Hummingbird Pub Bus

Out of sight, round several turns in the winding narrow blacktop road, a large engine voiced its concern as its driver ground into a lower gear. As the whining grew louder there was the unmistakable sound of Motown’s Supremes permeating the surrounding tall pines. We exchanged wry smiles with a few other campers, boaters and otherwise prospective riders at the crossroad. Like an eager audience at the rock concert, we knew the main ticket was arriving on stage. Round the nearest bend, kicking up a small cloud of dust from sand and road grit deposited like silt at the confluence of two streams, the broad windshield of the early 70s vintage, faded red body, white topped converted school bus rumbled to a stop as the music ebbed away. The light silica particles swirled in the air about the tires as it rose slowly to the open windows creating a fine veil over laughing faces returning from the Pub and intent on completing the final chorus a capella. The driver reached forward, pulled the worn chrome lever which folded back the doors. He then gave a couple of squeezes on a small bicycle horn which responded with high pitched circus squeaks, turned to his raucous busload and announced their destination had been made adding with the sincere humor of the quintessential host that everyone was welcome to stay aboard and do it all again. The invitation was met with an uproar of hoots and whistles as riders edged out of their seats and clamored down the bus steps expressing their gratitude to the driver for a memorable trip. “All aboard!”, came the order, our turn now. The driver met us with the seamless engaging enthusiasm of a well practiced comedian in mid-act teasing and cajoling each new passenger as they passed him on their way down the center aisle. He was in his forties, the solid build of a former high school half-back gone construction worker, square jaw, receding hairline, T-shirt and worn jeans. With another squeeze of the clown horn we were off to the second and final pickup/drop-off 1 km down the road at the Montague Harbour campgrounds where four more riders boarded. One of the new arrivals was a stocky biker sort in a well-worn sleeveless Harley shirt, thinning long gray hair pulled back in a pony tail, ruddy face, front teeth with extra space and flattened nose from a life perhaps a little rougher than most. His companion was a thin woman in tight jeans and T-shirt with a feminine nature but a face that revealed much of the same experiences. The driver seemed to take an immediate interest in both and juggled a sincere conversation with them in the seat directly behind him during the trip while sharing the whimsical history of the bus, his own life and a few well-placed jokes with the rest of the riders. The tall pines whizzed by and the breeze blew through our hair as oldies tunes blared from homemade speakers mounted above the windshield and for the 10 minute ride to the Hummingbird Pub we were all in the moment, all in the world of the Pub Bus.