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Published by klump04, 2018-10-11 18:40:21

Just Around the Bend Episode IV Eastern US and the Canadian Maritime Provinces

JUST AROUND THE BEND























































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The rocky island with the nesting Atlantic Puffins looks like this.
Not much to see, but we were assured that there were more
Puffins here than anywhere else in North America. That was
comforting, as we’d spent most of the day, and a pile of money
to see these characters.
The sea voyage actually was pretty nice. Seeing the Puffins was
a treat, and the captain didn’t rush off; he hovered for an hour
or so before returning to Witless Bay and our harbor. Nor did
we leave empty handed, as Arlene bought a cute little stuffed
Puffin that would travel with us all the way home.
I had mentioned how limited the fishing was all over the
Canadian Maritimes, including the entire Grand Banks. This
weekend was the Family Weekend for Cod fishing. A family was
allowed to catch up to 10 Cod during this 3-day period.

On the way back to camp we stopped at an inlet off of Witless
Bay to look over some small weather beaten boats. It seems that
these smaller boats are always outside, and are usually pulled
out of the water when not in use. From the looks of them they
are seldom repainted and generally not maintained.


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They also looked to be home made. That, I’d surmise for two
reasons. First, their wood and really heavy, not fiberglass, and
second, what else are you going to do during the winter?
Remember the magnificent schooner model in Nova Scotia.
Well these are Dory sized boats, 15-20 feet long and much
simpler to build. Here’s some. I love the curves and shape of
them.

























There was an extended family docked in the inlet. Several men
children and women all dressed in top to toe slickers brightly
colored foul weather gear. They were unloading two boats,
several gas tanks, ice chests and fish. The fish didn’t get
exported. They were filleted right there on the boat. It was a site
to see and here’s how that process worked.

On board, the Dory there were two ice chests, one on each side
of the boat. In-between was a wide plank, serving as a cutting
board. This fellow, while the others unloaded, and secured the
outboard engine, reached to his right with his left hand and
picked up one Cod by its tail. Slipping it across the cutting
board his right hand with a large knife made a machete like
move that sliced the topside off the fish. In the same movement
he flipped the fish over and cut backwards down the other side.
The tail and skeleton left in his hand were swept overboard. The
two filets were slid into the other ice chest.


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We watched, and there were surely more than 10 of these fish
filleted. That’s how I figured it was an extended family. The
man moved so fast, never stopping from one fish to another. I’d
asked if we could video his effort, and were told it was okay.
He paused only a moment, as he saw us gaping at his effort.
‘Hello’ he yelled up to us. ‘Would you like a couple filets?.
We’re quick thinking, and even more just plain stupid How




























could anyone say no to this offer, this fresh fish. After all we
were headed back to camp for dinner. We will probably never
forget what idiots we were. ‘Thanks, that’s so gracious, but no.’
All the way back to camp we cooked that fresh fish over and over
again in our minds.
It’s time to head back across the Island. We’ll leave St John’s
and stop in Terra Nova one night, driving past Gander without
stopping. Gander is where most Americans came into contact
with Newfoundland. It was the jumping-off spot for our Air
Force, heading from North America to Iceland and England
during World War II.
We stopped again at Deer Lake, and camped in a forest setting.
In the evening we walked down a country road toward a small
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lake. All the way we kept talking about all the Moose we’d seen.
If there were so many of them we obviously were doing
something wrong. Because, and including stuffed ones we had
seen ZERO. It was about twilight when we reached the lakeside.
It was lovely, with pinks, oranges and blues reflecting off the
water. There, for our keen eyes, way out across the lake was a
small ripple and a head bobbing along. Our Moose, what a
thrill. It was swimming toward a small island. We watched for
a few minutes before it disappeared behind the trees, still
swimming along.

This was not too good. If we were Indians counting scalps, we
would have been banned from the tribe. Several weeks in
Newfoundland where the Moose outnumber the people, two to
one, we have only seen one. Actually, the more we think about it
the more unreliable our memory gets. Maybe it was a Beaver, or
a Deer, or maybe it was one of those eerie monsters from the
great northern wilderness. Maybe it was a figment of our
imagination!
I’ll admit that we didn’t do much research before coming to
Newfoundland. Before Arlene and I retired we chose several
things that we wanted to do during the rest of our lives. Little
did we know that the rest of our lives could easily be another
third or longer? Longer than our childhood, and equal to our
working and child raising lives. Traveling was high on our list
and specifically around North America. I’m a little more of a
dreamer than she, not actually a ‘Walter Mitty’ type, but I like
remote places and that’s what brought us to Newfoundland.
Arlene on the other hand would probably, or has so far, gone
everywhere with me. Lucky me.
So when we arrived in Port-aux-Basques it was dumb luck, to
have chosen it over Argentia. We continued to string together a
series of lucky moves that took us across the Island to St. John’s
and back. Had we researched the island I’m sure we would have
taken several trips to the southern, more remote areas. Those,
areas among other things, surely had more Moose. But, by
crossing the Island we were able to see a more industrious, and
civilized portion of the Province. We were now headed up the
western peninsula to a totally different experience.

