Newfoundland and Labrador

Labrador at last! I was one of the last to roll off the ferry boat into...Quebec. Yes, the ferry to Labrador actually docks in St. Sabon, Quebec. Less than 10k to the north, a sign welcomes you to Labrador. A number of small communities are spaced along the paved road heading north. I was not sure where I would overnight, but Red Bay was definitely on my itinerary. Perhaps a bit more than an hour of driving up and over some long inclines and descents and past numerous lakes and small harbors (including one with an iceberg lodged in it) got me to this newly crowned UNESCO site. In the early 1500s, it was the Basque who pioneered the whaling industry to satiate Europe's demand for lighting oil. They found Labradorian waters abounding in North Atlantic Right Whales among others. History forgot their presence here until the late 70s when a researcher in Spain came across wills and receipts pertaining to a shipwreck said to have transpired in what is today Red Bay. The wreck of a modern ship in a November storm made some think that ship might be near the old wreck whose fate was also sealed in November. And underwater search soon found the San Juan and now the Basque presence here is chronicled and celebrated. A small but new and very nice museum houses a whaling boat and many other artifacts as well as context. After visiting the museum, I strolled along a beachside trail littered with whale bones dating back to the 16th century (or so I was assured at the museum).

Red Bay is also noteworthy for being the endpoint of this paved portion of the road. I stopped where the gravel begins to take a photo and to lower the tire pressure on my bike. A man on a BMW 1200GS pulled up having just completed the ride from the north. He assured me finding a camping spot would be really tough in the next section of the ride. With that news and with a mutual wish to chat with someone from New England, we set up our tents next to the church in Red Bay. We were assured the bugs would be not be so bad there.

Perhaps, but that did little to help us combat the swarms of black flies that greeted us, especially as the wind died down. I donned my head netting and quickly learned that blackflies will creep their way into anything. Soon there were hundreds outside my netting and probably a half dozen inside it. They also crept their way down my back and into my pants (the broken fly -- aptly named? -- probably facilitated that attack). A dinner of Ramen Noodles along with some chunk turkey I had bought was tasty, but testy. How to maximize my meal while minimizing that of the black flies? The best solution I found was just to hurry the meal and go to bed. I took a little run to lose the flies before bounding into my tent. That seemed to have worked until I saw more and more of the buggers emanate from the corner where I threw the head-netting. Fortunately, they seemed disoriented in the tent. Now they were the hunted. I'll have to give my tent a very thorough scrubbing when this trip is over.

Despite the persistent buzz of mosquitos trying to break their way through the tent screen, I slept fairly well. At 5am, the rain started and my slumber ceased. My tent is getting wet, my bladder is full, the bugs are waiting...what to do? The answer was to pack up as quickly as possible and hit the road. No bugs can fly that fast. A roof at the entrance to the museum was near, so I emptied my tent of heavy items and then carried it, still intact, to dryness where I toweled it off and packed it, trying to remain composed as the flies renewed their onslaught (do they never sleep??). A quick farewell to Will and I was off.

So far, the gravel road has been easy going. I can comfortably ride between 40 and 55 mph. There are rocks and a few rough patches, but compared to Ruta 40 in Patagonia, this is a relatively easy ride for a motorcyclist. What frightens me a bit is that I am alone and that it is so far between communities. Other than the road itself and an occasional motorist, the only sign of human existence are sleds that have been left just off the road as well as an occasional makeshift log bridge that allows ATVs to cross the gap between the road and the woods (they remind me of a very humble modern corollary to the medieval drawbridge). After a little more than an hour of driving past this rough, rocky land with its tall, very narrow spruces and firs, the rain faded and after another hour I was in Port Hope Simpson. Right now, I am writing in my room at a B and B. I feel a bit wimpy and indulgent stopping after such a short day, but I have my reasons. It continues to rain and I do not want to spend a second consecutive night in bugs and in the wet. Most importantly, the next town, Happy Valley Goose Bay, is over 400 km away (and there are no gas stations in all that way!). I am expecting a new chain and sprockets there, but one part of that trio has not arrived there yet, so there is no need to hurry there. Plus, tomorrow is supposed to be a nice day.

Having my own room, I am able to recharge my keyboard - such a bonus!! That is the primary reason I have not posted in a while. So what else have I been up to? The short answer is: "Newfoundland, That's what!" That is too short, though, so here is a bit more.

