St. John's, Newfoundland: A Mainlander on The Rock

I hit 'The Rock' mid afternoon on a rainy Sunday and even though I was itching to get out and get my first looks at a Maritime city not covered in 3 meters of snow (re: Cornerbrook blog March 3 2011), the rainy weather kept me close to the hotel.  After  a long year of travel, I had finally reached executive status and had enjoyed a hot meal in a comfy seat on the plane for once I didn't arrive starving so I didn't have to hunt for food right away but I was thirsty so I headed down to the restaurant lounge for a pint.

I walked in and really noticed the Newfoundlander accent for the first time. Wow do they speak different on the Rock! I've bumped into my fair share Newfoundlanders at home or, 'up der in Ontario' and across the country but to be surrounded in a loud bar by them disoriented more than expected. They, at times, didn't seem to be speaking the same language as I was. The waitress spilled some beer on my sleeve as she was putting down my pint and this, to the best of my recollection was the conversation that followed.

Waitress:  Is done dere everflowd'ed' that one.

Me: Pardon me? (I would say these a hundred times a day for the rest of the week)

Waitress: Spilt all up ya I did, my dear. (She pointed to the few drops of beer)

Me: Aaaah.

Waitress: Ares ya are, my love. (She hands me a napkin)

Me: Thanks

Waitress: Yous caller if you wants anything. I won't be a biter, my dear.

Me: Mmm.. OK..?

Up early the next morning I set off for for my 150km commute around Conception Bay in the southern part of the island to the small town of Bay Roberts where I would be working for the next two days. It was still dark and with hi-beams on  I watched both my speed and the sides of the road, very aware that  moose were prone to crashing out of the trees at the edge of the highway to stand on the road staring down anyone foolish enough to drive along in anything smaller than a modern era Sherman heavy armour tank. As the sun gradually,  and reluctantly it seemed, brought daylight to the sky I could see more details of the landscape and as I followed the TransCan Highway for most of the way I was awed by the beauty of the landscape as I wove around coves and lakes and through forests and boggy marshlands, all studded with the ancient exposed rock that gives the island its nickname.

After work was finished on the second day I would be spending the rest of the week in St Johns so I took the opportunity to explore a locally renowned spot called Mad Rock. The directions were sketchy but the route turned out to be welled marked negating the need to watch for the dirt road after the 'smaller' barn, and I found the spot after a half hour drive through oceanside villages with narrow streets, weather beaten houses and docks stretching into the ocean.

Mad Rock is a one of the most eastern points of north america, ocean breakers crash into the land against high raw craggy cliffs spiked with ancient and dramatic rock shoals . Walking paths crisscross meadows of ground hugging moss and tough as nails grass and scrub bush and lead to amazing vantage points high above the oceans and down cliffs to the oceans edge where the tide surges up to shore. I explored the area for hours taking pictures of 'The Three Sisters',  'Big Shag Rock' and 'The Dark Hole' as I walked along the peninsula. As the sun lowered I turned back towards the car amazed at how much the tide had come in and the strength of the waves as they crashed against the rocks that I had been standing next to just a short time before. (Surfs up movie link)  It was all round pretty awesome stuff. I was, however disappointed to learn later that if I had gone half a km further along the trail I would've have come across the remains of stone walls and buildings dating back to English settlers in the 1500's. That would've been very cool to see but it was still a pretty awesome afternoon.

I drove back to Saint John's, impressed by the outing to Mad Rock but even more impressed with the voracity of the rumblings in my stomach as I drove. I was starved! A seafood chain had been recommended to me and I found an franchise not far from the hotel and sat down by myself and ordered a bowl of chowder and a Black Horse beer to start. The chowder was good but not what I had anticipated from this iconic maritime town and the seafood platter was so deeply  fried that the I couldn't taste anything but the oil and heavy batter. The Dark Horse beer, as I remembered  from an earlier trip to Newfoundland, was fantastic.

