Newfoundland, chapter 7

Road Trip to Newfoundland

Day 7 - Puffins

You know what it's like on Monday morning when you have to get up and go to work after a relaxing weekend? Well, day seven was our metaphorical Monday. After lollygagging around Gros Morne for a couple of days, we were back to a grueling schedule. Up and at 'em at 7:00 am sharp. Muffins consumed and the truck packed. Again, coffee-less. Must remember for my next family vacation to bring my own portable coffee machine and coffee. Some of the motels have them in the rooms, but seriously, who knows how clean they are. We had to high-tail it out of Gros Morne and cross-province to the eastern coast, a 600 km trek. That's about six and a half hours, or nine hours if you factor in washrooms, tourist information bureaus with WiFi, souvenir shops and meals.

We gallantly rode out of the campground, waving a goodbye to the manager and the scenic mountains. We would be back near here shortly, so no need to shed a tear yet. This journey would be somewhat monotonous. The interior is a vast, flat forest with no scenic towns to explore. The goal was to hit Grand Falls by lunchtime and then push on after noon. I had already planned lunch at the Fun Ky Vietnamese Restaurant. After following the erroneous instructions on our TomTom GPS and then using my data with Google, we did find it only to see a sign in the window indicating it was closed. Our disappointment was outlived by the delight we got from the sign, which read, "We closed do to cook working injuryness. Sorry." After regaining composure (delirious with hunger), we continued along that same road until we saw KFC and grudgingly stopped. I believe 10 of the 11 herbs and spices on my chicken could fit in a thimble, in contrast to the tenth item, a bucket of salt.  But it kept the crew happy.

The remainder of the drive, though long, was quiet. I asked my wife to take the wheel for an hour which gave me a chance to doze off. The kids vocally shared their dismay. They tend to fret about her somewhat jarring maneuvers. Our motel, the Sherwood Suites, was situated in the small town of Port Rexton. This was a convenient spot for finding whales and puffins, and other pretty towns. We rolled in around five and occupied our very nice, big, two bedroom suite. I immediately shuffled everyone out and into the car for the short drive along the coast to Bonavista. We stopped occasionally to hike a trail or watch for whales. The scenery was spectacular and we did indeed see lots of whales out at sea.

Now, the goal of this side trip was to watch Puffins. The best viewing is at Elliston, near Bonavista. We whizzed along the highway and then turned onto a side road towards shore. The road sign alerted us to possible bumps. That is like saying the moon has possible craters. My kidneys have yet to settle back in their rightful place since that tumultuous ride. Finally, there was an ocean at the end of that rickety tunnel. At the Sealers Memorial, we parked the car and hiked along a trail that cut through treacherous cliffs, eventually arriving at the edge of the continent and a short distance to an island covered in Puffins. I have never heard my wife and son express so much excitement in my life.

We sat by the edge and watched them walk, talk and fly; their pudgy wee bodies adorned by darling orange feet and beaks. I pointed out that along the same northward trajectory was Greenland and over to the right Europe. But all I heard was puffin this and puffin that. Along the shore we also spotted some quaint little stone hideouts set in hillsides which we later learned were old root cellars for storing goods through the winter. I did not venture inside out of respect for preservation and historical importance, though did wonder if there were any deviled eggs, pickles or salt cod. I was eager for a meal.

At the risk of losing our way in the dark on that dangerous trail and plunging over the edge to the rocky ocean below, I insisted we head back to the car. I think I actually said, "For the love of God, can we go now?" It may have sounded brisk, but with all good intentions. We did, and I took us the the few extra kilometres to Bonavista, partly to get dinner and partly to sing 'This Land Is Your Land' while simultaneously entering Bonavista. It's something we should all do in our lives, visit Bonavista, and of course Vancouver Island. I realize this last statement might only have relevancy to Canadian readers, but I consider it culturally meaningful. We were late and many places were closed, so we took out Subway and drove home to Port Rexton. Having a kitchen, living room and bedrooms felt like a home. It was a pleasure to relax at the Sherwood on that cool, breezy night where cold beer bottles awaited us in the large, LG fridge.

