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.