A Connection is Made.

A Grand Time.

Tokyo, Japan —Touching down at Haneda Airport, I rub my hands anxiously at the prospect of having only two hours between connecting flights.
 
The hands of time spin, too.

Kelin had graciously offered to guide me by train to terminal three for the long journey home, but we have our wires crossed and he's nowhere to be found. With the recent state of the world's airports – long lines, constant delays, mounting frustrations, backlogs and cancelled flights – I choose instead to say a quick goodbye to the team and hustle off to catch the bus on my own.

Slower, sure, but easier to navigate at this point, particularly after last night’s wrap-up celebrations at Nagi – featuring more than a dozen Okinawan dishes, including SPAM sushi, and bottomless drinks – followed by somehow making it to the 3 a.m. last call at the Grand Line.
 
I needn’t have worried: the efficiency of Japan’s airports is something to behold.
 
Nineteen minutes later, I’ve arrived at the terminal, scanned my passport, cleared security, waved a couple papers at indifferent officials who barely looked up from their conversation and arrived at my gate.
 
Fifteen minutes of that time was the bus ride.

Interlude.

history sighs – along the beach, okinawa, japan

Heavy guns grunt
a still-living oral history
over the waves
and over the graves.

Power is unforgotten
amidst mountains
with shoulders stooped
in a culture
that does not forgive
failure.

Today, the guns still thunder
like a belch at the dinner table.

2022.10.21

it is written – okinawa, japan

History is written in the waves:
muffled letters scattered
in the ripples.

The hands have continued
to turn,
scooping up less
with each year.

But history is written
in the waves.

2022.10.20

No Words.

Breath, exhaled with each ripple.

Fuji, in a Gasp of Breath.

Orderly, in quieter times.

Tokyo, Japan — The train’s windows serve as frames of film on fast forward as we take in our final showing of Tokyo.

Jerking around a corner, we look up.

In a blink, Mount Fuji rises majestically between buildings. And then, is gone.

It’s rush hour and we’re crammed into the busiest cars we’ve seen all week. It doesn’t help that we’re on our way to Haneda Airport and have our bags with us. 

Up next: Okinawa.

I’m wedged between men in dark suits and a pole, attempting to be Pélé while corralling the suit bag at my feet. This morning, it’s far easier to imagine how seven million passengers trace these rails every day.

The city is so big it must be the only way.

Tomorrow, there will be snow.

The train lines are a marvel once you become more comfortable with them. But they’re not without their quirks and problems. It’s not uncommon, for example, to see women-only cars during rush hour given a history of wandering hands.

My favourite, though, is if a train is even the slightest bit late, station staff bow to passengers in apology and hand out train delay certificates to take to your boss or teacher. 

Punctuality is serious business. Even a train that left 20 seconds early received an official apology.

Now, for a change of pace: Okinawa only has 1.5 million residents.

Wide-Eyed.

More red light than we're comfortable with.

Tokyo, Japan – Anime eyes with pastel outlines stare down from outsized billboards.

Rings, dings and heavy drumbeats rise from basement arcades housing cartoonish stuffed animals in glass cases. Electronic claws dangle ominously overhead.

We’ve come expecting ornate swirls of neon set against the darkness, but the streets of Akihabara Electric Town are desolate. 

Loose papers cartwheel like modern-day tumbleweeds.

Sidewalks of the shopping district known for anime, manga, video games and electronics are instead lined by young women in short skirts and sailor outfits. Apparently, the area is also known for its maid cafés and hostess clubs.

While most of it is apparently innocent cosplay, it doesn’t take us long to see the Lolita fashion as an irreconcilable difference in culture.

For our group of middle-aged men, it’s Game Over.

Unfollowed.

Tokyo, Japan — We were treated to a generous, yet extremely rushed visit to the Miraikan National Museum of Emerging Science and Innovation this morning.

I was particularly struck by the Mission Survival: 10 billion exhibit, which includes a massive shake table that launches marbles of various sizes into the city to demonstrate the vast impact of various threats to our survival. Even with the doom and gloom, it's science communication at its finest.

This, however, will forever haunt my dreams.

I'm Not Lion.