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Newfoundland, chapter 6

Road Trip to Newfoundland

Day 6 - Gros Morne

After a surprisingly comfortable sleep in the tent, we were eager to pack up and move to a cabin. Tents are fine, but nothing beats a solid floor and roof.  In between tent and cabin, we had to kill some time. It's Gros Morne. There are bound to be a few things to do.

This was our relaxed day. We didn't have to drive 500 km. We could just see local sights and get some chores done. We set off once more for Rocky Harbour to wash clothes. The scenery throughout Gros Morne is beautiful, and in fact we even saw pockets of snow in the hilltops. We arrived in town after just a few minutes. Luckily, the laundromat was deserted and we were able to fill a couple of machines with our dainties, and my not so dainties. Next door was a very nice gift shop filled with various seal skin wearables and taxidermied animals. My wife spent an inordinate amount of time here, but thankfully not an inordinate amount of money. I pried her away from the pricey trinkets by suggesting we find coffee. That usually works on her. Works on me too.

Next door, on the left, was the Treasure Box, a gift shop. It felt like I was hopping out of the pot and into the fire by entering yet another gift shop, but I did want my coffee and the sign said they had some. It was busy, and cluttered with souvenirs. I asked at the counter for a coffee and the gentleman requested I help myself. He pointed to the corner where a stainless steel machine sat. I went over only to find an empty pot. I corralled the family and we ventured to the other side of the laundromat where Java Jacks, a bright yellow cafe, was located. OK, this has the word java in it, so there must be reasonable coffee here. On the main floor was indeed a small cafe and bakery. I ordered a house blend and it was very good. My normal frame of mind was slowly coming into focus now.

Have I ever mentioned my wife's love of food, eaten at frequent intervals? A small gurgle radiated from her gut and the need for food became paramount. I suggested we look for something fast-foodish, as we had to tend to the laundry soon. We departed the cafe and headed across the street to a chip truck. Here they served burgers, dogs, and an assortment of lunch items. It was quick and it was hot. Those are usually my first and second priorities, as it was at that moment. Cheap is third. This was not so cheap, but then keeping everyone happy is sometimes worth the inflated price. We dropped by the general store and picked up some frozen scallops, sausages and other groceries for the evening and morning. As usual, we purchased a bag of ice for the cooler. We must have spent a fortune on ice so far, but a cold beer at the end of the day is priceless.

Laundry done and lunch eaten, we scurried back to the campground in order to inhabit our cabin and take a break by the lake. As expected, the cabin, though sparse, was clean and comfortable. We set it up and relaxed while my son tried catching trout in the lake. It was shallow near shore, and impractical for fishing. My guess is all the lunkers (if you can call speckled trout in a small lake that) were in a hole out beyond the not so grand banks. It felt as though we were frittering away the day, but perhaps we needed that after the hectic schedule we had been keeping. Chores done and time ticking, I made the executive decision to drive around East Arm, a long fiord pushed inland for some distance. It wasn't a long drive, but scenic.

Woody Point, a pretty town known for its artistic merits, sat below the hills at the edge of the ocean. It was interesting to see the trendy artistic companies juxtaposed against the old traditional buildings. After some sightseeing and a few passes by an old Victorian house sporting a doll in the upper window that scared the kids, we dropped by a small wharf to watch some fellows fish. They seemed adept at jigging and before long were hauling in decent sized blue-silver mackerel. My son and I had so wished we had our rods and tackle with us. Perhaps back at camp we could find a nearby wharf and do the same.

The drive home to camp was no less scenic than the drive there. Some mountains are reddish and desolate while others are carpeted in the dark green of spruce trees. We arrived home and pulled the cold meats out of the cooler and threw them on the large, new barbeque that perched upon our porch. For me it was a treat to be able to cook and relax rather than fork over a wad of dollars and then drive home after dinner. I couldn't wait for the meat to cook. I kept checking and fussing and praying for the moment to come that I could plunge sausage and scallops into my face. That moment did come and was as sweet as I had imagined. I sat back in my camp chair and savoured the succulent tastes.

