Close your eyes and enjoy the special scents on the open road of our coastal country.

It's the time of year when our olfactory senses kick in, big time. After the grey, lingering winter the trees stretch and bud, and nature offers reassuring, reawakening scents-the muddy smell of the ground makes gardeners want to dig deep, and the waters smell of trout aroused from a long winter nap. Smell is the most potent of the senses, having the power to unexpectedly arouse the most evocative and wistful sentiments.

Who has not succumbed to the smell of freshly baked bread? And don't chocolate chip cookies just out of the oven take you back to running into the house after school? Smells evoke memories-no matter how recent or distant-that take little to reanimate. They inspire a desire for re-enactment, a craving for a cold glass of milk and one of those cookies. I hope my sons are listening!

But let's get out of the indoor frame of mind. It's the outdoor smells that tempt us most this time of year. Some of the first to taste the season are motorcyclists-they anxiously await their first outing, the chance, like dogs, to sniff everything around them, and to feel the kiss of the sun on their faces.

Bikers around here don't want to stay tethered to one spot; they want to roam freely, inhaling all the way. They have a committed relationship with air, be it smelly or fresh. They don't want to dig their hands in the warming soil; instead they want to turn into a single sensory blending of flesh and metal. And to experience the smells of the East Coast.

Did you ever notice how different parts of our provinces smell? Billy and I hail from a pulp and paper mill town on the Nort' Shore of New Brunswick; consequently we're lured by the smell of wood, be it fresh or rotting. We'll come up behind a truck of freshly cut trees, breathe deeply and exhale simultaneously. We stay behind that truck just to breathe and remember. The rotting smell of a log boom, the sinus-cutting odour of sulphur or the sound of a town whistle evoke special memories for us, too.

The East Coast has a scent trail that lures motorcyclists to experience a life you can't get in a closed-in vehicle. Stale air and temperature-regulated, scent-free environments aren't for bikers. Instead it's the sweeping 360° up, down and around, and the cool air (and sometimes stinging bugs) on their faces that keep them addicted to their machines. It's the variety of stimuli, the similarities and differences of the sounds and smells of the region that keep them on the go and feeling alive.

Bikers on the scent trail usually want to avoid the big bypass highways. The jaunty waves from the bikers we meet on the secondary roads around the region confirm that most want to get close to the worlds of others. Thank heavens we have the option of travelling the region without competing with the get-there-fast traffic.

Close your eyes and ride along with us: enjoy the freedom of the road; now smell the bacon frying at the nearby campground, and the bakery a few klicks up the road. Hold your nose-we're passing a pig barn. Now, aaah, here's the antidote-that field of freshly cut hay. Don't you love the smell of sweet grass? It joins clover and freshly mowed grass as one of the most erotic of smells.

But these are smells that can trigger the senses almost anywhere in the country. The special scents of our coastal country are what appeal to us most. The smell of fog, even on clear sunny days, lingers around coastal zones of all four provinces. A coolness fills your nostrils even on the hottest days. Evocative ghosts surround you and touch your face as you explore, especially as you travel anywhere around Saint John, NB. I've always been told that the prettiest gals in New Brunswick come from the Saint John area because of the fog. As a gal from the fogless North Shore I take issue with that statement, of course!

The scent trail in Prince Edward Island has one predominant odour throughout… the smell of friendliness! Over here not just bikers wave; people in cars and 18-wheelers raise their hands to us in friendly salute as well. And cows lean over the fences to smile as we pass by.

Our travels take us into Nova Scotia where the fragrances differ as much as the geography of the province does. I find some of our travel quite painful. Much as I love the smell of freshly cut wood, our jaunts on the back roads of my adopted province take us close to clear cut forests everywhere-too many of them. Where once we heard and smelled the ripple of cool water, we now see and smell trickles of water too warm and stagnant to support the fish that once lived there.

But biking in Nova Scotia also takes us through vibrant, lively sections with the smells of growth. Sometimes the breeze carries the whiff of a growing economy-construction, housing developments, roadwork and more big trucks on the highways. Other parts have the aroma of cattle farms and u-picks and fresh veggies. And all around us is the smell of the sea. Some want to be in it, on it or just look out at it. We want to breathe it deeply into our souls-the salt is in our veins and the sea is why we live here.

Once across the causeway into Cape Breton the fragrance of passion hits some bikers with a bang. Hands grip the bars, backs straighten, breaths are in short gasps, and smiles brighten those faces. Velvet-covered golf courses attract some of the golfing bikers; friendly gathering spots in the small towns and villages hold allure for others. It seems that people are more open and friendly to a stranger on a bike than in a car: they want to know about your bike and where you've been. Bikers like to gather together, too-at stops along the scent trail they'll sniff at each others' bikes, wanting to know things like how many klicks (or miles) you travelled last year, where you're headed, where you've been and what route you took. Little personal info is solicited… it's all bike stuff.

Crossing any river draws a sigh of deep longing from me, but the sight of the Margaree River in the highlands of Cape Breton draws me off the bike. It is at the core of my passion: the hills of the Margaree River Valley, phantom salmon lurking in the pools, the tune of the fly and the reel, the perfume of wilderness and quiet combine to create a rapturous symphony. If I should die in the arms of a salmon river I'll die happy.

But I digress. I will return to the Margaree soon, rod in hand and biker friends left behind. Right now our imaginary scent trail awaits-it's on to Newfoundland, the biker's paradise. This province is a mini Canada: it holds glorious mountains, prairie flatlands, centres of industry, wonderful people and, best of all, spectacular coastlines. Everywhere the air has the weight and substance of salt water, the ingredient that keeps us Easterners preserved and at home wherever we are. Sometimes the smells of Newfoundland evoke memories so strong it's as though my whole life hangs invisibly in the air around me-rivers of memory, pulp and paper mills, forests, fishing and friends.

The sense of smell is the best thing to trigger a memory, good and bad, and motorcycling is the best way to experience the smells. The most fragrant bouquet of life is here on the East Coast... on a motorcycle.