History lesson in a time capsule. With beer.

Tokyo, Japan — An elderly Japanese man staggers to the table, poking around our bench. He has obviously poured himself into his stein.

And now, his wallet is nowhere to be found.

The din of Ginza Lion Beer Hall is both aural and visual: green-tiled columns rise like fists set against red brick walls, framing a large glass tile mural of women harvesting barley. Stoic fountains stand sentry on the bar beneath bright fall leaves that have been windswept by laughter.

Frosted glass bulbs fall from the ceiling like bubbles.

Wooden chairs crunch against the floor as new groups of revellers order plates of pretzels and thin sausages to sop up the hefty glasses of straw- and peat-coloured lagers. A nearby table of men is far more animated than anyone I’ve seen in the city so far.

Revving up for a night in Ginza.

German beer hall kitsch to attract foreigners, maybe?

It turns out Ginza Lion Beer Hall is, in fact, the real deal. One of the few buildings to survive the bombings of WWII, it’s the country's oldest beer hall and has been slinging beer in trendy, upscale Ginza since 1934. It has also recently been designated as a Registered Tangible Cultural Property of Japan.

It's staggering how little it has changed since it first opened.

Having spent two-and-a-half hours commuting to and from the National Astronomical Observatory of Japan today, I hadn’t planned to go back out tonight. But good company, history and beer made the decision a wise one. So much for my edict to only eat Japanese food while I’m here.

Then again, this is obviously enough of an institution that it’s close enough.

In a Jam.

Tokyo, Japan — With a satisfying ‘snap,’ success.

Japan is renowned for simple and functional design. I’m loving these small marmalade packages, which allow you to trace a perfect bead over sweet croissants once you fold them in half.

Particularly useful given the lack of knives.

King Tsutaramen.

Suica card charge, charge, recharge.

Tokyo, Japan – The coloured lines of the subway system fall before me like pick-up sticks.

 

It’s a dizzying blur of people, pastry shops and options.

 

Each of the seven major private railway companies in Tokyo is assigned a colour and a two-letter code. When the lines continue seamlessly like a rainbow, the code can be relatively easy to decipher.  

When they don’t, you might find yourself walking several blocks to a competitor’s station of the same name. Or, in my case, to the wrong competitor’s station of the same name in the completely opposite direction. 

There are so many destinations wrapped up in these bright ribbons that flow through the city like the neon signs hanging over the streets above. In Shinagawa Station, I, for the longest time, find only platforms (there are 20), and neither of the two exits. 

Sometimes it’s easy to understand why I walk. 

For Pete's sake.

And walk I did: first to Meiji Shrine and nearly up to Shinjuku City for ramen at Tsuta Ramen, the first Michelin-starred ramen restaurant (first earned in 2015 but lost in 2020). At approximately $15, I figure it's worth the walk for my first ramen and first Michelin-starred restaurant. 

I arrive to a white steel shutter, fallen to the ground like a long metal gown. The internet says it’s open, but the gate giving me the cold shoulder says otherwise. 

I can’t read the sign taped to it, but imagine it says they've sold out for the day.

Back to Harajuku station to pick up more colours for my ride home.

Towering.

Sky, tree.

Tokyo, Japan – The sun finally breaks through the knotty black pines as we make our way past Tokyo Tower and through the grounds of the Imperial Palace. 

Following an overcast morning, I figure this might be my best chance to see Mount Fuji, so I turn my map to Tokyo Skytree, the world’s tallest tower, at 634 metres. 

It’s a 40-minute train ride away, which should really give me an idea of how large this city is. To this point, I’ve been more surprised by how incredibly clean and quiet everything is than by the size or the pace.

It’s disorienting: I still haven’t heard a single siren, street racer or car horn – not even anyone yelling. It’s hard to imagine more than 14 million people live here. Or, incredibly, that a population nearly equal to Canada's 38 million can be found in the Tokyo Metro area.

Lego, scattered across the floor.

That is, until you climb Tokyo Skytree. 

The illusion evaporates into miles of city stretching into the clouds in all directions. It's as though endless Lego bricks are stacked onto each other, scarred by a gauzy web of roads, neon and the Arakawa River. 