Later that evening, I suggested we drive to Rocky Harbour and try to get some mackerel ourselves off the long pier. We, of course, did not have the requisite lures for this task. All the lures we had were intended for freshwater inland lakes. But that did not stop us from trying. Casting and retrieving got us nowhere, though we could see those small red Rock Cod swarm the lure near the pier edge. We then tried jigging straight down into the water. No luck was found. Deeper we dropped the lures till they hit bottom. It was then that action struck us. It struck hard, both of our lines. "Got one" we both yelled. "Jinx", we both yelled. "Jinx, Jinx", my son yelled, breaking the competition. We pulled the beasts in out of the water and up on the dock. What the heck was this? The ugliest, scariest monsters sat on the dock before us. I suddenly recognized them; sculpins. I used my pliers to remove the hooks and return the fish to the depths where they belonged. It was exciting to finally reel a fish in. We continued to catch a few more before returning to camp.

The evening was capped by cold beer and a fire that took extreme measures to start. I suspect the firewood was rather green, and with no kindling, other than our toilet paper, it was a chore to get going. But we did it, and we roasted marshmallows long into the dark evening, watching for satellites and shooting stars. It was a pleasant day, capped by clean clothes, full stomachs, and a fun night.

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Newfoundland, chapter 5

Road Trip to Newfoundland

Day 5 - Vikings

This was a special day. Not many can say they've stood in a thousand year old viking village. Soon I will be one of those who can say such a thing. I looked outside into a pot of pea soup. The drifting grey was thick enough to cut with cutlery. Although we struck out early to see everything in a morning, I decided to stopover at the small cafe around the block and get breakfast. The Dark Tickle was a lovely gift shop with a cafe and museum upstairs. After perusing the seal fur hats and coats, I went upstairs and wandered around looking at relics of long lost fishermen, warriors and explorers. It's amazing the things found in a barren ground; canon balls and musket shot, kettles, jigs and coins. I have a love for artifacts. I've acquired things, but nothing beats the discovery. Breakfast was a rich coffee, thick homemade toast and a selection of local jams; partridge berry. blueberry and bake apple.

The fog slightly lifted and we drove the few kilometres to L'Anse Aux Meadows. After parking the car, reviewing the prerequisite historical data and paying the rather exorbitant federal fee, we followed a trail across the barren land amid small, gnarled spruce trees. We reached a group of people led by a guide who described the outlined area on the ground as a sizable building. It was not impressive to see, only to recognize that it was indeed a domicile of Vikings. There were several other digs nearby. Further along was what appeared to be a recreation of the village, complete with peat buildings, fires, thatched roofs, and actors describing the village. The domiciles looked reasonably comfortable, though can only imagine the life in winter. Why on Earth a Viking, or anyone would choose to live at the northern edge of anywhere is beyond me. I'm more of a palm king.

After viewing the cozy homes of Vikings and their slaves, we walked to the pebbly, grey shore, perhaps in hopes of finding an iron buckle or Icelandic coin. The water was calm with just a few ripples around the boulders cropping out of the shallow cove. My wife bent down and lifted a small white bone. "What's this?" she asked. I gasped and proclaimed we found a vikings bone. A real find! It was an exhilarating moment, until my son pointed out an entire moose skeleton stretched out behind us on the beach. We should be excused for missing a decomposed, thousand pound animal due to the shroud of fog. I suggested we take the hike that looped two kilometres around the shore to the parking lot. I had two yeas and a debatable nay. I say debatable because we knew we could talk her into it, and we did, There were no great hills to climb nor forests to fight through, and the scenery was peaceful. The land held bake apples and partridge berries, dainty wee flowers, ferns and pitcher plants. I was tempted to sit and watch a pitcher plant attack and devour a winged passerby, but we had a schedule to follow.