With my shift  finished on the third day at a decent time I drove out in the rain to get a sense of downtown St John's. It was just too wet too explore the city so I looked up and down Water Street and spotted the YellowBelly Brewery and Public House. The historic building houses a micro-brewery, live music lounge and restaurant and I sat down at the bar in the warm, dry lounge and enjoyed a couple of in-house brews and a black bean burger as I tried to use my jedi mind tricks to convince the cute blond at the end of the bar to look up and make eye contact with me. Not having much luck with the blond, and my dinner done I got in the car and spent a bit of times driving in the rain through the colourful row houses that line the steep and twisting streets of St. Johns before heading back to the hotel for the night.

I spent the next couple of days working in town and avoiding the continual rain in the evenings until the afternoon of my last day in town when the sun came out just as I was finishing my shift. This was my first and last chance to explore so I hurried back to the hotel and got changed and then set my GPS for Signal Hill, perhaps the most famous historical spot in the Maritimes. Signal Hill is, of course where Marconi received that first transatlantic signal a bunch of years ago that we take so much for granted now in the time of instant global communication. Clouds limited the view form the iconic hill but I still spent a long time wandering around taking pictures of St. Johns harbour, the Signal Hill Watchtower and remaining armaments that once protected the city from Americans and Germans alike. I made a checkmark on my mental 'bucket list' of cool Canadian historical spots that I've managed to visit.

Having seen absorbed what I could from Signal Hill it was time to get back to the city.

All week people had been recommending that I check out a local restaurant called Velma's. Renowned for its traditional Newfoundland food I was told repeatedly that it was the place to eat. I found it easily but circled the streets forever trying to find parking. I walked in and was surprised to find a very small, shabby, outdated restaurant. I stood around for a few minutes by the 'Please wait to be seated sign' but eventually showed myself to one of the tables. It took a while before someone came out of the back and showed me a menu and then I waited forever before she brought me the chowder that I was looking forward to, hoping the food was more impressive than the decor or the service. The chowder was good, very good and the crab cakes were as well and I left a short time later, stomach full and continued exploring the streets of St John's by foot.

I wandered the streets poking through local arts and crafts stores along Water Street including a music shop that claims to be the oldest shop on the oldest street of the oldest town in North America, I tried on traditional yellow rainhats and, unbelievably, cod flavoured chocolate. I popped into pubs along George Street and then ended the day walking down along the docks that lay at the foot of the city, checking out the massive international freighters and Canadian Coast Guard ships docked between smaller fishing trawlers that brought fresh lobster and shrimp and cod, lots and lots of cod to the city and out across the country fresh from the Atlantic Ocean.

What a great time I had exploring the sights of St. John's I thought as I flew out the next day after completing the first of many trips that would take me all the around the island province, with a couple of quick visits to Nova Soctia and New Brunswick as well. I hadn't expected to find anything in the maritimes that would compare to the stunning and dramatic beauty of the west coast mountains that I had been immersed in for the last couple of months but 'The Rock' had proved me wrong. There was only one thing missing from the trip, an official 'screetching in'. I had hoped to enjoy this renowned 'Newfie' welcome and could've experienced it at any of the pubs along George St. but had decided to wait until I could share it with some of my colleagues that would be joining me on future trips.. or I guess I should say 'when I come da reckly back der up'n bring d'ol boys an maids wit e.

..or something like that. 

Smithers: One Last Adventure In British Columbia

I landed at Vancouver, which has started to feel like a second, or third, home just in time to meet a colleague and catch another flight 1200 kilometers north to the small town of Smithers, in the Huckley Valley of the Babine Mountains.

We landed after dark and drove into town to check in at a dated but decent hotel. My room was an icebox when I walked in and  was like walking into a deep freezer and I spent the next hour shivering under a blanket in my hotel room waiting for the third member of our team to join us at the hotel. When she did arrive, we knocked on E.'s door and found her lying on the couch also under a blanket with the oven open and turned to 6000 degrees. The three of us caught up for a while and played some silly word game that I cheated at and still lost and then went our separate ways to shiver through the night.