But Fuji-San is bashful today, cloaked in a mist of mystique, fog and distance.

Dusk begins its slow descent and the city transforms again. I’m lost in the mess of train lines and stations and opt to abandon the final rails home out of frustration, choosing instead to walk the final hour home.

But I’ve certainly not cheated myself on my first day: 22 kilometres by foot and twice that by train. 

Take that, jetlag.

Sashimi and You.

How it started.

Tokyo, Japan – A hand-painted menu is placed on our table like a piece of art we cannot understand.

A carafe of green tea follows.

While the flourish of black kanji holds the solution to our hunger, Google Translate can only give us “sea bream.” 

We shrug and point, our server similarly unsure of what we’re trying to order. But he’s eager to please. 

Having wrapped up my morning visiting Harajuku and seeing the cosplay and fashion kids lined up outside pastel-coloured crepe shops, I’ve come downtown to meet colleagues from London for the first time. 

How it's going.

Naturally, I’ve travelled around the world to have lunch with people who work across the street. 

Being open to eating anything is helpful, but we audibly sigh as elegant bowls of miso soup and of rice, topped with fresh sashimi, arrive at our table. Delicate threads of nori are perched on top like tail feathers.

It is, unsurprisingly, delicious – in a way you don’t need language to describe.

Scrambled Legs.

Why did 3,000 people cross the road?

Tokyo, Japan – The city’s sidewalks unfurl before me like the rolls of paper I hope to fill with my memories. 

Here, they’re endless and orderly, even if my thoughts aren’t after 28 hours of travel.

Having arrived last night, curiosity and limited time to explore the city now carry me into the residential and business areas that have traditionally allowed me to disappear and to stand out alike. 

At my height, staying hidden may be more of a challenge in Japan. 

As people pass, they say sweet-sounding things into air that smells suspiciously of gummi bears. I’m not able to place the source, but Katsura trees are known to emit a scent of cotton candy or burnt sugar in the fall. 

Gotta catch 'em all.

I nod and smile behind my mask, unknowing. Japan only opened its borders two days ago and masks are still worn everywhere.

From Ōimachi, I wind through Shinagawa City and up to the famous Shibuya Crossing, which, as the world’s busiest intersection, peaks at 3,000 people streaming across it each minute. It’s Saturday morning and less busy today as I fall into step, criss-crossing the scramble several times just for the fun of it.

As the walk signal fades, the streets clear, a couple final stragglers sprinting like black birds separated from the flock.

Orderly, but with outliers.

Drive-by Bye.

London, ON — The darkness of night suddenly swirled in blue and red, the silence of a quiet evening shattered by sirens and high-revving engines.

Connecticut Avenue had become a police disco.

Had someone hit a cyclist? The response, within minutes, of more than a dozen police cars and fire trucks wailed of great tragedy.

Little did we know.

Behind our hotel, four men had jumped out of a carjacked Alfa Romeo and fired more than 50 rounds — including with a semi-automatic rifle — in a targeted killing that also left a bystander with significant injuries. My partner had walked past the spot 20 minutes earlier. I had been there a couple hours prior, and countless times before.

When I first started coming to Washington D.C. more than 30 years ago, it was understood you had to be careful to not cross the wrong streets or you could suddenly end up in a bad area. Having walked through much of the city since, I’ve never felt unsafe.

Row, row, row.

And, despite being the site of an assassination attempt on President Ronald Reagan in 1981, the area around the Washington Hilton hardly qualifies as bad.

Violent crime and homicide have increased steadily in the district in recent years, though, reaching rates unseen in 20 years. It’s immediately obvious more people are experiencing homelessness than when I was there last. The pandemic cannot have helped.

Having spent the day driving home, we have been left reflecting on change, on life, on equity. And on a love I still have for D.C.

Vitals:

• Time: 12 hours
• Distance: 969.3 kms
• Province/States: Washington D.C., Maryland, Pennsylvania, New York, Ontario
  
• Weather: Sunny and mild
• Wildlife: A panic-stricken coyote, struck by a car and unable to move its legs

Column Maybe.

Capital I, Capital I, Capitol I.