Along the trail we skipped stones in the ocean and played like kids. I felt a bit like I did long ago when I explored the wilderness from coast to coast. My job was searching for rocks, but when you live on the land, you absorb it all, the sight and sounds and smells and tastes. I imagine this is the way a Viking felt. It's hard to understand from a weekend of camping, but living month after month, far from society, brings an appreciation for the land that few can comprehend. We came upon red Muskoka chairs set along the

path with a view to die for. We each took our turn in the icons of a Canadian National Park and pretended for a moment we were important characters on the Strombo show.

Our tour de L'Anse over and a new destination calling, we drifted down the lane away from this ghostly swath of barren ground. We stopped nearby for lunch before heading south toward the fiords of Gros Morne. The fog was lifting as we ventured south. We only drove about 20 Km when, to my elation I spotted a moose grazing by the road. I yelled "MOOSE!" and pointed back over my shoulder as we passed it. My clear instructions were to get all cameras ready while I turned the car around. We drifted back northward until we sat lateral to her. She looked our way, unconcerned, and continued devouring mouthfuls of grass. This was a sight I had hoped to show my wife and kids, but it's a sight you can never guarantee. For the rest of the drive we kept guard, watching for travelling moose. I informed my wife that she was the keeper of the four way flashers in the event of more sightings. We would call it the 'panic button'. Thankfully we didn't have to use it, though was rather eager to yell out "Hit the panic button!"

By the way, Gros Morne is not gross. Just wanted to make that clear. We ambled into Norris Point at the KOA campground in the evening where our camp site was clean and ready for use. Putting up the tent was far less trouble than expected. All went well. The air mattresses, three in total, were inflated in no time and our beds made. We drove into Rocky Harbour looking for dinner like a pack of hungry wolves. Earle's Restaurant looked inviting so we ventured in for a look. We all ordered moose, in one form or another, and devoured it without much thought of the old gal we had just seen on the drive down.

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Newfoundland, chapter 4

Road Trip to Newfoundland

Day 4 - North Along the Strait of Belle Isle

I awoke in our comfortable, yet economical motel with the distinct and happy knowledge that I was in Newfoundland. I had not been here since 1988 when I worked as a mining geologist searching for copper and gold along the south coast and interior. I loved it then and I would love it now. The pace is slow and the people friendly. The land is clean and natural, and very beautiful. I wanted to relax yet wanted to get going and explore the province. Today was a long haul up to the northern tip where Vikings settled a thousand years ago. I had never been there, but could imagine it was much like the coast of Labrador where I had spent a few months long ago. The stories of my time in Labrador deserve an entire blog or novel.

We bade adieu to the tiny motel and the blunt mountain behind it as we stormed down the highway toward Pasadena, a small town along the shore of Deer Lake. Our first destination was the beach, only an hour away. When we arrived, circuitously through tiny backstreets, the beach was deserted. To be fair, it was a weekday, early, and a bit cool. The natural beauty was obvious though, and worth appreciation. We did not stay and swim. We pushed on. Arriving at the town of Deer Lake, we stopped at Mary Brown's to get a bucket of chicken for lunch en route. We would travel north through Gros Morne National Park, then along the coast. There was no time nor need to stop at Gros Morne. That would be the destination after visiting the Viking territory. I did want to stop at "The Arches", a provincial park along the coast where rock formations with caves stand in the tidal shore.

We explored the caves and marveled at the unspoiled, clean rocky beach, testing the water for salinity and skipping stones out into the Strait of Belle Isle toward Labrador. The area was fairly flat here and too far from Labrador to see mainland, but what struck me was the clarity of the water against the flat rocks and round boulders. This is a kid's dreamscape filled with tiny natural treasures to explore, steeped in the rich aroma of north Atlantic seaweed. We lingered up at the roadside, eating Mary Brown's chicken and fries.

We continued along the coast passing tiny fishing villages and caches of lobster traps. The endless highway was lined with an uninterrupted forest tightly bound by spruce trees. Before and after Bard's Harbour, the highway veered inland by some impressive tabletop mountains, but it wasn't until Savage cove that we fathomed the depth of our view. We stopped to gaze at the coast of Labrador, a short 20 km across the Strait. If we had time, I would have taken us there on the ferry. That will have to wait for another trip.

