I spent most of Monday morning lazing around, doing laundry, collecting receipts, all the usual stuff one does the first day off after a couple of weeks on the road. Just before noon I was flipping channels and contemplating if it was somehow wrong to open a beer in my pajamas before lunch on a workday when I got a fairly unimportant email, while I had my email open I decided to check my itenarary for this weeks travel and discovered that I was due to fly to Newfoundland in exactly 30 minutes. Crap.
Crap crap crap crap crap crap.
I had thought I was flying out the next day. I frantically called, emailed, texted, and BBM'ed (simultaneously) my colleague F. who I knew also thought we were flying the next day. A mad panic ensued, at least on my end, until the travel department was able to rebook the flights later that day. I took my clothes out of the dryer and put them back in my suitcase and changed out of my home lounging clothes into my airplane lounging clothes, called the airport limo and was on my way back to The Rock.
Because of the flight change I had a long layover in Halifax waiting for the EVA airlines plane heading to Gander and didn't make the final flight until after well after midnight. F. would be arriving about the same time via St. John's. After delays for refueling and de-icing in Halifax I landed back in Gander about 2:30 local time and found the now familiar agent at the car rental counter waiting for me. She smiled and said she had good news and bad news. I laughed and asked her to explain before she informed me the rental was ready and all warmed up, but unfortunately all she had was a passenger van. I asked her what she had given F. when he came through earlier and she said he hadn't arrived yet. I jumped, literally, into the 12 seater white van and made a bee line for the hotel, F. could worry about himself.
I got to the hotel about 3am and stood at the desk for a few minutes directing polite 'excuse me' noises towards the pair of legs I could see sticking out from the office door. Tapping on the counter and calling out hello didn't stir the pair of legs so I eventually resorted to ringing the bell on the counter. The legs jumped into the air and then out of site to be replaced by the top half of the leg's body peering around the corner sleepily. 'Checking in please' I called out and with a sigh the legs and body pulled themselves together into a full person who grumpily checked me in and gave me a room key.
Back onto the TransCan highway for the four kabillionth time for a yet another dark drive through the Newfoundland wilderness until I got to Gambo where I slid over to the the Road to the Shore for the last 80kms. As I passed slowly through the small weather beaten villages alonng the Kitimakke Coast the sun began an astonishing rise over the Atlantic Ocean's horizon. I watched the sky change as I drove from black to deep red to brilliant orange as it broke the day and started illuminating the landscape around me. Scanning the sides of the road I looked for somewhere to pull over that wasn't someones driveway/yard/pier/dock and eventually found a place to stop at the water's edge in Indian Bay. It felt really cool to be one of maybe just a handful of people to witness the sunrise over the western hemisphere that morning.
I walked into the motel and found myself flashing back to my parents fake wood panelled basement circa 1977. I settled into the 'rec' room that I was given which didn't come with a chair, or an iron, or an alarm clock, and jumped into the shower to wake myself up before I went to find food. There was a small homey looking dining room down a dark hallway in the motel and I sat down and looked at the menu, quickly realizing that my choices were cod. Cod and chips, cod on a bun, cod tongue, pan fried cod, scruncheons (deep fried salted cod fat cubes).. you get the picture. I settled for cod and chips and a bottle of Black Horse and ate while chatting with a friendly local who turned out to be the brother of the motel owner. Between my state of complete and utter exhaustion and the crazy Newfoundland accent I only understood every third or fourth sentence but I was pretty sure he was telling me he would introduce me to his beautiful niece who the whole town was crazy about. After a while we were joined by the owner, who had earlier checked me in and later cooked my meal and I drifted out of the conversation. Even though I could barely understand their words it was enjoyable to listen the to strange accent and oddly phrased comments between the two as they discussed the everyday business of living in small town Newfoundland.
I stumbled back to my room and lay on the bed with my phone next to my head waiting for 10 o'clock. Finally the workday ended and after 40 hours of flying and driving and working and dealing with the locals who just refused to speak the same language as me I was able to relax, close my eyes and fall asleep.
I had the foresight to ask if the dining room would be open for breakfast and had arranged for eggs and home fries to be served at 8am and so, for the first time in a week arrived at work unaccompanied by stomach moans and gurgles of hunger. Considerably more alert than I was the day before I found myself catching on to the lingo a bit and laughing along with some of the good natured ribbing the store full of 60 year old women I was spending the day with kept tossing at me. It was a good day and by the time I left my cheeks were sore from smiling so much.