Washington, DC — With each swing of my arms, I water the plants dotting narrow gardens that extend like long, manicured fingers from colourfully painted homes.

Sun flits through the leaves, casting shadows that slow dance across the sidewalk like awkward sixth-graders, languid and tentative. It’s that hot. Even first thing in the morning, the air folds its grasp around my lungs.

It’s a greenhouse.

But I push on through Truxton Circle and NoMa, past Union Market and on to Ivy City. I've been through prettier, and apparently much safer, parts of the city. 

Arriving at the United States National Arboretum, my reddened face is in stark contrast to all the green.

Twenty-two Corinthian sandstone columns rise before me like chess pieces, seemingly misplaced in a vast meadow buzzing with crickets. I have come across the final resting place for most of the original columns of the United States Capitol.

Built in 1826, they served as the backdrop for countless historical events, including Presidential inaugurations from 1829 to 1957 — Andrew Jackson to Dwight Eisenhower. Now, they stand solemnly, a human creation set in nature, whispering stories amidst the low rustle of leaves.

Fitness, stubbornness and a love of exploring still have me walking everywhere. 

At 41 degrees, however, this may not have been the wisest day to hike 23 kilometres.

But my reward: top-notch beers at Other Half Brewing.

Czech Mark.

Will that be Visa or Mastercard?

Washington, DC — Beer? Check. Cheese? Check.

Embassy visit? Czech.

It may not be my conference, but I'm not often afforded opportunities to attend receptions at embassies. Think of the stories! Unsurprisingly, it doesn't take much convincing for me to tag along this evening. 

I’m still an Uber newbie, though, and am a little surprised when a Tesla pulls up. I fumble about the recessed handles, not entirely sure how to open the streamlined door. When I finally do, the dash-mounted screen blips with cars and pedestrians caught in the radar as they cross in front of us.

Space Invaders has come a long way.

Na Zdraví!

We wind through green hills in the north end of the city and slalom down a curvy road into which a few embassies have tucked themselves. My glasses dim with fog as I arrive at the gate framing the Embassy of the Czech Republic. Everyone files though security but me.

My passport is in another car.

We’re greeted with local Czech-style beer and wine, plates of cheeses and meats, and goulash with dumplings. Beef, salmon, pasta and salads. It’s a nice spread in a room lined with an inordinate number of nude sculptures and paintings.

We’re told that the grounds are largely devoid of flat spaces to prevent people from jumping out of windows in attempts to escape with information. Lessons learned, apparently.

Despite the conviviality, all I can think of as I look around the room at everyone eating and drinking without masks is the all-too-reality that someone here has COVID and is passing it around. I regret for a moment deciding this was a story I wanted to experience.

But there’s no escaping now.

(Postscript: COVID was indeed present and several attendees have since become sick.)

Signs of the Times.

Trucker convoy seems to have stalled.

Washington, DC — The sky blushes bashfully through a wispy veil as we leave the country for the first time in three years.

It’s an early start that’s reminiscent of our recent drives in Newfoundland.

We had rented a compact car, but have instead been "upgraded" to an eight-seat Toyota 4Runner. What a beast — good thing gas is now $1.74 a litre.

I'm made claustrophobic by the size of the vehicle and the narrow, curving construction lanes, which force me to narrow my eyes in focus. I reflexively try to make myself skinny as we pass 18-wheelers.

Remains of blown tires curl like sheep horns at the side of the road.

The drive is stunning, as it usually is. In Pennsylvania, otherwise beautiful green hills are scarred by trailers scrawled with Trump campaign endorsements. Some look like children have taken crayons to them.

"Guns! Coal! No socialism!" 

Civics teachers everywhere cringe.

Another billboard with a sleeping woman touts: "Sleep well. There is no climate emergency."

I ponder that as I take my customary walk, in 44-degree heat, to ChurchKey, where I have one of the best beers I've ever had. Despite my exhaustion, it's worth the pilgrimage to the city's best beer bar and to have a cheese plate.

As the day closes, I chuckle at the best directions we received from the GPS today: “Turn left at the white building with the pillars.”

Yes, that rather significant white building in DC.