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NEWFOUNDLAND II



We arrived at Gros Morne National Park after driving over the
Long Range Mountains. It was an interesting drive, despite the
rain, up and over the mountains. The road was slippery but not
rutty like the Highway. Even so a gas truck had slid off and
fallen into a pond. A clean-up crew had already set a collar
around the truck to keep the spill isolated. We were early
enough to get a campsite, and go to the Visitor’s Center and hear
a story about Gros Morne geology.
Gros Morne is named for this strange dome. The earth’s mantle
rising above the crust. Maybe the only place in the world.
That big dome out there, about 1,000 feet high, with nothing
growing on it has a tree ring around it, and above its bald. It’s as
if the dome was so high that the trees stopped growing because
they reached their altitude, the tree line.

This mound has been pushed up from inside our earth. It’s our
mantel. A yellowish color not red or rusty, yet is caused by
oxidized iron. Our mantel is made up mostly of hot metals, of
iron, and nickel.
The rainy weather continued and we haven’t hiked much,
although there are plenty of trails. Nor have we climbed the
dome, but it looks like this on a cloudy day. When the sun’s out
it does have a yellow glow.




















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We poked around the park, going to several harbors, eating in
not so nice greasy grill joints, and buying a few souvenirs.
Arlene added yet another Loon. This one was a large, hand
carved wooden one, and life size that could be used as a bank.
In the picture the Loon with the eerie whistle is following the
others.




























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I bought a hand carved Dory model, painted bright orange and
green. The soft wood used for this model reminds me of wooden
th
crates used for shipping goods during the early 20 century. My
father used to make toys for my brother and I from this
Basswood.































We drove along the shore, Route 430, to the Northern Brook
Pond. It has one of several Fjords along the coast. There’s a
boat tour that sounds pretty neat. To get to the boat we walked
on a catwalk across the bog and thick brush. The bushes grow
so high it’s easier to see the water below than the mountains
above. It’s like a jungle.

So for more than a mile we weren’t sure where we were going.
Having a little patience paid off. Finally we came to the end of
the bog and it opened to the shoreline of the pond. It was fresh
water, sweet to the taste.
I’d say calling this a pond is a misnomer. It’s more like a lake or
a damned river. The bog is the damn, holding the water back
from the sea. Like every Fjord we’ve seen the walls are cleffs



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and very steep. They drop off straight into the deep water, and
are all formed by glacier ice carving and scraping.































A smallish boat waited for us, and 5 other passengers. For a few
hours we cruised up one side and down the other, staying close
to the sides of these granite walls exaggerated their height and
steepness. We also had the additional benefit of getting soaked
by the mist from the waterfalls that cascaded down several
hundred feet.
The mountains, the shear cliffs and the dark blue deep water
were spectacular it’s hard to comprehend how these powerful
glaciers could have scraped and hollowed out these mountains
and created these Fjords. It must be a geologist dream to visit
Gros Morne for the geological formations, the mantel and I
suppose the only Fjords in North America.








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A couple of the passengers on the boat were from Texas. They
had been traveling across Newfoundland for about as long as we
had and we had passed them several times. They were easy to
spot as they were driving a Freightliner truck with a 5 wheel
th
trailer attached.
Their parents had stayed back at the parking lot in their RV.
When we returned they couldn’t close their slide-out, and they
had no way to get topside to work on it.

We thought we could help them. Our ladder is attached to the
back of our rig. So by backing up against their trailer they were
able to climb our ladder and get over to their roof to fix it. I
wonder why slide-outs don’t have hand cranks for just these
moments? It was the end to a fine day, the Fjord. Its waterfalls,
and a traveler safely on their way.

