The Rock!

June 22 – 25, 2006
The ferry siren and the revving of the big semi-trailer tractors aroused us just before 6am. They were loading the boat for Argentia, which is on the eastern coast of Newfoundland. That ferry is a sixteen hour run as opposed to our five to 6 hour one to Port aux Basque on the west coast; hence our choice. We couldn’t imagine leaving Caesar down in the dungeon alone for sixteen hours.

Our boat, the Caribou – the flagship – was scheduled to sail at 8am but announcements advised a two-hour delay. At least it’s comfortable waiting in Maggie and the wifi signal was still available so I cleared up some of my forum email. We boarded at 9:30 and the ship sailed at 10:15. There was no fog just bright warm sunshine and after a Newfie breakfast aboard our ‘cruise ship’ we spent most of the 5 ½ hour journey up on deck.

The sky clear blue horizon to horizon, the deep royal blue of the ocean, the gentle warm breezes – all that was missing was a lounge chair and a cocktail. We read and snoozed and I wrote a bit. We watched the people and talked about them. The truckers in jeans and black t-shirts over their big bellies; the RVers who tend to congregate with other RVers and talk about their units (I guess we’re a bit different); the school field trip groups with lenient teachers and unruly kids (I told off a group of them for throwing food off the top deck at an elderly man below); the foreign tourists (Swiss and German I noticed) taking lots of photos; the elderly ladies (walk-ons) dressed in their best blouses, cardigans and slacks with snappy little sun hats and their purses across their chests to avert pickpocketers; the sun worshippers – doesn’t matter the shape of their bodies, they bare it all and stretch out across the long benches so no-one else can sit there; the smokers – there are very few spots outside where one can smoke but there you’ll see a circle puffing away.

Part way through the voyage, we were allowed to go to the car deck, escorted to see to Caesar and take him out on deck to do his duty. We should have just left him alone; he was fast asleep and without a tree or a pole, he didn’t have a clue what to do on deck. At the Purser’s Office, I noticed with amusement that there were two clocks – one on Atlantic Time and the other on Newfoundland time…..where else in the world has a half an hour time difference?

Gazing across the sea, I suddenly noticed a waterspout and Fernie grabbed his binoculars (what I call ‘spyglasses’ to his amusement), and with that the whale breeched. What a sight. The further north we travelled, the cooler it got. The Newfoundland shore appeared in the distance with a light band of mist separating it from the water. About a half hour before we docked, we were enfolded in the thick damp, cold fog and made a hasty retreat inside. But it was clear as a bell when we pulled in to Port aux Basques, a rocky fishing town. We had an easy exit from the ferry as we were placed in the centre lane and they cleared the side lanes first. The Trans Canada Highway smoothly funnels the traffic out of town. A mile up the hill, we stopped at the Newfoundland Welcome Centre for a tour book and map.

Newfoundland was new territory for me and it gave me a thrill venturing on to new land ready to explore every corner. The beautiful road rose through the green hills. The land was mostly tundra with occasional clusters of small and scrubby trees. Stephenville, one hundred miles north of the ferry was our home for the first night. I asked at the Walmart and the greeter said, “Well everyone does it dear and you’re surely welcome”.

I was whipping up an omelette for dinner, when I heard Fernie talking to someone outside. The conversation continued on for a while, so I shut off the stove and wandered out, nosy about who he was talking to.
“Ahhh, here’s yer better ‘alf” said a grinning gap-toothed woman with loose shoulder length grey hair.
Fernie was talking to George and Madeleine White (they changed it from LeBlanc for some reason), a sixtyish couple who lived on the main street across from the Walmart and went out walking every evening. It seemed the whole town was out walking; what a healthy bunch of folks.

George was almost unintelligible as he quipped and laughed in his strong Newfoundlander accent but we managed to understand enough. He’s a carpenter, who was born and bred in Stephenville. He remembers when the Americans built an air force base there and when they left in 1966. They were interested in us and where we were from and they told us about their life in Newfoundland.

They told us how the Abitibi mill closed a few months ago and how folks are leaving town now.
They told us how to pronounce Newfoundland
“It’s Nu-fun-lan,” said George (with the accent on the ‘Nu’) and he made Fernie say it after him.
They told us about Screech, the local alcoholic beverage.
“I dunna like it” said Madeleine “but I’m a tee-totaller”
They told us about Newfie steak “Bologna - - - fried Bologna” and they don’t pronounce it baloney.
We discovered that what we call lakes, they call ponds; what we call rivers, they call brooks.

“Come with us walkin’ all round town” said George
“Theys not had dinnr yet,” said Madeleine
“We’ll be back in ‘alf an hour for youse” said George chuckling while he lifted his ballcap and scratched his balding head.
They didn’t give us any choice so we had our omelettes quickly and were ready to go walkin’ when they returned.