Vitals:

• Time: 11 hours
• Distance: 976.8 kms
• Weather: Fog, giving way to a mix of sun and cloud. Short, light rain.
• Province/States: Ontario, New York, Pennsylvania, Maryland, Washington D.C.
  
• Wildlife: Deer

Grounded.

A bright day with a foggy future.

St. John’s, NL – Fog falls fast at Little Heart’s Ease, appearing below us like a glacier clinging to the hills. 

Stripped of life by hungry moose, the grey remains of trees stand like whale ribs. At Come by Chance, idyllic landscapes are whitewashed like memories. Tree lines are sketched out in charcoal over water that melts into the clouds.

Quirky names in Newfoundland add to its charm. Even for Random Island and Nameless Cove, where they seem to have given up trying.

Much like Air Canada, it seems.

At least we returned to Bannerman.

It turns out that our flight home is cancelled, leaving us with a bonus day in St. John’s. As we make our way back downtown, we're amazed at how much has changed in a week as the city prepares for Canada Day festivities and for the tourist season.

New patios have been built and new restaurants have opened. There’s a buzz of activity around George Street and security or buskers dot most corners. Most of all, there are people everywhere, in stark contrast from last week.

We were offered a night here or at Toronto Pearson International Airport, where massive delays have left people without bags, hotels or options to get home. Seems like a no-brainer.

The only catch: we need to be at the airport by 3:30 a.m. tomorrow.

(Postscript: We made it to Toronto and had our connecting flight cancelled for four more days. With Air Canada so busy their lines wouldn’t even accept calls, we found alternate travel home. But, we are among the fortunate ones.)

Rolling on The Rock.

Our time on The Rock is setting.

Clarenville, NL – Blackflies ping off our vehicle with such frequency and ferocity we think it’s raining. 

Our bumper is furry.
 
We have begun our return home by slaloming between potholes: a roadtrip version of whack-a-mole. Or at least whack-a-mile.

A cinematic beauty continues to play across the windscreen: a Lite Brite of yellow and orange wildflowers breaking up various shades of green along the highway.

Leaning over the gas pump in Gander, I chat with a man who played hockey for the London Knights in the 1960s. Even in Newfoundland, London is a small town.

But he wouldn't recognize the city, or the team, now.

Fjord (Pinto).

Pissing Mare Falls. (Hey, I don't pick the names.)

Shoal Cove, NL – By the time we arrive for our hike into Western Brook Pond, the mountains have been erased.

It's the first time I've had to wear my raincoat this trip.

In fact, the winds are so strong across Jerry's Pond that small waves curl into whitecaps and crash into the short scrub. As the Western Brook gorge acts as a funnel, it's common for winds to reach 100 kilometres an hour.

Our captains aren't even sure our boat tour of the inland fjord will take place. But they decide to give it a go and we soon find ourselves surrounded by 2,000-foot cliffs. 

Large rocks at the bottom are the remains of former mountaintops.

Gorge-ous.

The northernmost section of the Appalachian Mountains, Western Brook Pond has been carved by glaciers and is now filled with pristine freshwater that is 575 feet at its deepest. When the glaciers melted as recently as 8,000 years ago, the earth shifted, cutting off access to the ocean.

As such, Western Brook Pond is technically no longer a fjord.

Moving into the lake, the skies turn blue. It's as though we've wiped an Etch A Sketch and exposed a new drawing. The sun shines on rock previously hidden under a woolen cap, exposing a new dimension of beauty.

Suddenly, the mountains are a lot taller.

The other boat drops three hikers off for a three-day backcountry hike to Gros Morne Mountain, which can be seen 48 miles away on a clear day. It was once a key landmark for sailors.

"They won't make it," our guide quips.

 "Too many bears and blackflies."

Carrying the Mantle.

The irony is not lost.

Shoal Cove, NL – As we carved through the Viking Trail this morning, the temperature dropped nine degrees in two minutes. 

A lone caribou loped along the flat terrain.

This has been a journey of small adventures matched by changing landscapes: crooked trees bent under the weight of ocean winds; smooth rock faces rising into sharp plateaus; and brightly painted fishing villages shrugging off the fog. 

The province's geology, and reminders of its role in the formation of continents, have been constant. Today provides one of the best examples – a short story in our trip that’s 500-million years in the making.

