it’s cooked lobster with a piece of bread that’s cooked again in cream sauce and served as a sandwich.
They’re fascinating creatures, like giant yabbies or aliens from out of space, and the biggest Ron has seen is a 10-11 pounder.
Funnily, Ron doesn’t eat lobster often. “Only once or twice a year,” he says before giving me the local rundown on where to eat their local delicacies.
“You’ve gotta try a hot lobster – it’s cooked lobster with a piece of bread that’s cooked again in cream sauce and served as a sandwich.”
Sounds sickening … I quickly jot down a restaurant called Rudders about 50 kilometres away, which sells the best hot lobster sandwich in Nova Scotia.
While life in these parts of Canada appear simple, its biodiversity is often compared to that of the Amazon Rainforest, and the tides sometimes reach 16 metres, the highest in the world
The reason guys like Ron are so revered as truckers is the demands of the job. The need to transport sought-after fresh seafood anywhere, anytime. It’s hard going.
“Nobody else wants to run all day and night long doing it, doing this. We leave early every morning to make that ferry and drive all over North America. Nobody wants to do that anymore,” he says.
But for Ron, the life behind the wheel is all he knows. “This is pretty much all I’ve ever done. We do what we have to do to get the job done. We’re different, different breed.”
Travis
Snow floats from the sky, drifting like light, puffy feathers on the breeze over Yarmouth – a historic Nova Scotian maritime town just south of Digby and Meteghan. Nearby, the Cape Forchu Lighthouse stands proudly against the winter landscape.
That blue one would be one in one million to be that colour. They’re really special – we won’t sell them to the markets. We keep them to sell privately.
It’s here some believe that Viking Leif Ericson, the first European to land upon continental America some 1,000 years ago, sailed past and perhaps even walked its shores.
It looked beautiful in the sun, but now it’s dark grey and grim – uninviting.
With no luck in finding another lobster haulier, I pull over at a random fishing dock in the hope of getting some directions. Perfect timing as the friendly Canadians have just returned in their boats and are happy to show us their haul. Their latest catch has brought in a crate full of specials.
Blues and purples litter the box, spots and half-colours that resemble gemstones under light.
Seafood processor Travis Muise doesn’t care for boats but like most people in this part of the world has been earning his crust from the seafood industry for the past decade
“They’re rare,” Travis Muise tells me from the dock. “That blue one would be one in one million to be that colour. They’re really special – we won’t sell them to the markets. We keep them to sell privately.”
Call me old-fashioned, but neck and facial tattoos usually ring my internal fight or flight alarm bells, but Travis is “cool”.
“Some could be darker than others, but those two there, that’s the first time we’ve seen those. I’ve been here nine years, and I’ve never seen them like that,” he says.
Travis, a seafood processor on the dock, doesn’t care for the boat, but explains how most people in this part of the world will be earning their crust from the seafood industry.
We’re nothing but a seafood town, and that’s what the town survives off, the fisheries. It goes back generations for people in this town, you’re either a lobster captain, a fisherman, or a scalloper.
“I couldn’t do it…I like the land,” he explains. “But we’re nothing but a seafood town, and that’s what the town survives off, the fisheries. It goes back generations for people in this town, you’re either a lobster captain, a fisherman or a scalloper.
“Our seafood here is all freshly caught. So yeah, it means something down here. I got an uncle out in Toronto, he says they got seafood out there, but it ain’t fresh like here.”
In December, at the peak of the lobster season, this particular dock could have 30 boats a day. But as the water gets colder in the months of January and February, the season begins to slow, so the stunningly coloured lobsters on display make it all worth it.
Hungry and light fading quickly, I retreat to the car in search of Rudders Seafood and Bar for that hot lobster roll.
Seventy-eight-year-old Milton Jean Murphy is a lifelong resident of Wedgeport, a tiny little town at the very bottom of Nova Scotia, and has worked for his brother’s seafood business since the 1970s
Milton
At 78-years-old Milton Jean Murphy has been behind the wheel longer than most have been alive.
Noticeably confused, you can nearly hear Milton’s thoughts through his skull when we tell him we’ve come all the way from Australia to speak to the famed Nova Scotian lobster hauliers.
The lifelong resident of Wedgeport, a tiny little town at the very bottom of Nova Scotia, Milton has worked for his brother’s seafood business since the ‘70s.
His brother does the deals, and he does the deliveries, a job that has served him well since jumping behind his first truck in 1976, a 10-wheeler GMC used to haul lobsters to Halifax.
I like working by myself. I like being on my own.
After hours of searching for the “near 80-year-old lobster trucker” we’d been told about, confusion as to why an Australian would be in his tiny town of Wedgeport turns to intrigue, and he happily jumps from his Kenworth to chat.
Thin and slow-moving, the aging Milton is like a feather in the harsh Nova Scotian environment – a poignant juxtaposition of his frailty against the frozen world he inhabits.
He doesn’t drive the long hours or distances like he used to do, his next job is only a few hours return, but he proudly remembers his days running lobster to New York and Boston.
The solitary life of the highway keeps him sane. “I like working by myself. I like being on my own,” he explains.
Milton’s brother does the deals, and he does the deliveries, a job that has served him well since jumping behind his first truck in 1976, a 10-wheeler GMC used to haul lobsters to Halifax
Comparing past and present, he feels modern trucks suffer from too many sensors and technical issues, leading to more downtime, even though they are more comfortable. But it isn’t enough to force his retirement.
“You never know. I feel good. I get up in the morning, I want to go to work, and I just do what I want right now,” he says.
“So, from here, where do you go from here?” he asks as he jumps into the cab of his Kenworth. “Back to the ferry and home to Australia,” I reply.
“Are you sure this is more interesting than those Australians I see towing four trailers?” he says with a smile across his face.
A smile returned. Trust me, this has been worth the trip.
You never know. I feel good. I get up in the morning, I want to go to work, and I just do what I want right now.
Mike & Co
On the ferry back to Saint John, I was relieved to see a convoy of lobster trucks, all lined up waiting to board the Fundy Rose back to Saint John, New Brunswick. These men are naturally filled with product.
A silver Peterbilt with the Basset Hound hood ornament was my favourite.
At a table sat a motley crew of Nova Scotians, all far more energetic at the beginning of their journey than the exhausted gents we met a few days earlier, on their return trip.
A man named Mike was on his way to Florida with nearly $2 million worth of lobster tails on board. I think if we really wanted to, Mike would have let us tag along.
Lobster haulier Gerrard shares a photo of his recent truck accident, caused by a mini tornado throwing his truck off the road
There was a Bobby, a lobster haulier since 1960 with over 5 million miles under his belt, who I believe was fighting with his younger mate Gerrard, who had recently been in a life-changing truck accident. A mini tornado threw him off the road.
Like a boxer to his feet, Gerrard smiles with his full set of teeth intact.
“So did you eat some fresh Nova Scotian lobster?” one of the men asks. They all crowd in, eager to hear my answer, explaining my Rudders experience with a Nova Scotian favourite – a toasted brioche bun with Canadian lobster bathed in cream, ladled into the roll. Warm, sweet, savoury and buttery – a shortcut to a coroner. They all smile with relief.
“Did you like it?” another asks. Actually, I think I prefer that Maine stuff! Canada, aye.