We walked down the main street, through the fields, across the rickety bridge, beside the merging of Cold Brook and Warm Brook, alongside the airport, and down to the bay. They walked so fast we could hardly keep up to them. There was an abandoned section at the end of the airport, a large cement slab overlooking the ocean.
“You could park your motorhome here – lots of folks do,” said George and he took us up to show us where the dump station was only a 100 metres away.
They showed us the houses that were swept off their foundations last year in the floods.
“Them folks shoulda known not to build there,” said Madeleine unsympathetically.

Eventually, we arrived back on the main street and we were ushered into an elaborate yard. Carved wooden birds of all kinds decorated the trees. There were woodpeckers, ducks, geese, owls…….there were bird-feeders hanging from every branch or post. There was a large wishing well; an old 1940’s car with plants growing out of it, quite attractively; an 8 foot reindeer made of tinsel and strung with lights stood against the garden shed. “That goes out up front – at Xmas,” they said proudly. He had vegetables growing, strawberries, fruit trees, and a greenhouse that he built himself.
“He makes me anythin’ I want” smiled Madeleine “He even makes me omelettes”

“Now, you get the Royal Tour,” said George holding open the doors of the car for us.
“You go up front” he said to Fernie and Madeleine slid in beside me.
“I’ll take you up to the richy ‘ouses in section 13”
“Then I’ll show you the Mayor’s ‘ouse”
“Un, then we’ll go on down to lil’ Port Harmon”
“Un then I’ll take you all the way up to ‘Hooterville’ – you know it?” Guffawing by now. He was referring to an old TV show - “Green Acres”

There was an awful squeal from the rear end of his car as we pulled away. I asked them if they had a mouse in the trunk. “Nah, he just washed it today” said Madeleine. I’m not sure how that was supposed to cause such an awful squeal but I didn’t pursue it. We arrived up at Section 13 (sounds like a concentration camp) “Ain’t they beauts?” George said, pointing to the street of ordinary houses by Vancouver standards.

“Un that’s the new mayor’s ‘ouse – Tom O’Brien” It was pretty palatial and there was a quarter size replica of it in the back. “That’s fur his lil girl – it’s ‘er playhouse”. We asked how he made his money and he said “He owns the trucking company – O’Brien’s but he’s a nice fella”

Back down the hill, through the town, past the airport and the flat-as-a-board golf course, below the white cliffs that we’d seen from a distance, we veered in over a rough road in the midst of being torn up, past about 20 dumpy little cottages “Thas where the richy’s go on weekends” said George “See, they dredged that there pond out – and look they can see the mill from ‘ere”. The huge silent mill loomed quietly the other side of the pond – not exactly what I’d call a nice view. About a 100 metres further on, George pointed to a little harbour in the corner of the dredged out pond, with about a half a dozen little fishing boats “Thas lil Port Harmon” he said proudly “Ain’t it cute?”

The sun was down by now but George insisted that we had to up to Hooterville. About eight miles north of Stephenville, in the forested hills was Cold Brook and in the furthest corner was where his grandfather had been born. It was an isolated area at the end of a gravel road where people built their houses to escape, I guess. “Thas Hooterville” George repeated, just loving his analogy.

It was 11 o’clock when they dropped us off at our motorhome and we stifled our giggles until we got inside and then laughed about our four-hour introduction to Newfie hospitality.

* * * * * * * * * *

The weather report made us reconfigure our plans for our two-week exploration of The Rock. The west coast was supposed to be sunny for the next few days while the east was raining. So we elected to explore the Northern Peninsula on the west coast first.

Up through Corner Brook, picturesquely built on the hillsides, the second largest city on the island, we left the Trans Canada for highway 430, AKA The Viking Trail. We figured we’d start from the top and work our way down, seeing we’d have to retrace our steps anyway.

We entered the south end of Gros Morne National Park at one of its stunning fjords. The scenery was spectacular, somewhat reminiscent of British Columbia in the mountains. Early summer must be the best time to visit here, with the profusion of wildflowers blooming. Out of the mountains and down to the sea, the terrain changed to tundra with occasional patches of low wind-swept trees. It reminded me of the southern coasts of Chile and Argentina, and I almost expected to see a penguin colony. The beaches are most often rocky; sand is rare.

As we’d seen all across the country, a sign warned of ‘Moose’. A bit further, another sign announced that there’d been 15 moose / car accidents so far this year, so watch out. We just sneered after the dire warnings in northern Ontario that never turned into a single sighting. But Newfoundland is different. The Northern Peninsula is known as the “Moose Capital of the World” and moose are not even native; they were introduced in the early part of last century. Less than half an hour later, right beside the highway, contentedly chewing away a beautiful cow moose raised her cumbersome head in interest as we slowed down to get a better look. Driving Maggie, we were unable to pull in or get a photo but we were delighted.