Our next drive was several hundred miles north along the Long
Mountains to L’Anse Aux Meadow. It’s mostly wilderness up
the peninsula but we still stopped a lot. The St Lawrence
narrows along here on it’s way in and out of the Atlantic ocean.
That may be the main cause the weather is so severe. With
stronger winds and higher tides. Although the fishing boats are
built for heavy seas some of the larger harbors are 100 miles
further south of us in the Gulf. .
Our stops were at somewhat strange places, not necessarily
tourist attractions. The roadway mostly followed the shoreline
although we often couldn’t see the sea because of the brush and
growth. This growth was particularly thick and difficult to walk
through. We’d tried several times without success.
Every so many miles we passed a pile of wood. Stacked like an
Indian Tee-Pee. The brush had been cleared around them, but
they were never near any settlement. It’s a mystery. Wood and
propane has to be what these folks use for fuel, yet these stacks
were to far away from any homes or towns. We’ll probably
never know.
Another strange site were piles of lobster traps in the middle of
nowhere. Not near a dock, just in the wilderness. Even if they
were community property why would they be so far away from
the water or the towns?

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One stop along a beach, was covered with, round, smooth creek
rocks, only much larger. They had been tossed and turned
plenty, but not enough to grind them down to a smaller size.
This is typical of the far North where environmental changes
take much more time, maybe a few more thousand years will roll
them into pebbles.
The wind is so severe here that the bushy evergreen trees just
beyond the beach were only 6 feet tall and swept back like they’d
had a flattop haircut. These stunted trees, Balsam Fir and White
Spruce are called ‘Tuckamore’.

A little further along we came upon another beach with the same
large rocks. These were long stone mounds, called ‘Breaccia’.
These mounds were so fragmented by slices and cracks that they
looked like they were held together by glue. They were pretty
high, some over 60 feet, which we climbed, carefully to get a




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better view of the coastline. The sea had whittled caves into
these stone mounds.




























Our final stop as we drove along was beside the Sphagnum or
Peat beds. They call the western side of the Long Mountains
Peat Land, because of the large deposits of it.
Wherever there are bogs there must be Peat moss. As the bogs
are wet and acidic areas which over time cause the organic
matter to decompose and become compacted, creating Peat.
We’ve used it for our gardens to enrich the soil. Peat can be
dried and used as fuel.
Our environmentalists are concerned because when the moss
warms up it gives off carbon monoxide. Peat Moss is a natural
northern product, and if uncovered or not frozen in our Tundra
they fear it would add to our general global climate warming.










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We’re about to arrive at the top of the Peninsular and L’Anse
aux Meadows. We had chosen a private campground,
Baischoise, north of St. Anthony’s, but it was filled.
A caravan of ‘Winnebago’ RV’s had taken every site.
Caravaning is a popular way to tour. There are many groups,
manufactures and private guides that prepare and run organized
trips all over North and Central America. ‘Winnebago’ is a RV
manufacture whose association sponsors trips. These are Class
‘A’ motor homes, very nice and comfortable, between 32 and 40
feet long. There were as many as 35 in the Caravan so it isn’t
difficult to pick them out along the road. We counted 16
different state licenses among them.
Our Class ‘C’ motor home is smaller, 25 feet long. We were
lucky. Our size as well as the considerate host of the camp saved
us. They found a spot, on a grassy knoll, near their 5 wheel. It
th
didn’t have electricity, but we were happy.
In the evening, around the campfire we talked to these caravan
folks about Labrador. We would be crossing the gulf to Labrador
in a few days and it was good to hear their stories and their
experiences. They had crossed in mass, renting a bus with a
guide on the other side to tour Red Bay.
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Usually a caravan meets in one place and tours from there. I’d
say they were really organized, and if you didn’t want to put
together a plan, or spend hours making reservations, or being
concerned about the air in your tires or mechanical repairs.
This is a pleasant, mostly worry free and congenial way to go.
And like most good tours by the time you’ve finished sightseeing
you are completely exhausted.
In the morning they all left. The wagon master led the way with
about 5 or 7 of the other rigs. Then 15 to 20 minutes later
another group left. They continued until all except the mechanic
left. His rig was the last to leave. It took about 2 hours. By
staggering their groups they showed a great deal of
consideration for the local traffic. I’m sure the town appreciated
the gesture.
We waved good-by to many of them before moving into a nice
3-way site, with water, sewer and electricity. We were now ready
to visit the Vikings at Vinland, and L’Anse aux Meadows.























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Are these really the European founders of North America?
Probably so, as they have a pretty good tale.
Leif Ericson, who we’ve all heard of was the son of ‘Red’, an
Icelandic scoundrel and murderer. We know him from our
history, and when we look back isn’t that what Europeans
populated the world with, criminals.
Well ‘Red’ was banished from Iceland, and couldn’t go back
home to Norway or Sweden. So he went west. He headed off
and ended up in Greenland. According to the tale it was named
for the 38 days that one could see the green moss. Nothing else
grows in Greenland, no trees, or bushes. He settled there and
over a period of time brought his wife and some 500 others.
At one point Leif went for a sail, paddle and might have taken a
wrong turn out of the harbor, heading west instead of east.
Maybe not, but someone did and they say they were looking to
verify their story. He and a few of his closest friends, the crew,
and a few hearty women, went west from Greenland in their 60
foot ‘Long Boat’. The name ‘Long Boat’ comes from their size, 20
feet wide, and 60 long with a flat sail and ors.

