A Jewel.

Footfalls.

Niagara Falls, ON – Even as it rattles through my bones, the crash of a fifth of the world's fresh water leaves me stilled, in awe.

It's deceptive in its emerald shimmer, rolling off the lip of the falls and spitting diamonds, caught in the sunlight.

I've been coming to Niagara Falls since I was a child and it continues to amaze, even as the area balloons in kitsch to accommodate an unceasing flow of tourists. But it's all about the natural wonder: so many mouths agape, like the Horseshoe Falls themselves.

Aboard the Hornblower, we dissolve into the mist, ruby-red ponchos inflating like comic book characters. I stand humbled beneath the torrent, swirling in the power of nature. Spray blows rainbows across the bow.

For the first time, we visit the Niagara Parks Power Station. Built in 1905, it was the first major power plant built on the Canadian side of the falls. It's now a beautiful museum that wears the history of electric power on its sleeve. Drips lead to a roar as we make our way down the 2,200-foot tunnel that once carried water away from the turbines.

We emerge beneath the falls. It's a vantage I've never had.

And it's spellbinding.

A Grey Time.

A blank page unfolds before me.

La Malbaie, QC – Greys slip into nothingness.

As we set out to the mainland, the air swells with pregnant fog. It's like peering through wax paper as the boat pushes into folded waves. Ripples vanish even before they form.

We've joined a group of daytrippers for a tour to Île Nue de Mingan, which sprouts with nature's flowerpots. It's a stone chessboard laid bare by high winds. Beauty, in nakedness.

Botticelli would be proud. 

It's a nice, free trip where we're somehow the only ones not sporting bright red lifejackets – until the horrified captain notices us shivering. An Indigenous member of the tour picks a stick up off the stone beach and tells us it has come from the mainland. It's been gnawed by a beaver.

And there are none here.

Unfortunately, what's gnawing at me now is that we have to cover 1,800 kilometres by the end of day tomorrow.

And we don't reach our car until near noon.

Vitals:

• Time: 8 hours
• Distance: 668.9 kms
• Province: Québec
• Weather: Fog, burning off into beauty
• Wildlife: Porcupine 

No Words.

Seeing the light.

The Gulf Course.

Isolated, in the best possible way.

Île aux Perroquets, QC – Far off in the water, a rock smudges the horizon.

The lighthouse atop is barely visible.

We're waiting for a yellow boat, affectionately named Moutarde, to take us there for the next couple days. A beluga spouts near shore, only increasing my excitement.

Then, the low hum of a small outboard motor.

For five kilometres, we brace ourselves against swollen waves – it has stormed the past couple days and snowed only a few weeks ago.

As we approach Île aux Perroquets, a raft of sea lions nod. Puffins and razorbills (here, "petits pingouins") whir overhead in a spectacle of rapidly shifting dots and dashes – a welcome in Morse code.

As our luck has it, we're the only guests on the island for both days.

CliffsNotes on effective takeoffs.

Our hosts are incredibly hospitable, creating delicious homemade meals from local ingredients: haskap berries, seafood and freshly baked croissants. And always, too much dessert. 

As it's part of the Mingan Archipelago National Park Reserve, tourists visit during the day. But by 4:30, it's just us. Emboldened, thousands of birds drop from the cliffs in batches, peppering the sky in a search for dinner. Sea lions bark roughly from Île Nue, slightly to the east.

Puffins extend their orange feet, fluttering furiously as they land – standing – in holes etched into the cliffs by their shell-like beaks.

With tourists gone, they've come out to play. It's a feathery fireworks finale.

And the sun sets like a flock of flamingos, aflight.

Vitals:

• Time: 35 minutes
• Distance: 51 kms
• Province: Québec
• Weather: Overcast and cold
• Wildlife: Beluga spout, sea lions and countless birds, including puffins

Thunder Run.

The Golden Rule.

Rivière-au-Tonnerre, QC – Needles shed by windswept pines stitch together La Route des Baleines in north-eastern Québec.

Despite hours slaloming the coast, we see no whales. Nor moose, which diamond-shaped signs warn us of at regular intervals. For me, tradition holds.

It is, however, a beautiful-beyond-words drive through the jagged curves of mountains, which open their arms into countless lakes and into the St. Lawrence. Blues touch fingers with the horizon. 