We decided to stay in the historic town of Port au Choix, half way up the peninsula for a couple of days and take the Honda the rest of the way north for sightseeing. A little motel in the middle of town had 5 RV sites at the back overlooking a beautiful little bay. Electricity and water and free wifi made the $15/night tax inclusive price very cheap and we loved the beautiful view from our front windows of the waves crashing on the rocks.

* * * * * * * * * *

We were on the road by 8am; we knew it was going to be a long day. Our primary target was L’Anse aux Meadows – the site where Vikings made a settlement over 1000 years ago, the first Europeans to North America, but the journey through the tiny fishing villages and the highway hugging the shore was such a delight.

We fuelled up before leaving Port Aux Choix and a young man coming out as I was going in held the door for me, gave me a goofy smile and said
“G’ morning – it’s a noice un. Any day it’s not rainin’, it’s a noice un.”

Wherever we went, beside the roads far out in the country as well as near the towns were piles of firewood neatly cut and stacked and we wondered about a society where one could trust their fellow citizens enough to store it where it was cut. Interspersed were vegetable gardens fenced against moose – apparently the most fertile soil is beside the highways. They plant potatoes mostly but other veg too and nobody steals or vandalizes them. Isn’t that absolutely amazing in our current society. It made me feel sad that most of us live where this wouldn’t be possible.

We stopped at a sign that announced “Marjorie’s Bridge, boardwalk trail and thrombolites.” We had to find out what a thrombolite was – or were they pulling our leg? The sign said they were ‘primitive life forms weathering out of flat-lying dolostones’. Now what does that mean? We went looking anyway. I kept telling Fernie to watch for anything that was ‘bun-shaped’ but of course we didn’t find any.

The Vikings settled on the Northern Peninsula about 1,000 AD in L’Anse Aux Meadows (Cove of Meadows). It is thought that the ‘Vinland Tales’ written by Eric the Red or his son Leif Ericcson (not really sure who wrote them) of a far-flung land where wild grapes grew is about that very site. It’s now a national historic site and they’ve recreated the village exactly as the archaeologists found the traces of their existence. The sod covered huts are inhabited by actors in period costume and they demonstrated their methods of sewing, cooking, wielding and axe and so on while spinning tales of their lives. It’s a lovely setting protected by islands and bluffs, the meadows offering herbs and berries in profusion.

We stopped for lunch at a little family café on the waterfront in St. Lunaire, near L’Anse Aux Meadows. I’ve always been fairly experimental with food. I’ve eaten curries in little local restaurants in India, noodles with who knows what’s in them in China, sushi in Japan, goat in Kenya, Thai fish soup in Bankok, guinea pig in Peru – whatever the locals eat, we sample. So when we saw a typical Newfoundlander meal offered, we chose it – and it was the most horrible thing I’ve ever had to put in my mouth. Fernie had an emotional reaction to the meal and after one little forkful, he said he was ill and left the restaurant. I struggled to get part of it down because I didn’t want to offend them. The waitress told us it was delicious especially with the little bits of pork scrunchions on the top. YUCK and Double YUCK! Let me try to describe the meal – hard tack bread soaked in something really salty, mixed with salt cod and then topped with an awful concoction of fat pork in liquid slimy fat. It was white and white and then oily yellow on top. Not even nice to look at. It was even more disgusting than the guinea pig in Peru.

By the end of the day, we had driven 535 kilometres and had more than twenty moose sightings. Ohmygawd – moose! They’re everywhere. On a lonely stretch of the highway, we rounded a corner and started up a hill. At the crest of the hill stood the most majestic sight – a huge bull moose with his staggering rack of antlers standing on the road, silhouetted against the sky. As we approached, he slowly ambled off across the road as if to say “I’m not rushing for you”.

* * * * * * * * * *

The next day from our spot in Port aux Choix, we explored the many archaeological sites in the area. My head is reeling from the historical data we’ve gleaned about the Archaic Maritime Indians, the Palaeo Eskimos, the modern Indians, the Vikings, the French, the British……as we learn about their lives, easily imagined as we walk on their turf, we feel we’re back there.


Philip’s Garden in Port Aux Choix was home for many of the above civilizations – digs have uncovered relics from as far back as 5,000 years. It is on a wild peninsula and is one of the most beautiful walks I’ve ever taken. The fragrance and beauty of the myriad of wildflowers – purple, yellow, red, white in such profusion; the scent of the crashing ocean deep blue with white crested waves; herbs and berries and sheltered nooks; the scurrying of little animals; the varied birdsong; the wind through the grasses. This or a place much like it must be where the author Linda Auel got her inspiration for her series of books on ancient humans. We walked for so many miles unable to stop exploring, ourselves inspired and uplifted. We didn’t see another human during the hours we spent there.