One of the most amazing things about arriving in strange places in the dark is waking up and looking out the windows at a view I've never seen before. The anticipation of that moment can entice me out of bed with a bounce regardless of how late I've arrived the night before. My 'first view' of northern British Columbia was perhaps one of the most memorable of all. Deep forests with vibrantly contrasting green and shades of yellow against a backdrop of snowcapped mountains that merged in the clouds that seemed so close to the ground. As I walked across the parking lot to the Tim Hortons I literally did circles as I took in amazing mountain vistas in every direction.

Wow. I say that a lot, especially during my time in BC but those views were incredible.

I would only be in town for a couple of days and this first morning would be my only chance to get to get out  for a hike so, disregarding the the rain that was falling softly but steadily and armed with a map provided by the front desk, I hit the streets looking for adventure and a bit of exercise. At first I drove aimlessly searching out vantage spots to get pictures of the mountains surrounding the town, captivated by the white peaks all around and then followed a dirt road to the trailhead at the Bluff Trails.  The trailhead had a large topographic map and I studied it for a few minutes and tried to figure out which trail would provide the best mountain views but eventually arbitrarily headed east along a grassy trail. My classic canvas Chuck T hi-tops were soaked through before I had taken twenty steps and so were my quick-dri pants up to my knees but I walked on undaunted. A mixed forest of pine, elm and birch trees blocked out the view for the most part and when the trees parted, cloud and fog did the same but the hike was fun, crossing a beautiful clear mountain stream that I drank and collected a few small rocks from and the steady uphill path was challenging enough to force me to take off several layers of clothing even in though I could see my breath in the cool mountain air.

I climbed up the trail for about two kilometers, still hoping to get some close up shots of the snowy mountaintops that I knew were hiding in the trees and fog but turned around after about an hour and headed back. I reached the trailhead in about a third of the time I had taken to climb as the rather steep, now downward, slope had me half running, half hopping, but always scrambling down at a treacherous speed. I passed the trailhead, following the path in the opposite direction for another couple of hundred meters where the forest did open up and got a few pretty shots of the town below and surrounding landscape before heading back to the car and then to the hotel for a shower and dry clothes before heading into work for an afternoon shift.

On the second and last night in town E. and I took a walk around the small town, digging into outfitting shops, peering into shops that had already closed and generally getting the feel for Smithers. It didn't take long. The town has an alpine feel to it with sculptures of bighorn sheep and yodellers welcoming people to town, and international flags and chalet style buildings lining the streets. The town was also the home of Joseph Coyle, inventor of the egg carton. Suprisingly neither Joseph nor his invention had been immortalized in sculpture .We had dinner later that evening at the Aspen Riverhouse, a cozy restaurant in a room with exposed wood beams and hand built rock fireplace and hearth. The spaetzle I had for dinner was German/Asian fusion dish that was disappointing (compared to the amazingly good spaetzle I had eaten a couple of months before at Beer Bros in Regina) but I washed it down with a very good local micro brew beer and the company more than made up for the food.

The night ended after more than a couple of rounds and an early birthday celebration that included a shot of something buried in a mess of whipped cream (the alcohol made it into my mouth whereas the whipped cream ended up splatted all over the table) and me perching on a saddle that was on display in the lobby, not necessarily one of my finer moments.

(7am) With a morning flight out of town, we met for breakfast early and had about 90 mins to squeeze in a last bit of sightseeing. Our first stop was at Seymour Lake on the edge of town, where we stood gawking at the mirror calm lake with the impossibly white capped Babine Mountains providing an awesome backdrop. Without much time left we moved on and sped down the Yellowhead highway to the neighboring village of Telkwa.Telkwa is a a small, historic settler village with many of its buildings dating to the very early 1900's. We spent just a few minutes in the town and again took dozens of pictures of the buildings and spectacular scenery and then, somewhat reluctantly, drove back up the Yellowstone to the small regional airport in Smithers.