I was amazed to discover the local grocery store was still open when I drove by about 7pm and I decided to stop and look for anything that wasn't cod. Without access to a microwave, stove top, or even a coffee maker to heat water I was hoping to buy something that was ready to eat and could actually be placed in a food group other than 'fried'. I left with two brownish bananas, a block of cheese, a small tin of tuna, a bag of pretzels and a 8pk of Black Horse and climbed up into my passenger van for the short drive back to my parents basement rec room, oddly transplanted 35 years later to a motel in a small fishing village in Newfoundland.
A while later I was lying on the bed flipping through the 19 channels on the TV............until...
Through the thin motel walls I could hear the sound of voices coming from somewhere in the motel. not just voices but drinking voices.. drinking Newfoundlander voices- and above all the sound of female voice. I left my pretzels and followed the voices down the dark hallway until I came into a small 'pub'.
Very small.. very very small.
A polished wooden bar stretched the length of three stools in addition to two small tables in the room meaning the place sat a maximum of seven and made it it officially the smallest pub I have ever had the pleasure of patronizing. The owner's brother that I had met the previous night at dinner was seated at one of the tables with his wife and a couple of locals were at the bar. Behind the bar was a drop dead gorgeous blond serving up drinks and stories and raunchy jokes. I took the last seat at the bar and easily struck up a conversation after ordering the local beer. The two guys at the bar worked together and were drinking on the ol' b'ys tab, the ol' b'y being the boss and the quieter of the two. I struggled to keep track of the conversation as I kept an eye and an ear on the blond behind the bar, who had by now been introduced as promised the her uncle who sat behind me. The niece had just come to town from BC and was keeping herself busy at the small pub as she adjusted to life in very rural NFLD. She was the first female under the age of 50 that I had seen since arriving two and she was, ahem..., a very welcome sight. As we took turns buying rounds of beer, I began telling stories about my travels across the country and more recently around 'The Rock'. With a packed house of 6, including the blond, I found myself the center of attention as I talked about far off places that these people would likely never see.
I mentioned towards the end of the night that my one regret about this being my last trip to NFLD was that I had never been 'screetched in'. It seems silly and touristy but it was something that I wanted to do. The ol' b'y started telling me how his grandfather used to give a Newfoundland welcome to mainlanders that was similar to screeching but older than the modern ritual. The bar discussed for a bit whether I had earned the right to the ritual but before I knew it I found myself walking down the road to one of my new friends fishing hut where all the required elements for my screeching were to be found. A surreal night was unfolding I realized as I stood reciting lines from a poem that was English but unrecognizable in a yellow sou'wester and coat drinking shots of dark rum before kissing a mounted stuffed puffin. The three locals had some big laughs at my expense as I drunkenly tried to recite the lines of verse and kiss the bird and take the shot all with just the right amount of respect the ceremony required. The Newfie welcome was a highlight of the entire year and am experience that I hope I never forget. An amazing random moment.
I finished work the last day about noon and headed out of a town. I had awhile before I flew out of Gander and had planned on taking the slightly longer route back to the city, continuing along the Road to the Shore along the north eastern corner of Canada. It was a cold day with a salty wind blowing in from the ocean but it was sunny and I drove slowly following the highway from town to village along the coast, exploring amazingly small settlements along the way. Pound Cove and Deadman's Bay and Musgrave Harbour are quintessential fishing villages with stacks of lobster and crab traps in the driveways and trawlers anchored in the water. Wind and salt blasted wooden houses and fishing huts perch on rocky shores and small islands and outcroppings that have somehow stood the test of time and Mother Nature's harsh winters. I spent an hour or so in Newtown, wandering around the historic living heritage buildings that date back to the original 1850's seal hunting settlers. Change seems to come slowly in that isolated corner of the country and it was easy to imagine the lives of those early immigrants scratching out their lives, hunting and fishing in the days before highways and Google and smartphones replaced letters and instincts and traditional knowledge passed down from father to son and mother to daughter.
So with my belly imploring me to get back onto the highway and not stop until I found food, I locked the van doors and went in search of random. A half kilometer down the path the dirt trail took me past the cement foundation of a long abandoned building and onto the shores of the Atlantic Ocean. Cold looking waves beat steadily against the shore of the snow covered sandy beach. It had turned grey and cloudy and the cold wind at the beach sent chills up the back of my coat. The trail seemed to continue along the beach and further up the Kittimake Coast but I was tired and hungry and ready to go home. I stooped to pick up a few small stones and turned back to the van.
That was my last day of exploring, I thought as I drove back to Gander and ate a greasy meal at the small airport diner. The project that had employed me for the last year was now complete and my days of travelling had come to an end. I was heading home for the last time A sense of melancholy had come over me at the beach in Cape Freels that now felt heavy and hard to shake as I walked across the cold tarmac and boarded the plane. I kept my eyes closed, resting my head against the window as we taxied onto the runway and climbed into the clouds, hoping to sleep but unable to get the scenes of the day out of my head.