Newfoundland (pronounce it like 'understand') is fantastic! I took the ferry to Argentia and was in St John's two hours after disembarking. What a fun town! Row houses in the city center are painted in all shades of red and blue and green and yellow etc. There are fun, locally owned shops and stores to check out. George Street and environs throbs until 4 in the morning (yes, I know this first-hand) with music ranging from techno to amplified Newfie folk. Meet some nice people at your hostel (as I did - Ben, Lynn, Garech, Cynthia, Guillaume) or adjust your chain in a parking lot and meet a random German phd student who just bought a KLR (Regina), and you're guaranteed to have a great time. Several of us visited Cape Spear, the easternmost tip of land in North America, and watched whales from our perches atop high bluffs. We turned westward and then watched the sun set from Signal Hill where ships would receive guidance before entering the narrow harbor. Ben and Regina and I daytripped south on the Avalon Peninsula. The hot temps prompted even me to take a swim in very chilly waters. We ate mussels and moose burgers at a little diner and then visited Lord Baltimore's first attempt to find a new home for dissenting English Catholics (He had better success in Maryland). We also fought tough crosswinds before returning to Saint John's.

After three nights in St John's, I headed northwest to Bonavista where John Cabot was the first European (huge asterisk - stay tuned) to step on these shores. If you're in this vicinity, be sure to check out Trinity; it's what you get when you put Peacham, Vermont on the oceanfront. The next day took me farther northwest to Twillingate Island where I free-camped atop a cliff a couple hundred feet above the crashing sea. The next day was rainy, but I motored to Badger nevertheless and hopped on the T'railway, an old railroad bed converted to an ATV trail. This lent my ride a bit more adventure and even saved on mileage, although the bumps certainly beat up my bike. A deep section of gravel caused me to lose control and crash land just off the path. Two elderly couples on four-wheelers were right behind me. By hand, they pulled a rope and helped me back up on the path. This trail through the heart of Newfoundland was stunning. Much of it was flat and green, at times forested, at times treeless. The Gaff Topsail, as the area is called, is marked by four Topsails that are, as best I can figure, monadnocks or solitary mountains whose resistant stone allowed them to survive the glacial age and later erosion, leaving them to tower close to 200 feet above the surrounding tundra. With now sunny skies, I rolled into Gros Morne National Park where I spent three nights and enjoyed amazing scenery from the summit of Gros Morne mountain and took a cruise on Western Brook Pond, which is like a magnified Lake Willoughby with mountains towering 2700 feet above the 600 feet deep lake. Something remarkable about this lake: It has very few nutrients and thus very few ions, so its water reportedly will not conduct electricity. Something else remarkable: After hearing me pine about the faulty seam on my brand new, super comfortable Big Agnes sleeping pad, a man from Quebec City loaned me his. I'll return it soon (Big Agnes, to their credit, is replacing it and shipping the new one to that man's address).

My last stop before the ferry to Labrador was L'Anse aux Meadows, where Leif Erickson and a small band of Vikings built a very modest settlement 1000 years ago.

Whew, it is very good to be caught up on my blog. I'm still looking for a computer so I can upload all my pics. Stay tuned.

Fort Louisbourg, Nova Scotia

July 12, 2013

The night of the 11th was warm, but very misty. It was smelly too. A fish rendering plant was right next to the campground. While this may be the stinkiest campground in the world, there were redeeming qualities. The bathroom and shower facilities were very clean, there was a lounge area with wifi, and there were little rooftops over picnic tables at each campsite. Knowing full well that it might rain overnight, I removed the picnic table and replaced it with my tent. That had little effect on the mist that drifted horizontally with the wind. But while water did creep under the tent, I remained dry atop my sleeping pad. In the morning, I got up early so I would be ready to visit Fort Louisbourg when the gates opened. After showering, I commenced packing. I took out my super absorbant mini-towel and started drying the rainfly. I had just finished and started undoing the stakes when rain struck. It poured. All my efforts were undone in an instant. The opaque grayness hinted that this rain could last all day. Great. I migrated to the lounge and checked Canada's weather radar. The worst was passing and the storm should be done in an hour or two. This was a perfect time for breakfast at the diner across the street. A breakfast of eggs, bacon, home fries and coffee drove the rain away (the fish smell remained). I returned to my campsite, shed my rain gear, and pondered how to dry everything. The ground was soaked. So, I took my straps, threw them over the beams supporting the roof and hoisted my tent off the ground and dried it off as it hung. I felt pretty clever.