We have arrived under a melting sun at The Tablelands in Gros Morne National Park, where we're faced by mountains of rusted stone that remind me of graham cracker crumbs. Even in the heat, the hills remain snow-capped. 

A stream bleeds from all the iron.

It's one of the few places in the world you can readily walk on the Earth's mantle – the layer of rock that exists below the Earth’s crust. It's our planet, turned partially inside-out.

The landscape here is barren less because of the weather than for the metal content of the rock – peridotite – which pushed itself to the surface as ancient continents collided a half-billion years ago. Still, tiny purple flowers creeps skyward like dainty boutonnieres. And meat-eating pitcher plants find their own ways to survive.

I won't be the first to describe it as walking on Mars.

A Fluke.

Light the way.

Quirpon Island, NL – Sheer rockfaces angle sharply to the ocean, towering over rounded hills painted in shades of ochre, sand and olive green. Wild sage lingers in the air.

It’s a beautiful day for a hike. 

Each step is either a crunch over spongey, dry muskeg or a discomforting sink into moist peat. Hiking shoes or rubber boots are a must.

Everything seems to have been blown off the towering plateaus, which are punctuated by dark pools and endless views. The harshness of the climate is written across everything. 

With warmth, however: resilience. Mounds of flowering Moss campion resemble vintage women's hats. Lichens and sub-Arctic ground flowers grasp to life between the molars of rock hewn by wind and time.

I don't think we're in Kansas anymore.

In the distance, we see a new, small iceberg, tucked into a cove. From the top of the hill, we can see five – all of which have moved significant distances from where they were yesterday.

Given the perfect visibility, and a quiet that has descended upon the island with all but two couples leaving this morning, we had contemplated another tour on the Zodiac. Instead, we're watching seals and at least a dozen whales frolic right off the shore.

Summiting the hill behind the lighthouse, we see the orange boat sitting in the bay. With a huge sigh and spray, a humpback dives right beside it, flipping its tail over the boat.

Despite a glorious hike, we're now questioning our decision.

No Words.

 

Home for a rest.

Flippin' the Berg.

Ready for takeoff.

Quirpon Island, NL – The Zodiac bounces aggressively over the waves as we round the island's steep, rock-lined coast. It's nice to be on the water after a few days in the car.

It helps that the sky is endlessly blue. 

Our pilot, Ed, asks if we'd like to stay aboard for a tour once we drop the other passengers off for our stay at the Quirpon Lighthouse Inn. We're at the mouth of Newfoundland's iceberg alley and there's no guarantee of weather.

Each year, approximately 400-800 icebergs of various sizes and shapes make the trek down here from Greenland, prior to melting farther down the coast. For us, this will be a unique opportunity.

Pulling back out into open water, it's not long before there's a collective gasp.

Cubes in the drink.

Rising above us is a massive tabular iceberg nicknamed "The Runway," which was more than 500 metres long as recently as two weeks ago. It has split down the middle and melted a bit since, but the awe is real.

Who'd have thought a 10,000-year-old chunk of ice could generate such excitement?

A splash of turquoise beneath the bluish-white berg hints at the massive structure still underwater. Ice chunks that have broken off bob in our wake. 

In all, we see six different icebergs of varying sizes.

As we turn back to the shore, we take one last look at The Runway and notice something is off. Half of it has flipped upside down.

Looking at the time stamps on our cameras, there was a one-minute period between photos where nobody noticed it happen. No noise; no big splash. Just a new view.

Tomorrow, it will be gone altogether, having floated off to sea.

Norse Code.

The real Viking trail.

L’Anse aux Meadows, NL – The ground is mounded in dashes and dots, like Morse code: long-short, short-long-short. 

They trace the thousand-year history of the Vikings at L’Anse aux Meadows – the remains of foundations of eight structures, including homes, a blacksmith shop and a woodworking facility from the 11th century. And they tell the history of the first European contact, and only proven Norse Settlement, in North America.

Laying at the northern tip of Newfoundland, the UNESCO World Heritage Site is home to replica sod buildings that offer an interactive opportunity to see how the village may have looked. It's obvious they would have needed good insulation at the face of the North Atlantic.

