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.)