I opened my eyes and was astonished by the sight outside the small airplane window. As I flew towards Toronto and home the sun was setting behind us, sending streaks of brilliant reds and oranges as it chased the plane west across the country. Without the haze of smog, without the clouds, without light pollution, without highrises or mountains or trees to block the view, a sunset from the 40 000 feet is an amazing sight and it felt like a perfect way to end the trip and the year.
I smiled, pulled out my camera and started taking pictures and I didn't stop until the light had gone out, wanting to record each second so as not to forget a single moment.
I was just getting into the hotel room about an hour later when I got an email saying F. was delayed in Toronto in bad weather and wouldn't arrive until sometime the next afternoon. I had just two hours before I had to be on the road to get to Wesleyville first thing in the morning so I weighed my options, propped open my eyelids and flicked channels until it was time to head out. I walked back over to the office and woke up the clerk for the second time that night to check out. I tried joking with her, saying that I should get a discount for not even messing up the bed but I couldn't even get her to crack a smile.
Back onto the TransCan highway for the four kabillionth time for a yet another dark drive through the Newfoundland wilderness until I got to Gambo where I slid over to the the Road to the Shore for the last 80kms. As I passed slowly through the small weather beaten villages alonng the Kitimakke Coast the sun began an astonishing rise over the Atlantic Ocean's horizon. I watched the sky change as I drove from black to deep red to brilliant orange as it broke the day and started illuminating the landscape around me. Scanning the sides of the road I looked for somewhere to pull over that wasn't someones driveway/yard/pier/dock and eventually found a place to stop at the water's edge in Indian Bay. It felt really cool to be one of maybe just a handful of people to witness the sunrise over the western hemisphere that morning.
I arrived at work in Wesleyville at the perfect time, just as coffee was being made and passed the day slowly waiting for F. to join me in town. I still hadn't slept and was hoping to get a nap mid afternoon when he arrived. I was literally leaning against a wall with my eyes closed when F. called to say his plane had made in emergency landing in PEI and would be further delayed. I prepared myself to work throughout the day alone and later on that evening I got the word that he wouldn't be making the trip at all. Hmmm, I thought sleepily, that meant I was on-call until 10pm. I left work shortly after and made my way through town to the motel that the travel department had found for me, the only place to stay anywhere close to town.
I walked into the motel and found myself flashing back to my parents fake wood panelled basement circa 1977. I settled into the 'rec' room that I was given which didn't come with a chair, or an iron, or an alarm clock, and jumped into the shower to wake myself up before I went to find food. There was a small homey looking dining room down a dark hallway in the motel and I sat down and looked at the menu, quickly realizing that my choices were cod. Cod and chips, cod on a bun, cod tongue, pan fried cod, scruncheons (deep fried salted cod fat cubes).. you get the picture. I settled for cod and chips and a bottle of Black Horse and ate while chatting with a friendly local who turned out to be the brother of the motel owner. Between my state of complete and utter exhaustion and the crazy Newfoundland accent I only understood every third or fourth sentence but I was pretty sure he was telling me he would introduce me to his beautiful niece who the whole town was crazy about. After a while we were joined by the owner, who had earlier checked me in and later cooked my meal and I drifted out of the conversation. Even though I could barely understand their words it was enjoyable to listen the to strange accent and oddly phrased comments between the two as they discussed the everyday business of living in small town Newfoundland.
I stumbled back to my room and lay on the bed with my phone next to my head waiting for 10 o'clock. Finally the workday ended and after 40 hours of flying and driving and working and dealing with the locals who just refused to speak the same language as me I was able to relax, close my eyes and fall asleep.
I had the foresight to ask if the dining room would be open for breakfast and had arranged for eggs and home fries to be served at 8am and so, for the first time in a week arrived at work unaccompanied by stomach moans and gurgles of hunger. Considerably more alert than I was the day before I found myself catching on to the lingo a bit and laughing along with some of the good natured ribbing the store full of 60 year old women I was spending the day with kept tossing at me. It was a good day and by the time I left my cheeks were sore from smiling so much.
I was amazed to discover the local grocery store was still open when I drove by about 7pm and I decided to stop and look for anything that wasn't cod. Without access to a microwave, stove top, or even a coffee maker to heat water I was hoping to buy something that was ready to eat and could actually be placed in a food group other than 'fried'. I left with two brownish bananas, a block of cheese, a small tin of tuna, a bag of pretzels and a 8pk of Black Horse and climbed up into my passenger van for the short drive back to my parents basement rec room, oddly transplanted 35 years later to a motel in a small fishing village in Newfoundland.