It's a beautiful, rugged archaeological site made more significant by its place in the history of human migration.

As we leave the park, a bull moose grazes in the meadow. 

It's our second of the day, having had one amble alongside the road as I came around a corner into St. Lunaire-Griquet. The search for a wild moose has been a recurring theme – and joke – for my family, and in this blog, for 20 years.

I'm really quite glad I didn't drive off the road in excitement.

Shored Up.

Part of the drive that rocked.

Forrester’s Point, NL – Sunshine dissolves into puddles, filling ruts left by logging trucks.

The steering wheel jerks each time I hit a flowing channel, threatening to have me hydroplane into the ditch. Driving in the middle of a road pitted by potholes carries its own risks.

As if there isn't enough to worry about on this isolated stretch of The Viking Trail.

With that, what was setting itself up as a top-five drive of all time through Gros Morne National Park fades into a distance I can no longer see. Throughout the morning, reflected clouds had melted into lakes in a stunning, but brooding, beauty.

Moving farther north, snow-scarred mountains flatten into caribou lands bathed in beige and grey. Short trees lean drunkenly, stripped and windswept into pompadours. It’s a geography borne of violence as continents split apart. 

The tides have turned.

This violence continues today with harsh winters and North Atlantic winds.

But, by evening, we have calm and a clear view of the ocean. Our bed and breakfast backs right on to the shore, which is covered in perfectly cracked rocks. Our hosts have had to take the four-hour drive south to Cornerbrook and won't be back until late.

“The door is unlocked – just go in and make yourselves at home.”

Welcome to Newfoundland.

Taking a Gander.

A little plain.

Deer Lake, NL — The clocks seem to slow as we wind across the province, rising and descending into geographies of prehistoric times.

I may have finally started to wind down, too.  

Rock draped in fir, spruce and thatches of birch rises into hardened tabletops as we veer into hills that carry with them alternating flickers of light rain and sunshine. At 28 degrees, it’s far warmer than expected.

The highway is lit by wild lupine, rising from the soil like thin, purple pinecones. It's a driving day and we only make one stop. 

Gander has an interesting aviation history given trans-Atlantic flights and its strategic position during the Second World War. It also notably welcomed 38 planes grounded in the aftermath of 9/11. 

Almost immediately, the town nearly doubled in size. 

Old planes lay silent outside the North Atlantic Aviation Museum, their tired propellers having lost much of their skin. Time seems to have abandoned these old workhorses to a field of weeds, rather than a field of dreams.

Today's journey is only a 600-kilometre drive over six-and-a-half hours, but I'm out of practice. And the moose watch persists.

Still nothing.

Flown the Coop.

Like a lance in the veil.

Dildo, NL – As we leave the city, I find myself needing to retrain my eyes, which dart from shade of green to shade of green.

The pine trees all seem to have antlers. In short, the great hunt for moose continues.

As we're ahead of schedule and were able to pick our rental car up early, we decide to drop into and out of the fog to visit Cape Spear – the easternmost point of North America.

Twin lighthouses – the oldest constructed in 1836 – play hide-and-seek as we scramble over rock and short scrub.

Huffin' and Puffin.

It's eerily quiet, apart from the metronome of the foghorn, which dissolves into the mist like the white picket fence framing the old lighthouse. Even the waves crashing below are swallowed by the hem of the large grey gown hanging over us.

As we pull away, however, the sun eliminates any whisper of the weather behind us.

Pulling in to Bay Bulls, rock stretches into the sea with an endless number of fingers. Dolphins dart through the waves in harmony and humpback whales twist around the boat, their white patches seeming to fluoresce in a turquoise slick. They trumpet an exaltation before arcing their backs and descending back into the darkness.

Hitchcockian.

Around Gull Island, the air buzzes as though it is filled with insects.

We're surrounded by a half-million birds, which cling to the cliffs and carve elegant patterns in the air like pepper flakes caught on the breeze. Several appear to skip along the waves like like stones tossed from shore.

Atlantic Puffins emerge from their burrows, the orange of their beaks a stark contrast to cliffs plastered by Murres, Terns, Gulls and Kittwakes. 