Vikings were real adventurers. Unlike the Phoenicians, who
sailed with the stars, it’s believed the Vikings sailed by the seat
of their pants that would be called ‘Dead Reckoning’. So if they
could see land they thought they knew where they were.
Leif kept a journal along the way and when he got to Markland
he described a long sandy beach 40 miles long. It’s believed to
have been Labrador.
Two days later he landed in Vinland. Known for it’s fine wild
grapes. This place became home. L’anse aux Meadows. The 5
women, and however many men it took to cut wood, forge iron,
and sail the two Viking ships had found North America.
Viking stories and their adventures in America abound. We
once were introduced to Viking markings, by a geologist in
Northeastern Arizona. He swore they were authentic, as well as
some Indian hieroglyphics near by. Signs of them and their
travels are also along the Mississippi River, as they were thought
to come down from the St Lawrence River.


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Don’t get me wrong, Parks Canada would never tell a tall tale
like that about Vinland. Instead they have researched and
created an archeological dig here at the end of the peninsula.
They’ve unearthed several dwellings and are looking for more.
Two long halls have been found, and recreated where visitors
can get an idea of how life was. It’s not my cup of tea to live in a
single long room with the entire community.
Within these long halls were their sleeping quarters, dining,
cooking and social areas. Iron works were done in another
building.































The buildings were constructed with tree poles set into the
ground with roofs of lighter poles. The roofs were crisscrossed
to make them sturdy Holes were cut in the ceilings to vent
smoke from the fires. There were a few simple cooking utensils,
and clay pots. All in all pretty rustic. The roof as well as the
sides of the halls were covered and filled with sod and moss.
Even while we were there the small fires filled the entire hall
with smoke. Imagine what it would have been like during the
winter months?

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It’s thought that they were searching for wood and iron to take
back to either Greenland or Iceland. For that endeavor they had
a separate smaller, round building. It was not so cozy as the
community hall. It had a large furnace where they made nails,
rivets, and buckles among other items.























































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These three pictures were taken from Parks Canada.
Our pictures show the bog and the comfortable surrounding,
near the water. It was very wet and rough. Just under the
tundra, was the ever-present granite that made walking difficult.
Even today it would be difficult, and if not on one of the many
paths built by Parks Canada, I would fear spraining my ankle.

That’s because the grassy low growing bushes weren’t forgiving.
It is stiff, filled with brawny vines, clumped together. In places,
sharp, uneven rocks jut out through the plants. Little ponds of
standing water were partially covered with moss, and stones.
There were no trees near the site, which left the north wind
howling about us. Winter must have been horrible. This didn’t
seem like a hospitable home, only a hardship far beyond our
imagination.
We walked the trails around the Meadows. There were several
miles of well-maintained gravel paths, wide enough for two.
Few visitors ventured out on to them, which was too bad for
them and really nice for us. The paths followed the rough
contour of the seaside, yet there was no beach to speak of and
without taller trees and a constant wind we could usually see
across the bog, and fields for great distances.
Along the way we stopped to have a bite to eat. Usually, while
hiking we carry some high-energy bars or trail mix, water, and a
couple of cameras.

The latter is an on going concern, as we would like to reduce the
weight and bulk. Sony, Cannon, Olympus, please keep working
on them to reduce their size. I don’t know much about them,
I’m a point and shoot photographer who really only wants a
couple of things. I’d like to be able to zoom in on a target, safely
from 300 feet or a football field away. Long distance targets are
things like Bears or Moose, if there were any, maybe a sailing
ship or Ferry. I’d like a viewfinder in addition to the new LED
viewer, as too often the sunlight is too strong and it masks the
image in the LED. At the end of the year, I usually put together
a calendar, so 6 or even 8 pixels would be nice for 8x10 photo


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enlargements. There’s one other criteria, but it will probably not
happen anytime soon.
My cameras are in the low hundred’s of dollar range, and I
replace them often. A camera usually lasts about 2 years if I’m
lucky. I don’t think of myself as a klutz, but it’s common
practice to drop them in a creek, when I slip or otherwise miss a
step or leap. I can tumble down sand dunes and collect more
sand or dust in the camera than my shoes. On forest hikes or in
the desert I’m capable of dropping, scraping and banging my
cameras beyond their sensitive function. So far since we’ve been
in Newfoundland I’ve been able to preserve this pair, despite the
beckoning trails, rough terrain and ever-enticing granite.