Further down the highway we arrived at Saint Lunaire-Griquet, the small fishing town that held our pretty, pleasant motel called The St. Brendan. I met a couple and their son staying there too. Clearly the man wanted to talk. He struck up a conversation and we stood outside by his truck for an hour discussing life. He and his wife were displaced Newfoundlanders come back for a visit after decades away. Like many in Newfoundland, they struck out to find opportunities in the rest of the country. He did well for himself in the construction business. But like most Newfoundlanders, the island remains dear to the heart.

The clean, hospitable room beckoned us to stay, but I had planned dinner at the Lightkeeper's restaurant, set out on a high point at the edge of St. Anthony, about 20 km away. When we arrived, we secured a table. I noticed several people outside looking out to sea. I decided to check it out. To my surprise and excitement, people were watching humpback whales jumping and feeding. I remember excitedly rushing back to the restaurant to tell my wife and kids. We all gathered outside and watched. Although far away, it was still a magnificent sight.

Dinner done and whales moved on, we drove back to our motel. My wife was eager to catch up on email but the rest of us wanted the adventure to continue. We went down to the local wharf where fishermen extended their day's work by offloading fish from boats. The kids and I suited up the rods with glittery lures and began casting into the dull green waters. Before long a collection of smaller fish danced around below us, eager to see what the shiny metal was all about. We caught one fish, a small reddish brown thing that resembled a cod. A local man told us it was a rock cod. I assume this is like a rock bass, a small, feisty version. We caught a few, kept none, but were happy to experience the thrill of the chase. As dark set in, we packed up the gear. Evening was quiet. We talked about all the great sights we had seen that day.

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Newfoundland, chapter 3

Road Trip to Newfoundland

Day 3 - The Ferry Crossing

I woke up. No arms or legs draping over me. Ah yes, I slept on the double bed with my wife, and the kids had their own bunk. This is how it should be. I rolled out of bed and rubbed my bleary eyes in the orange light reflected off the log walls. We had muffins that we bought the day before. That was our breakfast. No coffee though. I sure could use a coffee; a sentiment I echo every morning, regardless of my state of mind. I could hear the traffic tracking along the Trans Canada highway just a few hundred metres away. Soon enough I'd be making my way along there too, hopefully to find a cup of strong coffee.

It was only 8:00 AM and we didn't have to arrive at North Sydney until 10:00 AM. I was being lenient this morning. I let everyone sleep until 8:15. Nice guy, eh? I wandered off to the washroom and then checked the tuck shop, which was closed. I suppose most "campers" in this KOA with their multi-thousand dollar trailers had their own coffee makers. I'd love to have one of those expensive houses on wheels too, but wouldn't care to park it in these tight spaces. I have trouble backing up a fourteen foot aluminum boat in the driveway. I get it done, but it usually takes 20 zigzags, left and right, back and forth.

The luggage packed away, muffins consumed and the GPS set, we said goodbye to the wee cabin and red cliff. As foretold, we rambled down the lane and became one of the cars driving along the Trans Canada to North Sydney. My wife was on watch for Tim Horton's or alternate coffee shop. None was seen, though hard to believe none existed, We arrived at the ferry terminal on time and ready. You see, I had printed out everything and bound it before the trip. I called it the 'Manual of Newfoundland', or simply 'the manual' for short. It contained some maps, the complete daily itinerary, sights to see, motels with reservations, and restaurants. It also included the ferry ticket. I opened the manual to the correct page and presented it at the ticket booth. I could see that the clerk was indifferent to my impressive organization, and she clinically printed out my tickets. I can't deny I was a bit insulted that she didn't make a remark about it. Think of how many others come through here with a vague memory of their reservation number or a crumpled up sheet.

I followed the instructions to enter lane three and wait for boarding. I sent my wife into the large terminal building to get a couple coffees while I stayed in the hot car to wait. In front of me was a pickup truck with a camper on the bed. The occupants were a young, earthy couple from British Columbia. I'd say they were tree planters or had a similar occupation. When the back door of this tiny camper was opened, a large, docile, mixed breed dog emerged from under a makeshift clothesline. Perhaps this was also their home. On my left was a minivan from New Jersey. These occupants seemed quite out of place, somehow. They were exactly as I had imagined a New Jersey family; very expressive. They had all the doors open, music playing, and the occupants wandered around. I felt like I was watching a reality series unfold, something like "Real Families of NJ". All other cars were unremarkable. Most people just sat patiently as if this was a daily commute.