A while later I was lying on the bed flipping through the 19 channels on the TV............until...
Through the thin motel walls I could hear the sound of voices coming from somewhere in the motel. not just voices but drinking voices.. drinking Newfoundlander voices- and above all the sound of female voice. I left my pretzels and followed the voices down the dark hallway until I came into a small 'pub'.
Very small.. very very small.
A polished wooden bar stretched the length of three stools in addition to two small tables in the room meaning the place sat a maximum of seven and made it it officially the smallest pub I have ever had the pleasure of patronizing. The owner's brother that I had met the previous night at dinner was seated at one of the tables with his wife and a couple of locals were at the bar. Behind the bar was a drop dead gorgeous blond serving up drinks and stories and raunchy jokes. I took the last seat at the bar and easily struck up a conversation after ordering the local beer. The two guys at the bar worked together and were drinking on the ol' b'ys tab, the ol' b'y being the boss and the quieter of the two. I struggled to keep track of the conversation as I kept an eye and an ear on the blond behind the bar, who had by now been introduced as promised the her uncle who sat behind me. The niece had just come to town from BC and was keeping herself busy at the small pub as she adjusted to life in very rural NFLD. She was the first female under the age of 50 that I had seen since arriving two and she was, ahem..., a very welcome sight. As we took turns buying rounds of beer, I began telling stories about my travels across the country and more recently around 'The Rock'. With a packed house of 6, including the blond, I found myself the center of attention as I talked about far off places that these people would likely never see.
I mentioned towards the end of the night that my one regret about this being my last trip to NFLD was that I had never been 'screetched in'. It seems silly and touristy but it was something that I wanted to do. The ol' b'y started telling me how his grandfather used to give a Newfoundland welcome to mainlanders that was similar to screeching but older than the modern ritual. The bar discussed for a bit whether I had earned the right to the ritual but before I knew it I found myself walking down the road to one of my new friends fishing hut where all the required elements for my screeching were to be found. A surreal night was unfolding I realized as I stood reciting lines from a poem that was English but unrecognizable in a yellow sou'wester and coat drinking shots of dark rum before kissing a mounted stuffed puffin. The three locals had some big laughs at my expense as I drunkenly tried to recite the lines of verse and kiss the bird and take the shot all with just the right amount of respect the ceremony required. The Newfie welcome was a highlight of the entire year and am experience that I hope I never forget. An amazing random moment.
I finished work the last day about noon and headed out of a town. I had awhile before I flew out of Gander and had planned on taking the slightly longer route back to the city, continuing along the Road to the Shore along the north eastern corner of Canada. It was a cold day with a salty wind blowing in from the ocean but it was sunny and I drove slowly following the highway from town to village along the coast, exploring amazingly small settlements along the way. Pound Cove and Deadman's Bay and Musgrave Harbour are quintessential fishing villages with stacks of lobster and crab traps in the driveways and trawlers anchored in the water. Wind and salt blasted wooden houses and fishing huts perch on rocky shores and small islands and outcroppings that have somehow stood the test of time and Mother Nature's harsh winters. I spent an hour or so in Newtown, wandering around the historic living heritage buildings that date back to the original 1850's seal hunting settlers. Change seems to come slowly in that isolated corner of the country and it was easy to imagine the lives of those early immigrants scratching out their lives, hunting and fishing in the days before highways and Google and smartphones replaced letters and instincts and traditional knowledge passed down from father to son and mother to daughter.
The town of less than 300 was quiet and with any public buildings closed for the season I felt a bit like an intruder and moved on after taking a few pictures. Speeding down the highway in my big white van with my belly rumbling after another breakfast and lunch less day. I was on a beeline for Gander when I saw a sign pointing to Cape Freels and I found myself unable to resist one more visit to one more town before my time in Eastern Canada came to an end. I followed a road that quickly turned to hard packed dirt. At the end of the road a sign pointed down a pitted two rut road towards 'Random Passage Trail'.
I couldn't certainly couldn't pass that up, my whole life is based on random passages.
I couldn't certainly couldn't pass that up, my whole life is based on random passages.
That was my last day of exploring, I thought as I drove back to Gander and ate a greasy meal at the small airport diner. The project that had employed me for the last year was now complete and my days of travelling had come to an end. I was heading home for the last time A sense of melancholy had come over me at the beach in Cape Freels that now felt heavy and hard to shake as I walked across the cold tarmac and boarded the plane. I kept my eyes closed, resting my head against the window as we taxied onto the runway and climbed into the clouds, hoping to sleep but unable to get the scenes of the day out of my head.
I smiled, pulled out my camera and started taking pictures and I didn't stop until the light had gone out, wanting to record each second so as not to forget a single moment.
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