I'm not sure I've taken a more stunning roadtrip east of the Rockies.

At one point, we comment about the lack of tunnels chiselled into the rock. One immediately appears around the next corner. I downshift. We try the same with moose.

Nothing.

On a roll in Sept-Îles.

Our only stop is at Casse-croûte du Pêcheur, in Sept-Îles. There, we have a lobster roll in a restaurant shaped like a giant, kitschy lobster pot. It's nicely toasted and tasty, but contains too much filler. 

Arriving at L'Escale Lam-Air is like stepping into a 1950's-era seaside motel. And I mean that in the best possible way. A Post-it note tells us our key is in the door to the room. We're well beyond cellular service and tourist season hasn't yet started – the hotel doesn't have full-time staff.

In other words: a great place for vacation.

We step off our back porch onto soft sand and over massive rocks filled with fossils, including one of a full fish. Gulls squawk, but we otherwise settle into silence before cracking a crab-flavoured beer. 

The sun set sets in glowing amber through the windows of Saint-Hippolyte church and upon a day filled with more beauty than expected.

But, still no whales.

Vitals:

• Time: 10 hours, 8 minutes
• Distance: 591.2 kms
• Province: Québec
• Weather: Sunny and warm
• Wildlife: None

Seeing the Forest and the Trees.

U-Bear Eats.

Sacré-Coeur, QC – Raindrops have been redrawn as mosquitoes.

As we make our way into the forest, a shape-shifting black cloud swallows the air in front of us. They tattoo our skin. 

It has been a pleasant day spent on a pair of ferries, including in the stunning Saguenay Fjord. Home for the night, though, is at Canopée Lit, in a cabin set high in the trees. It's equipped with a small kitchen, a separate bathroom and a birdhouse, which hangs from a rope.

Come morning, it will be hoisted up to us, holding a toolbox filled with breakfast.

But for now, we bask in the contentment of laying back and staring at the stars through the half-dome skylight, tree branches brushing gently against it like a cat. Silence and peace. 

Apart from the low, insistent buzz of one last, unseen mosquito.

Vitals: 

• Time: 2 hours, 15 minutes
• Distance: 66.7 kms
• Province: Québec
• Weather: Fog, lifting, giving way to sun and (finally) warmth
• Wildlife: None

Signs of the Zodiac.

Between swell moments.

Rivière-du-Loup, QC – Rhythmic squawks: an alarm clock.

That and daylight spreading its wings across the sky.

It was all of 4 a.m. 

Apparently, we're far enough north to have much shorter summer nights, which is always an adjustment. It's the between times where a confused mind simultaneously seeks action and sleep.

I just want coffee.

After a sumptuous breakfast, the radio cackles. We're told the waves are too high for the boat to dock and that we'll need to be evacuated by Zodiac. Our hosts seem distressed.

We don our backpacks and rain gear, giddy with adventure.

The journey takes us through the forest, slippery with storm, and into an area otherwise closed for breeding season. The quiet cove shimmers in greens. Ferns fan our faces.

Assuming it's to take us all the way back to Rivière-du-Loup, we're surprised to see a grey, two-seat inflatable slowly rounding the corner.

I've seen bigger boats in a pool.

We immediately catch an oar in the mud and have to circle back. 

But, we soon make it to a larger boat anchored farther out in the water, grins as wide as the swells. Vanishing into the raindrops, our evacuation is complete.

Phare Away.

Alight.

Îles du Pot à l’Eau-de-Vie, QC – In the fog, the St. Lawrence fades from the page.

Imagination fills the remaining space.

Ships hurtle toward the rocky island, sailors’ faces as white as the waves. Each man tugs at a rope with raw hands, clasped in prayer, hoping the storm won't be their demise.

Ashore, the lighthouse keeper stokes triumphant flames in the broad, brick fireplace. He checks the wick burning atop the tower as a creak in the floorboards announces the arrival of additional hands. The glow grows, punching at the gloom.

Sleet hits the windows, rattling me from my reverie. The storm worsens. Winds whistle a maritime tune. 

Built in 1857, the historic red and white lighthouse we're sharing with a couple we've just met has no doubt seen its share of gales. A hundred-and-sixty-eight years later, though, it's still standing. We're told it's the only lighthouse in Canada where you can stay the night.