My wife and kids returned to the car, empty handed. "Where's the coffee?" I questioned, with a tone of disbelief and shock. None. No kiosk with coffee. Wow - just wow. I'll have to have a double when we get on the boat, assuming they have coffee. It didn't take long for the boarding to begin. As the line beside me started to move, the minivan with the open doors cranked the motor only to be greeted by a clicking, dead battery sound. A woman jumped out yelling profanity and retrieving cables from the trunk, then hollered to other cars on the left of her to help with a boost, After a few moments, I heard the engine roar to life and they sped off toward the boat. It was still several minutes before our lane began to move, and I drove way up a ramp and into the bowels of the ship, landing tightly behind a truck. That was painless and easier than I expected. I couldn't get out of the car and into the cafeteria fast enough. We procured a few seats, got coffee and settled in.

I had heard many tales of crossing the expanse between Nova Scotia and Newfoundland. The North Atlantic can be a rough place, but this day was beautiful, apart from the fog. I probably spent more time out on the deck staring at the blue sea than inside sitting in front of a TV showing some ridiculous show about pawn brokers. At one point up on deck, dolphins appeared beside the boat, several in a pod jumping out of the water. That was an exciting sight. I have been on ships in many places in the world, and in some cases the ship is floating on garbage as much as water, but not here. As I stared into the sea, I saw no trash at all, just the dolphins.

At roughly 6:00 PM we pulled into Port Aux Basques, Newfoundland, a craggy coastal town with just a scattering of buildings. The greens were very green. The blues were deep and rich. It felt like a fresh new world. We eagerly exited the ship and headed north toward Corner Brook and our small motel along the highway. The owner was absent, but had left room 10 open for us. Inside was a nice kitchen and sofa, and a bedroom behind. We had just enough time to go into Corner Brook and order Chinese food at the New China Restaurant. This was comfort food. The owner was a very nice lady and before long handed us our dinner and had us back at the Rivers Edge Motel to eat.

And thus ended the ocean crossing and third day of our adventure. We were finally in Newfoundland, our ultimate destination. As usual, we pulled out a couple beers from the ice. I chose my regular Kilkenny and my wife chose her favourite Asahi Super Dry. My daughter was immediately on WiFi seeking out YouTube videos or watching her friends on Snapchat. Sadly, it is nearly impossible to detach kids from their social networks these days, try as I may.

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Newfoundland, chapter 2

Road Trip to Newfoundland

Day 2 - The Cabot Trail

I had a lousy sleep. The bed was soft and sloping. Not enough of a complaint? I shared the bed with my ten year old, highly active, restless son. We started out at opposite ends of the bed, but he worked his meandering way toward me until I felt a sharp kick in the rear and awoke to an entanglement of arms. A razor blade could not have wedged itself between us. An inch more and he would have technically been on top of me. I nudged him back toward his own side, though only managed to get him into the middle of the bed. He is a tactile boy, but for the love of God, a man needs a little room to breathe. This was re-enacted a few times until blessed light was visible at the curtain edges and birds came to life, seemingly laughing at my inability to sleep.

I arose and paddled off to the washroom. It was funny to see the tiny, generic bar of soap I had remembered seeing when traveling as a kid with the family to motels. Soap is soap, to me. My wife will think otherwise. I showered and changed only to find the whole crew still sawing lumber. My son had completely replaced me at my side of the bed, apparently his goal all along. I cleared my voice, as if to make a speech, and then said, in a tempered voice, "Get up". Crickets could have been heard. Actually, a cricket was heard, probably lodged under the door ready to bounce his way in as soon as the occupants exited. A few more calls to wake up and then the obligatory warning shot, "Get up, or I taser you". No, this is not the electrically loaded police unit, but a couple fingers on each hand jabbed into the culprit's sides resulting in deep ticklish sensations. I do what I have to do. Usually the threat is sufficient, but today we have no time to waste, so taser one went to my son, who shrieked and jumped up, then... well, that scare was enough to roust my daughter.

