Crossing Newfoundland

A hard, blustery rain overnight gave way to clear and calm skies this morning. It was a day made perfect for crossing the Cabot Straight on our way to Newfoundland from the port at North Sydney in Nova Scotia.

Our Marine Atlantic ferry was only 25% full given that we were traveling during the non-touristy off season of mid-September. MK and I, along with other middle-aged gray hairs, had the pick of any of the mostly empty 500 reclining chairs that were spread out inside deck level seven.

I say "gray hairs" since we made up most of those traveling at this time of year. Younger people are now back at school or tending to youngsters of their own. It is the best time of year to travel - the weather is still pretty decent and the crowds and bugs are long gone.

While underway, we chatted briefly with another couple of our demographic. We met them earlier at our campground last night. They are on the road in their camper van for 60 days. They follow a loose itinerary and plan only 5 or so days ahead as to what direction they will head and where they will stay once they get there. This is what MK wants to do someday. I, on the other hand, get the shakes thinking of traveling without a detailed plan and itinerary. I guess I can't let go of what has been ingrained in my conduct, honed after 30 plus years in the city planning profession.  

After seven hours, we arrived at Port aux Basques, Newfoundland. The town is a hodge-podge of buildings perched on top of the rock outcroppings that make up the geology of this part of the island. Many that disembarked immediately filled the town’s few restaurants. Wait time for food was 90 minutes, putting our meal time at 9:30 p.m., way too late for us.  Instead, we resorted to sharing a quick sub sandwich from a nearby gas station deli.

Heading East

Our drive across the center of Newfoundland toward St. John’s started out with mild weather under sunny skies. It also started out with a landscape that was barren and windswept.  As we traveled east, the rocky appearance gave way to thickly forested hills and plains pockmarked with numerous sparkling freshwater lakes emptying into the inlets from the sea. Road signs warned motorists of moose and caribou crossings. Bicyclists pushed into the wind.  Their thighs and granny gears worked overtime as they grinded up the hills, made more challenging with panniers full of camping and food supplies.

Bonavista Peninsula

At Terra Nova National Park, we found the trailhead for the 5km Malady Head trail at the end of the road in the campground area. It was a basic trail through the woods and, other than a nice viewpoint at the end, it was an unremarkable trail. But it was one that was good enough to get the legs stretched and the heart rate elevated. 

The following day we found the much nicer the Skerwink Trail at Port Rexton. While also only 5km long, it was full of scenic views, cliff-side walking, sea stacks and crashing waves. I can’t think of many other places where the scenery given per kilometer of trail is any greater than along this trail.

Further north along the Bonavista Peninsula was the small village of Elliston located at the end of a bumpy, pothole filled road. It is here that puffin colonies are known to nest and congregate. While the nesting season had since passed, there were still of small number of remaining puffins that we could see and photograph.

East Coast Trail

The next day’s driving, soaking rain kept us mostly indoors. We stopped at the St. John’s visitors center and a nearby outfitters to gain some intel on the East Coast Trail. The 20-something young lady, who spoke with an upward inflection at the end of each sentence - an affliction many millennials have nowadays, gave us some good tips on what segments of the trail we should take over the next couple of days.

The fog and low hanging clouds that marked the following morning had a hard time burning off as we headed to the lighthouses on the high, rocky hills at Cape Spear. Situated at the eastern most point of North America, they were barely visible in the mist and the murk. We knew, though, that the trail started just beyond their gravelly base.

Fog horns were heard in the distance and accompanied us for the first part of our walk. We couldn't see their source, but it was obvious they were working full time warning any wayward seafarers who may be getting too close the rocky, boat crushing shores.

After walking these rocky heights for 30 minutes or so, we began our descent toward the ocean's edge and it's crashing waves. This lower elevation placed us below the cloud deck and afforded us some long views up and down the coast.

The rain that soaked these lowlands over the past several days was sheet draining through the vegetation before accumulating in rivulets then roaring streams. This vast amount of fresh, filtered water dumped off of the cliffs via the temporary waterfalls that had been created, now mixing with the saltwater of the ocean’s crashing waves.

The boggy areas were covered with blueberry bushes, all now full of fruit. Our fingers and tongues were blue and purple for we could not resist and stopped frequently to enjoy their juicy goodness. We filled a plastic bag with them as well for enjoyment at future breakfasts.

It soon got to the point where we could no longer keep our feet dry. The bogs and the streams were just too much for our boots and socks to handle. Instead of trying to jump from rock to rock or tussock to tussock, all of which were becoming too infrequent, we simply walked through the ankle– and sometimes calf-deep water.

After 2-1/2 hours, our southerly advance was finally halted. A raging stream's rushing water was too strong to ford. Its mid-stream rocks were too far apart for us to safely hop from one to another. We retreated and headed backward to the car, defeated but still elated at being in the midst of the power that Mother Nature can deliver to an area.

And hey, we still had those blueberries to pick and eat on the way back!

Gros Morne National Park

We were back at the west coast several days later enjoying our coffee on the deck of our lakeside cabin. We watched confidently as the steam rose slowly off of the lake's surface, knowing that that usually indicates a day of fair weather ahead.

We loaded the car with our packs and left our site early to get a good start on our 6 to 8-hour 16km hike up and around Gros Morne mountain. We were one of the first on the trail given the few cars in the parking lot.

