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.)