The gates had long been open, but the woman at the ticket sales counter said my three hours were perfect for a good visit. A bus retrieved us tourists at the welcome center and drove us about one kilometer to the fort. Across a small harbor, the fort looked elegant, dominated by a wide, colonial style dwelling above and with a ceremonial yellow gate on the waterfront. The French sense of style goes way back. Their military ineptitude also goes way back. Twice this fort was attacked by the English, both times over land (the defenses were directed toward the water - an acknowledgement of English naval prowess), and both times (1743 and 1758) it fell. The French had, however, established a remarkable outpost and community at Louisbourg. The village thrived on the cod they caught in the rich North Atlantic. Some of that cod was eaten there, some was traded inland, and much was shipped back to France for great profit. Although I am a history teacher, places like this can bore me to tears. However, Louisbourg is very charming aesthetically, gastronomically, and in how the "inhabitants" interact with the guests. The buildings remind one of historical buildings along the Maine coast with beautifully weathered Shake shingles on the roofs and exterior walls. Small garden plots can be found in spaces between the finer dwellings. Each person is greeted and briefly interrogated by a security-minded soldier in contemporary garb (English folk beware!). Go to the bakery and buy some fresh, warm bread (white bread for the officers, brown break for the rank and file). Kids are given costumes and engaged in games. Women are cleaning and cooking. Soldiers are showing off their living quarters where three share each bed. A 15 minute ceremony with marching and music culminate in the firing of the canon precisely at noon. If hunger strikes, there is a kitchen preparing delicious food elegantly served with faux (I hope!) pewter plates and bowls and spoons (no forks nor knives). I had a delicious pea soup, turkey pie, and scrumptious break pudding with coffee.

With that, it was time to return to my bike. Now I am on the ferry awaiting departure to Newfoundland. The sky is partly cloudy. I am dry. We leave dock at 5pm and will arrive in Argentia (I would soooo like to write Argentina!!) at 10am.

A New Adventure

Riding through Latin America on a motorcycle never entered my mind as a youth. Family trips up through Canada, especially those spent on the rugged northern shores of Lake Superior, planted a sense that adventure lies in those cold remote regions north of the US border. My sabbatical ride south amended that viewpoint. The north, however, has not gone away and neither has my motorcycle. So, I'm riding again, just as far north as I can here in the east. The Trans Labrador Highway will be the extent of my ride north before the path leads south into Quebec. On the way there, I can visit Newfoundland which has long been on my list of places to explore.

Many miles separate Vermont and Newfoundland. This first post (no promises how many there will be!) summarizes how I got to Louisbourg, Nova Scotia.

I always get the jitters before heading out on a trip like this. Most elements of a trip like this are within my control: How precisely should I plan the route? Is my bike ready? Do I have all the gear I need? What gear do I really need?

One element in particular is beyond my control: the weather (Let it be good!!!).

Preparing my bike was not a huge job. Concerned about bottoming out with the considerable weight of me and all my gear, I purchased a raising link to lift the bike's rear end and to tighten the suspension. This also makes it less likely for my bike to tip over away from the kickstand when parked - something that plagued me during my sabbatical. I also bought and replaced the clutch cable and bought new Heidenau K76 front and rear tires and decided not to bring spare tires. Heidenau tires are supposed to have great quality. As new as they are, they should stay in one piece over the gravel of the Trans Labrador Highway. I think the only other real telltale addition to my gear (other than what I brought to Latin America) is a mosquito net that fits over a hat. There's no malaria up there (yet), but I would rather have malaria than to have all my blood sucked out a milligram at a time.

The jitters were minimal as I left home on the 5th of July. since my first day's destination was Belfast, Maine, home to my friend Mark and his family. Still, my departure was not immaculate. Outside my walkout basement, I started the bike (choke on) and walked up to the front door to lock it. I came back down and found the bike not running. Hm. I fired it up again. It ran for a moment and stalled. Huh? Third time...the same. Grrrrr. The weather was hot and humid and I had all my gear on. I was already getting soaked with sweat. Am I low on fuel? Turn the fuel gauge to "reserve". The bike fired up...and stalled. WTF? Another try...this time no ignition at all, just a motor turning over in vain. Open the tank. Yup, it's low on fuel, but the reserve tank ought to work. Sweating even more, I go back up to the front door, unlock it, tramp downstairs, get my lawnmower fuel, put it in the tank, go back in the house, close the basement door, go back upstairs, close and lock the front door. I am drenched. Look the bike over again...and then it occurs to me. I bet I turned the fuel gauge the wrong way. Turn it 90 degrees, hit 'start', let it turn over a few times and then the bike comes to life. good grief. The drive to Maine was, mercifully, uneventful, although I nearly panicked when I thought I had left my Spot device at home (this was on hour east of Saint Johnsbury). A quick check of my paniers showed I was mistaken. Whew. Now, six days later, I can say that I don't think I forgot a thing.