The sun dappled our forested trail, its floor alternating with light and shade. The mountain meanwhile looked like a mushroom, its lower elevations lit brilliantly with sunshine while its summit was enshrouded by a cap of a single large and fluffy cloud. We could tell, though, that this cloud would soon burn off allowing for a spectacular hike at the top of this mountain.

But we first had to get there. Our forested trail broke out from the trees near the base of the mountain. We began our ascent up "The Gully," a rocky, boulder and scree filled chute up the mountain's southern flank.

We felt good as we climbed. Our hearts raced from the exertion of high stepping from one rock to another. We peeled off layers of our clothes as we climbed to minimize the amount of sweat that started to soak through, this despite temperatures in the 50s and a brisk wind.

At the top, we chatted with a few others who had gathered at the sign announcing the summit. One man, from B.C., had just finished biking from Canada's west coast to here in Newfoundland. Sure, I thought, the first thing I'd do after biking thousands of miles is go climb a mountain.

Our walk now traversed the flat, table top that made up the summit area. A pair of ptarmigans, their legs covered in white fluffy leggings, and their young chick scooted across the trail a few feet in front of us.

We carefully and cautiously neared the north edge and looked into the valley far below. The view was highlighted by Ten Mile Pond, now landlocked, but at one time likely a fjord-like inlet from the nearby sea. World class views, world class pictures.

We descended via Ferry Gulch, another scree and boulder strewn trail which took us down along the southeast edge of the mountain. Fatigue had started to set in as we looked forward to finishing.

But first, more wildlife. Three moose, a youngster and his mom, followed by a big bull, lumbered slowly along a nearby ridge. My camera's zoom feature allowed for a decent look before they disappeared into the woods.

Soon, we were at the car. We were a bit sore and tired, but elated with our day of high mountain hiking.

A video of our hike is at the following link:

The Viking Trail

The cold, crisp air was joined by a beautiful sunrise. With its pink skies overhead, we left our cabin early and headed north on the Viking Trail, a remote highway along the western coast of Newfoundland's northern peninsula.

This sparsely traveled route (at least at this time of year) was dotted with small fishing villages and a variety of interesting sites including sea arches, large-stoned cairns, and fishing boats stranded on shore during low tide.

At L'anse aux Meadows, we toured the Viking ruins and archeological sites. It is here that the Norseman landed and lived on the North American continent 500 years before Columbus's arrival.

Other evidence indicates that these Europeans met, traded, and sometimes fought with the indigenous peoples of the area. If so, it was the conclusion of mankind's 100,000 year migration around the world, where our ancestors, splitting into eastward and westward movements after starting out in Africa, finally connected again here at this point in Newfoundland's far northern point of land.

I hammed it up for the camera as we toured the monuments and the re-created sod huts and communal lodges. We then took a 2.5km trail along the shoreline trying to envision the Vikings landing their long boats on these shores a millennium ago while negotiating the pack ice and icebergs that, to this day, choke the bays and inlets in the winter and spring time months.

Labrador

The ferry Apollo plied the calm waters between Newfoundland and the Labrador coast under bright sunny skies. The ride across the straights took us from St. Barbe to Blanc Sabon, which is on the Quebec side of the border, a few short minutes away from the entry into Labrador.

You might ask, "why go to Labrador?"  For us, it was a "just because" answer, to say that we visited this far off and remote portion of eastern Canada.

It appeared that we were amongst only a handful of tourists. The larger share of passengers appeared to be locals who were going to or from their homes or who were destined to points in Labrador's far interior to jobs in the petroleum or natural resource fields.

This land is remote, windswept, and sparsely populated. The road, sometimes gravel, sometimes paved, is rutted and potholed. Careful driving is a must. Distant mountains, stunted trees in the valleys, sub-arctic tundra on the heights and at shoreline, and roaring, whitewater rivers make up the scenery.

At Red Bay, we toured relics of 16th century Basque whaling operations. Across the bay, the shoreline serves as a whale bone graveyard. Lichen covered skeletal remains of whaling activities from many years ago litter the rock beach and adjacent grasslands.

We were back at our hotel in L'Anse au Clair by late afternoon. While the dinner in the adjacent restaurant was tasty, the service was slooow! I think I saw the glaciers in nearby Greenland move faster than the service at this place.

Making the Turn

We arrived at the ferry terminal early for our return to the island. Our waiting boat was bathed in an orange light from a beautiful sunrise.

The deckhands squeezed our cars in tight. Ours was hard up against the boat's steel hull barely allowing me to open the driver-side door. Given my size, it was a tight exit from the car. I was only one jelly donut away from not being able to get out.

Back on Newfoundland, we "made the turn" back toward Port aux Basques, traveling southerly and westerly back after many miles and many days of moving east and north.

The day became overcast and the skies spitted rain off and on. Mother Nature took over and gave the scene an ethereal setting. The low ceiling obscured the mountain tops but sometimes parted allowing for rays of sun to shine on the expanse of land in the far distance. Meanwhile, gray-white clouds were hanging in the valleys contrasting against the deep green forest of the nearby slopes and hills.

The waves of the Gulf of St. Lawrence gently lapped the shore that was adjacent to our road. Traffic was light. The scattered, small fishing villages we passed through were buttoned up tight and snug. We were quiet in the car, silently enjoying this magnificence that we had to ourselves.

It was a most fitting ending to our crossing of Newfoundland.