(930am) M. had left us at the airport to start her morning shift and we had just checked our bags when an announcement was made that the plane would be delayed until late that  afternoon. After a mad scramble to rebook flights home, we found ourselves stranded at a very small airport with no car and a very long wait ahead. We drank coffee and tea from a remarkably good cafe in the airport and alternated between pacing the lounge and trying to arrange ourselves comfortably on remarkably uncomfortable seats. Luckily M was able to return a couple of hours later and we headed for lunch at a small but surprisingly upscale and modern restaurant that some locals recommended that served up the best two bowls of butternut squash soup Ive ever eaten .

(1pm) Stomachs full, we had time for one last adventure. We had passed a sign earlier pointing to the 'Twin Falls' and that was were we decided to spend the last couple of hours before we flew out. A long and twisting dirt road led us up into the mountains where tall pines blocked out the sun and the view as we drove. My ears popped as we ascended and I gulped to depressurize them at the same moment I noticed through the passenger window the very steep cliff that hovered at the edge of sharply curving narrow road that M was steering us around. I gulped again.

We arrived at the alpine trailhead safely and started walking up the path, me a few steps back chuckling quietly to myself at the inappropriately heeled shoes of my female companions.

 The short well maintained trail climbed for a few hundred meters to a lookout point with a pretty awesome view of two waterfalls that start at a glacier and cascade 100 feet down into a colourful Columbia Mountain valley. It's hard to put into words how really incredible the mountain sights were in this small northern town. I was lost for words then as I gazed around me then and I still am now. Driving back down the dirt road back to the Yellowstone highway and then on to the airport I was quiet and somewhat reflective as I continued to enjoy the scenery, glad not be behind the wheel for once but wishing I was at least in control of the stereo (Bon Jovi, much to my chagrin, was my colleague's choice in music).

(330pm) The plane arrived a short time later and we boarded gratefully and settled into our seats. It was a somewhat bittersweet moment as the plane took off as I realized that this was my last trip to BC. What a great time I had had over the last couple of months exploring so many different parts of the province and I was sad this part of the schedule had come to an end.

BC has a pretty good way of saying goodbye though. The 90 minute flight south to Vancouver was perhaps the most spectacular of my life. With a low altitude flight path and a clear day I had the opportunity to peer down into the crystal clear alpine lakes, ice fields, glaciers and soaring snow covered peaks that dotted the mountain ranges thousands of feet below.

(5pm) A long wait for my red eye connection to Toronto meant I had a bunch of  hours to kill in the Vancouver Airport alone. I spent an or so at the White Spot at the airport having dinner and then passed a couple more hours sitting at the bar at Monks, drinking pints and watching the Canucks game. I napped on the floor of the departure lounge, downloaded and watched a movie, played 8972 games of poker on my Blackberry, chatted with a cute blond at the IPhone shop, chatted with an dude that was born in the same hospital as I was, brushed my teeth and put on fresh clothes in the airport washroom, endured a 40 minute flight delay and finally, 14 hours later than planned, I heard the boarding call to Toronto, stumbled onboard and sank gratefully into my seat.

(12pm) I had hoped to sleep my way home but found myself restless on the plane and spent most the flight looking at pictures from the last couple of months, remembering the adventures I had had in the big cities and small towns of British Columbia, and the characters that I had met along the way. I was going to miss my weekly trips west but was gladly looking forward to start my exploration of the maritime provinces. More than anything, I realized as the lights of Toronto appeared stretched for miles below me, I was glad to be home.

(7am)  An ridiculously long wait for my luggage preceded an even longer wait for my taxi which only led to a very slow drive home through commuter traffic. I arrived at home almost exactly 24 hours after my day had begun and considered heading into the office to take care of some administrative stuff but cracked open a breakfast beer instead. The can still sat untouched when I woke up sometime that evening, completely confused about where I was and what day it might be, frustrated that the hotel desl clerk hadn't delivered my wake-up call, and had a bit of a panic attack thinking I should be at work but not remembering in what city.

It took a few minutes to realize I was at home, in my own bed, exactly where I should be and I chuckled sheepishly to myself. Realizing there would be no housekeeping or room service either this morning, I made my own bed and brewed my own coffee and looked out the window to a familiar, and welcome view.