We climb the tower, looking across the island – now a bird sanctuary. Angry gulls pierce the clouds in slow-moving corkscrews. Razorbills skim the shifting surface of the water. It's moody.

And I can think of few places I'd rather be during a storm. 

Vitals:

• Time: 50 minutes
• Distance: 70.6 kms
• Province: Québec
• Weather: Cloud, leading to severe storms
• Wildlife: Beluga spout; countless birds, including great blue herons, razorbills, murres and gulls

Bedeviled.

Finding this place wasn't a fluke.

Rivière-Ouelle, QC – A driftwood whale sits atop La Baleine Endiablée, bleached by the sun.

It's home for the night after more than 11 hours and nearly 1,100 kilometres on the road. The sun has finally come out at the end of a day painted in blended greys.

So has my French.

Unsurprisingly for us, the auberge hosts a nanobrewery. Out back, picnic tables overlook farm fields that roll up into the mountains,  glistening in the distance. It has been a long, but not particularly taxing day. Still, the idyllic setting is a welcome respite.

We've settled around plates of méchoui – Québecois barbeque pork – with gravy, coleslaw and spiced fries. The server arrives with a 9.5% barleywine.

In a pint glass.

The devilish whale, indeed.

Vitals:

• Time: 11 hours, 14 minutes
• Distance: 1,091.9 kms
• Provinces: Ontario, Québec
• Weather: Fog, cloud and rain, leading to sun
• Wildlife: None

Bourbon and ON.

Reserved.

London, ON – The rolling green hills around Versailles, Kentucky are stitched together by raw boards: braces holding prized racehorses in place.

Appropriately, the endless pastures are the colour of money.

For miles, the grass is stained white by fresh paint. One farm, in all black, stands in contrast, like Johnny Cash.

We cling to tight corners on country roads before pulling through the stone and iron gate at Woodford Reserve. The name is relatively new, but a distillery was first built here in 1812 and the location is listed on the National Register of Historic Places.

We’re immediately drowned by fresh cut grass and sweet sour mash.

Oak barrels teeter down tracks between long, thin stone buildings, headed for a rest.

We left booking a tour too late, so the rest of our day looks similar.

Homeward. 

Vitals:

• Time: 9 hours, 20 minutes
• Distance: 779.9 kms
• States/Province: Kentucky, Ohio, Michigan, Ontario
• Weather: Sunny and warm
• Wildlife: None

De La Soul.

C'est (bour)bon.

Lexington, KY – As the bottom of the rust belt falls out, spring greens pitch tentatively skyward.

Eastern redbuds are sprinkled like confetti in the fog, welcoming the new season and accompanying freedom that floats on the breeze. Between winter and a global pandemic now in its third year, the rebirth hits close to home.

Moving south, Ohio’s skyline becomes an abstract of greys crisscrossed by beams painted ochre and soft blues. Many of the art deco bridges are topped by ornate iron work, whispering to a bygone era.

We hadn’t planned to drive, but studies and life got in the way of fleeting plans and here we are, suddenly on a tour of the bourbon trail and pointed toward Charleston, South Carolina.

A tasting at the modern New Riff Distilling, just over the bridge from Cincinnati, is followed by a stop at Boone County Distilling. I’m driving, so just a sniff and a shot of history.

Boone County, founded in 2015, boasts walls dressed in charred barrel staves, blackened but smooth to the touch. It claims inspiration from a distillery opened in the area in 1833 and uses the tagline “Made by Ghosts.”

“Spirits, Distilled by Spirits” was right there.

C'est (aussi) bon.

The best part of the day, though, has been pulling up to a strip mall in Lexington, looking for dinner. Mimi’s Southern Style Cooking is lined up out the door even though the dining room – which seems to double as a dance hall – sits empty.

There’s no obvious menu, but aluminum catering trays shimmer with fried chicken, mac and cheese, collard greens, green beans, corn bread and various other items. We can immediately tell it’s a road trip gem.

Conspicuous, we’re invited to the front of the line and handed a cafeteria tray.

Everyone else is waiting for the pork chops.

Vitals:

• Time: 11 hours
• Distance: 762 kms
• Province/States: Ontario, Michigan, Ohio, Kentucky
• Weather: Persistent rain, fog and cold
• Wildlife: None

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

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.