I packed the bags and loaded the car. This required some retrofitting in order to cram everything back in. I was under the ridiculous assumption everyone else would soon be ready to travel. I did have a schedule. My daughter sat on the edge of her bed with some kind of giant tongs machine from science fiction. Apparently she was straightening her straight hair. It was incomprehensible, so I merely sighed and stated I was leaving in ten minutes, with or without the rest. I paced the floor in front of everyone, occasionally asking, "are you done, yet?" I can be pretty annoying when I want to be.

Believe it or not, we did get out of there. This was intended to be a more relaxed day of sight seeing. My goal was to enjoy the Cabot trail of Cape Breton and finish at the KOA campsite near North Sydney. That meant we would be close to the ferry in the morning and would have time to line up at about 10:00 AM. The first sight worth mentioning was the Canso Causeway which crosses the Strait of Canso into Cape Breton Island. The causeway, a road built upon rock dumped into the water, was shorter than I remembered. The other end held a great view of Cape Porcupine Mountain and the deep scar left from mining the rock that built the causeway. We made the obligatory stop here at the tourist information centre and gift shop where wallets were eagerly retrieved to buy memories of the trip that had barely begun.

As we toured through the mountains, every scenic lookout brought new gasps of wonder. The ocean, the hills, the forests and the sky all seemed endless. I recalled travelling through here as a youngster with my family and grandparents when I was nine years old. My grandmother, "granny", would see the ocean at the bottom of a long steep decline ahead of us and report that she was going to faint. That brought delight to all of us in the car. Now I was driving the family through the same hills and delighting my kids with the sometimes scary prospect of driving straight down a hill and into the ocean.

We made it all the way around the Cabot trail to Ingonish Beach where I had planned dinner at the Main Street Restaurant and Bakery. It was a nice, airy place and we found a table outside on the porch. It couldn't have been a better evening. The air was warm and breezy with no humidity to speak of. I ordered a Strange meal of Caesar salad mixed with seafood. I didn't care much for it; all was mixed in one platter, and I didn't think the overly dressed salad went well with the seafood. But I ate it, and no one else complained about their dinner.

It wasn't that far to the KOA campsite near North Sydney, maybe taking an hour or so. We arrived to a high, red cliff and our small undressed cabin. These cabins are fine. They have bunk beds, electricity, and a porch. You have to supply the bedding. Frankly they are fun for a night, but at this cost, you're better off finding an inexpensive motel where everything is supplied. But this is an adventure, and quasi camping in a cabin is far better than sleeping in a tent. My son and I played at the kids playground in front of the cabin. We climbed big tires, swung and then tried the teeter totters where I learned that my weight was such an advantage that I could launch my son clean off the seat. I call that a win, Upon returning to the cabin, my wife informed me that I was far too loud. I could not agree more. We cracked open a couple beers and sat out on the porch for a long time that evening, soaking in the sight of Great Bras D'or Lake and feeling the cool, Nova Scotia night air.

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Newfoundland, chapter 1

Road Trip to Newfoundland

Day 1 - The Long Drive

I had the car packed the night before. When I say packed, I mean packed tight. There wasn't a square centimetre of airspace in the back end of the SUV. How could there be any room? We had to plan for two weeks on the road in motels, cabins, campsites and the yet unknown. The kids chose to bring fairly large hard shell suitcases to accommodate the numerous artifacts a ten year old boy could find and a fourteen year old girl's cosmetic requirements demanded. I was just happy the car was packed and the trunk shut. There will be no opening it again for 1400 Km.

That was the easy part. The real challenge was getting everyone up at five AM and in the car by six. I felt like a drill sergeant running around the house urging, prodding and nudging everyone along. I was successful. By that, I mean we left at six thirty, which was much earlier than I thought we would actually leave. Nine means ten and that results in ten thirty. My best laid plans are set ambitiously in expectation of failure.

