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.