I’m not sure if Newfoundland is the most thrilling place in Canada because it’s new territory to me…….but I am in love with this province. It is so changeable – from mountains to seashore to tundra; from thick fog to bright warm sunshine. But one thing remains the same, the charming people – their love of life, friendliness and the welcome they offer.

The fishing villages are just plunked down in their coves. The houses are higgledy-piggledy with no alignment to any other. The roads just weave through wherever there’s room. Doors open onto the streets. Fences don’t exist. People walk in and out of each other’s homes at whim.

Newfoundland place names are lyrical – brooks and ponds and coves of all kinds. Some of my favourites are: Noddy Harbour, Birchy Head, Toogood Arm, Tickle Harbour, Tickle Cove, Heart’s Delight, Heart’s Desire, Little Heart’s Ease, Heart’s Content, Dildo, Farewell, Blow Me Down, Tizzards, Come By Chance, Witless Point, Petty Harbour.

We decided to try a National Park campground instead of a private one, as there were no boondocking possibilities in Gros Morne National Park. Lomond campground is the nicest campsite we’ve ever had. A level gravel pad for Maggie beside which was a huge private mowed grassy space ringed with spruce, a fire pit and table and a view of the magnificent fjord below. We lay in our lounge chairs and after a vodka, a glass of wine and a beer and we watched the clouds as they started to appear across the clear blue sky. Just like we did when we were children, we watched the shapes unfold – there was Caesar with his pointy little ears; Caesar on his back with legs in the air; Caesar’s little carrot tail; I think we’re totally obsessed with Caesar.

There was no noise other than the natural – the breeze in the trees, the birds singing melodiously, what sounded like loons in the distance, the buzzing of an insect, Fernie sighing with contentment, Caesar snuffling in the long grass. Oh my gawd! I think I’ve reached Nirvana - - - or is that the vodka working its magic.

* * * * * * * * * *

Our life is a dream! We wake up every day to a new adventure unfolding. How can we be so lucky? I want time to stop – right now!

We work all our young lives, bringing up children, furthering our careers and dream one day of retirement and freedom. So many times I’ve heard stories how John or Mary retires and is so bored they want to return to work. Are they crazy? There’s a huge world out there just waiting to be explored.

* * * * * * * * * *


I’m getting paranoid – I woke up this morning with a swollen and soar ear lobe for the third time. It was an insect bite – on the same ear a week to 10 days apart. Why my ear? Why not Fernie’s? What kind of insect was it? I searched the bedroom, checking the bed but found nothing. However, later on I found I had about three more bites on my arm – could it have been those nasty disgusting black flies in the forest? But what is it about my ear that is so enticing. I think I’ll put some repellent on my ear every night before I go to bed.

As we were leaving our campground, we spied another moose just feet from the road. Now, I just want to spy a caribou. There is a huge herd in the park, but they did not make themselves apparent. We spent the morning investigating the south forks of Gros Morne. This park is a geologist’s dream – it holds proof of the continental shifts and divides – surprisingly, the Eastern side of Newfoundland used to be part of the African plate. The Tablelands, a range of barren brown mountains sit right beside the most lush and green hills. They are the residue from the ocean bottom and the rocks are most unusual appearing as if fish net was woven through them. They are infertile because of the minerals and metals in the rock and because of the high winds and cold temperature.

At the end of the road lies a little fishing town, Trout River which until recently was not accessible by road. It still seems to be a remote town. People walk in and out of each other’s houses, they gather along the roads to chat, they wave as we drive by and make their livelihood by fishing. A woman walking a beautiful chow, named Mala stopped to talk to us. She left Trout River when she was 28, moved to Ontario and returned to Trout River when she was 50, three years ago. She is so happy to be back “There’s nowhere else on earth like here” she said.

Now it’s time to shoot over to the east coast and meander around that side. The drive over to Grand Falls/Windsor was pretty boring. The centre of the province is not anywhere near as scenic even though there’s a pond or brook around every bend. Grand Falls/Windsor, a mill town is grubby and unkempt. The Walmart there is part of a mall and I had to go to the mall office for permission to stay.
“The office is closed m’dear,” said the lady at the Lotto booth beside it. “Cun I help yer?”
When I told her what I wanted, she replied, “I sees em there all the time”. So I took that as approval. It was the crumbiest Walmart lot we’d ever seen; we were a bit disgusted at the litter around, the huge potholes; the unpaved areas where big trucks kicked up choking dust; and it was noisy, from the Walmart intercom announcements to the cars peeling rubber. But it was late and it was convenient for shopping so we stayed and when we closed the blinds, we were in our private palace.

* * * * * * * * * *