Coffee mugs full, a selection of snacks at hand, we set out for the unknown. It was a nice day, sunny and warm, in our small town outside Ottawa. Quite likely the day would warm up to a sticky thirty one degrees, but we were heading east to the coast. We were edging toward seasonal and away from sauna. The car wound its way through back roads for thirty minutes before reaching the four hundred series Trans Canada highway. By this time, everyone else in the car had fallen asleep, already. This would continue until we reached the outskirts of Montreal.

This is when my stress level rises from happy-go-lucky to high school exam. Entering Montreal is seldom a problem, but the stress gradually rises the deeper into the city you get. My son, bless his automotive soul, eagerly searches for the Lamborghini and Ferrari dealers along the route. I enlist my wife to watch signs and the GPS so I don't miss an exit. And everything was going swimmingly, until a torrential downpour besieged the city like a curtain. Thankfully the traffic slowed down, which is quite uncharacteristic of Montreal. Now the traffic was moving along swimmingly, but in a more literal sense. The roads were flooded. But as fast as the rain came, it went, and we left the city unscathed with a new resolve to push on east.

Still unstoppable, we set our sites on Quebec City. Any town between Montreal and Quebec was insignificant; simply a blip on the map. Frankly, this leg of the journey was so unremarkable I don't even recall it. We didn't even stop the car until we reached Riviere Du Loup, where we gassed up and used facilities. No time to slow down. We hit the road again.

Now, for some odd reason, the GPS led us on a winding back road through the hills toward Edmunston. Quite likely this added thirty minutes to the trip. Along the most rural part of this route, an oncoming car with the windows down approached, the driver yelling something in french that I couldn't comprehend. I suspected a hazard ahead, and slowed down. Sure enough, around the bend was a motorcycle down, and further along its driver on the ground held by a passerby. Cars had stopped to help and an ambulance ahead was speeding toward the accident. I couldn't tell what had happened, but know it is always bad for a motorcyclist.

It didn't take long to reach Edmunston, our self proclaimed half way mark. I gassed up again and then bowed to extreme pressure to get lunch. Reluctantly, I headed for MacDonalds, where I assumed we could dine quickly and get going again. I believe they screwed up half the orders, and the paltry lunch came to a whopping $25.00. Fast food is not cheap food. As penance for insisting we stop, I insisted my wife take a turn driving. Just as reluctant as I was to stop, my wife was reluctant to drive, but she did so.

I slept, a little. I'm not a great passenger. I'm used to being in the driver's seat. The drive from Edmunston to Fredricton is beautiful. There are lots of scenic lakes and forested hills. The speed ramps up an extra ten kilometres an hour in New Brunswick, giving us a boost. There were lots of moose crossing signs, but with a moose fence the entire corridor, I don't know how the moose can get to the road. This leg took about three hours and then I was back at the wheel.

At this stage, you really don't want any adventures; you just want to get there. Even so, it is always exciting to get a first glance at the ocean, even if it is just a salt marsh. Our destination was The Lionstone Inn at Pictou Nova Scotia. I had it all planned out that we would arrive at 8:00 PM, but with the slight slowdowns we were half an hour late. I called the motel to make sure a room would be open for us and the clerk assured me she would be there until 10:00. I was relieved. That was plenty of time. As I checked my phone, the clock read 9:30 and we were still not at Pictou. 9:30? How did that happen? It dawned on me that I had failed to account for a time zone. This was Atlantic time. I checked the GPS and it stated twenty more minutes. This would be tight. Apart from a slight confusion about its location, we made it.

The air was appreciably cooler than Ottawa. The motel room was warm and a bit musty, but typical of an old motel. As quickly as we dropped off our luggage, we trekked out to the mall around the corner to get a couple of foot long subs. I had always disliked Subway because of the smell, but these were very good and reasonably priced. Back at the motel, a couple well earned, cold beers were pulled from the cooler, opened and drunk before falling asleep.

Day one was over. The journey had begun and could only get more exciting from here on out.

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