After a great weekend in Belfast, I made my way to the Canadian border on a misty Monday morning. The rain gave up keeping pace with me before I even reached the border. My entry into Canada was dry and easy. New Brunswick presented me with a newly surfaced highway complete with an impressive fence system to keep moose and other big critters out. The fence had numerous one-way gates keeping animals off the highway while allowing the truly hapless ones who found a way onto the highway to be guided back into the forest, away from harm.

A quick look at the map showed green on the Bay of Fundy - a national park. I arrived there around 5pm, set camp, and dashed out for a hike along the shoreline. I set a good pace so the teeming mosquitos and blackflies could not keep up. The trail was perched up on cliffs, so while the view across the bay was lovely, it was hard to get a good sense of the epic tide for which the bay is famous. I took another hike in the morning, but by that time it was (as it was during my last walk) low tide.

Tuesday was very similar to Monday, except the weather was gorgeous the whole way. I enjoyed the coastal route just east of Fundy National Park with its winding roads, hills, green grasses, cliffs and beaches, estuaries, and (of course) views of the bay. Here too, I rode until about 5 and stopped at a park - Caribou and Monroe's Island Provincial Park. This time my hike was truly on the beach with views of the distant Prince Edward Island.

Wednesday led me to Cape Breton and the highlands. This big peninsula is definitely worth the trip. The ocean views are magnificent. The road follows the coast and winds  up the cliffs of the highland offering vistas and driving conditions that reminded me of California's Highway One (without the fog!). I had been given the impression that the towns along the way are charming. There are certainly a myriad of festivals planned (most starting on or after July 15). Many of them highlight Celtic roots. However, most of the towns themselves are rather spartan. Most homes are unremarkable, modest homes. The towns typically have a dock or two (for lobstermen and whale watching tours) and a few motels or cabins and restaurants geared toward the tourists.

Judique is a town famed for its Celtic music. I raced past the Celtic Music Interpretation Centre. What I appreciate about Judique came after the town - an ATV trail. I found this trail when making a quick pit stop. What a temptation. Should I ride it or not? May I ride it? I finally ended my indecision and just did it. About 50km further I reached its end in Inverness. This trail was a thrill to ride. It was fun to be off the pavement, away from the traffic, and cruising an old RR bed winding past swamps, lakes, forest, little harbors and over streams. In all that way, I encountered four other people. My luck was compounded when I got a delicious burger at a very unassuming beachside food joint in Inverness (probably the most scenic of the Cape Breton towns with a lovely beach and renowned golf course). North of Inverness, I found the Cabot Trail that enters the National Park. The highlands tower above the ocean at a pretty uniform height. The plateau is home to bogs, little lakes, and lots of very wind abused stubby pine trees. That is all a blur to the motorcyclists who flock here as much for the thrill of the twisting tarmac as for the scenery. I enjoyed both!

Indecision gripped again about where to camp. The final national park campground that came in question looked a bit grim, so I headed north to the tip of the peninsula. The Jumping Mouse Eco Campground in Bay Saint Lawrence was quite a reward for the longer than expected drive. Perched above a tiny lobstering village and harbor, the campground affords a breathtaking view north with towering sylvan mountains sheltering the bay to the east and west. I was the only guest. I set up camp, marveled at the views, walked to the pier, and then wondered how I would sleep with the wind gusts and threatening weather. The rain never materialized, but the wind was amazing. Lying in my tent, I could hear individual gusts of wind zip past...sometimes a ways off, sometimes striking the top of my tent. I have never heard the wind like this. It was like there were witches or spirits joyriding just over the treetops. Over time, though, they faded...and so did I.

I am now in Louisbourg, home to a restored French fortress. This fort's fate has been a footnote in my AP history class for years, as it was built by the French, taken by the British in the War of Austrian Succession, it was returned in the peace settlement (Status quo ante bellum) and then taken for good in the French and Indian War and destroyed by the British. Today's ride was a foggy and damp one. I am now poised for the next leg of my journey. I made reservations to take the ferry from North Sydney, Nova Scotia to Argentia, Newfoundland tomorrow. I have also made reservations at the youth hostel in Saint Johns, Newfoundland. Tomorrow will be a big day!