We have been offered a reward for spotting whales prior to the guide or captain. GK wins a beer.

With her third, she is offered a job.

Humbled.

The starting point of something much bigger.

St. John’s, NL – Standing toward the end of the port at the edge of downtown, I blame the rain for the wetness streaming down my face.

I am not being entirely honest.

Sure, the grey day spent walking to Memorial University has dissolved into warm showers, but arriving at mile zero of Terry Fox's Marathon of Hope has hit me unexpectedly hard.

Is there a more heroic Canadian?

I have been very fortunate to not have been disproportionately affected by cancer, but I cannot help but reflect on legacy. And on the power of humanity – or of goodness – at a time in our history where empathy so often feels to be in short supply.

One person's will and actions can indeed change the world. Planning to run across the country, the 22-year-old Fox hoped to support cancer research by raising one dollar for each of Canada's 24 million inhabitants.

On an artificial leg.

Fox's journey was ultimately suspended outside Thunder Bay, ON when cancer reached his lungs – after running more than 5,300 kilometres through weather conditions of all kinds.

Today, his legacy is carried on through the annual Terry Fox Run, which has raised nearly a billion dollars for cancer research through events held around the world. Sometimes, we just need to take the first step.

A little rain is nothing; neither are tears.

Quidi Vidi Vici.

Fished out.

St. John’s, NL – Fog hangs over the hills, greeting us like an old fisherman’s wool sweater.

Jagged greys blend into greens and browns before falling into the lake, where brightly coloured boathouses dot the landscape like wind-blown flowers.

The breathy fog is our only companion as we hike through the hills overlooking the tiny village of Quidi Vidi and toward the wide open mouth of the ocean. We are kissed by the mist and bathed in the aroma of wild sage.

I want to take as big a bite of the scenery as the wind takes of us.

Each upward stride is a reminder of how glad we are to have had a substantial breakfast at Bagel Café, which included a traditional Newfoundland touton – a pancake-like fried dough accompanied by baked beans, molasses and eggs. Soon, we'll have moose taquitos in the village.

I suppose pot is now legal in Canada.

Rounded rocks smoothed by the ocean are tattooed by fibrous roots – raised scars seeking to snatch our ankles in their grasp. Mine gasp at the exertion as they twist over loose stones and dart around jagged crevices. 

Below, plank pathways shrug into the bog.

Looking down past dabs of colour muted in the light rain, the stone face draws a path toward a small dock peppered by lobster pots. A Union Jack stands stiff.

The silence is interrupted by an angry gull and by the waves, which lower their shoulders into the cliffs, shaping and reshaping the terrain over time.

I am at peace staring into an emptiness that is, at the same time, everything.

Adjusting the Signal.

I like to stand out; I'll use beige.

St. John’s, NL – The sun shines brightly over colourful row houses, stacked into the hills like Rubik's Cubes.

Turquoise doors framed in purple stand sentry against canary yellow siding, offering a visual cue that the area's weather is typically grey. A neighbour, made up in mint with orange frames seems to wink knowingly.

Following a fantastic Thai-inspired dinner at Bannerman Brewing Co., we hike to the top of the Signal Hill National Historic Site for views across St. John's and the Atlantic Ocean. Home to the city's defences since the 17th century, Signal Hill is so named for its place in history as the site where, in 1901, the first trans-Atlantic wireless signal was received.

It's a landmark that quite literally rises above others in the area.

Ironically, no Wi-Fi.

As a dark fog curls and unfurls over the hills, we see how quickly even the brightest of colours can be muted. In a whisper of a moment, the heat is similarly subdued.

Following a two-and-a-half-year pandemic-induced grounding, travel's rhythm has come rushing back with the force of takeoff. It's a tentative fist step back.

And yet, so much is the same: Air Canada cancelled our London-Toronto flight, leaving us to draw a new piece to re-complete the puzzle we have laid out for the next couple weeks. Some things never change.

If nothing else, travel requires flexibility, creativity and patience. And sometimes a Dad who's willing to drive you two hours to the airport at 4:30 a.m.

It is Father's Day, after all.

(Thank you, thank you, thank you.)