During our break at the Viking ruins, Arlene spotted a rise far
off on the horizon. We hadn’t seen many boats of any size. We
had heard that this season had not been so warm, and there
were few Ice Bergs. Now in September we were told not to
expect any.

But, there on the horizon of all things, was a towering white Ice
Berg the sun struck it so that like a fine jewel it sparkled. It’s
whiteness caused us to originally think it was a large sail. As we
watched additional colors became apparent. We extended the
zoom on our camcorder, which helped even if our steady hand
made it a challenge. It stood high in the sky, with a beautiful
blue green center, and a shadow of a smaller hump on its side.
Using our high school trigonometry we estimated it to be about
150 feet high. Using our own ‘dead reckoning’ about 15 miles
away. The latter is based on Labrador being across the straight
about 30 miles. We could see the coastline, and therefore
concluded the brilliant Iceberg was several times higher. We
were primed for the watch now and after a while we saw yet
another. This one was lower, probably smaller, and didn’t catch
the sunlight. It just became one of those wonderful discoveries
for us.








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Arlene, with her LL Bean one and only two-way 3-season
microfleeze jacket and L’anse aux Meadows patch, searches the
horizon for an Iceberg. The wind almost still, for the moment,
tassels her golden locks. I also have one of these marvelous
jackets. The three seasons are spring, summer, and fall, not
winter. We have worn them for 4 years over 3 continents.
According to the manufactures and companies that sell them we
will keep these until they are worn out, maybe for another 15
years. They can’t be replaced as no one makes them and LL
Bean has changed their design so they are no longer convertible.
St. Anthony is the largest town on the peninsula. Why it was
named St. Anthony, I don’t know, maybe because of the
communities deep sentiments for their faith. There was an
Englishman who came to St Anthony’s and was so horrified at
the conditions of the people that he took it upon himself to try
and help them. Poverty and a hard life is not new to this
Province, or Labrador. The fishing companies kept a tight reign
on their workers and offered little in return for their labor.



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The Englishman was Sir Wilfred Glenfell, we visited the Glenfell
Museum and learned a little about him. He was a Medical
Doctor from England, who became involved in American
evangelism, and the welfare of deep-sea fishermen. Through the
Royal Mission of Deep Sea Fishermen he was sent to
Newfoundland in 1892, where he began a lifelong effort to
provide medical and spiritual support to the communities.
From the time he arrived he began working with the people,
providing medical help, both around St Anthony and across the
Strait in Labrador. He documented their condition and each
time he returned to England he raised funds to help them. His
philanthropy was so successful that he was able to establish a
hospital, schools and orphanages in St Anthony. He was the
first to bring medical services to the upper peninsula and
Labrador.









































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LABRADOR



On the way north along Route 430 we had stopped in St Barbe’s
to purchase a couple of ferry tickets to Labrador. We now
returned to St Barbe to go across the strait. It’s about 35 miles
and the sea was relatively calm, despite the winds. There were
only a couple of destinations we could choose to go to Labrador.
St Anthony to Goose Bay was a pretty long trip. Another out of
St Barbe across the Gulf of Labrador to Red Bay.
The Goose Bay trip would have been exciting. Few places, along
the Quebec coast and Labrador are accessible by land. They are
remote and mostly accessible by water. However, there is a
road, or maybe a trail that leads from Quebec City along the
Northern coast of the St Laurence through the tundra to Goose
Bay. We don’t and probably never will have either the vehicle or
the friends to make such a trip. Four wheel drive and a high
carriage would be necessary. As well as one or more crazy
adventurous friends to travel along. I’d imagine something like
a small caravan.

We arrived in a small harbor, not in Labrador, but on the
border, in Quebec, at L’anse-au-Clair. This photo shows how
most of these towns and communities settled. Not on the top of
the hills, but down below the wind, winter storms, and always
along the coast. The weather during the winter is so severe that
these places may not be accessible at all for many months. The
seas may be blocked with ice, and the snow may hide the land
for 8 or more months.















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We unloaded from the ferry and crossed into Labrador easily.
Beginning our adventure into this remote Canadian providence.
Our first stop was only a short way up the road.
We had gotten used to leaving a settlement and in minutes being
in deep wilderness. This was the case here in Labrador.
Nothing seemed to exist beyond the view of the sea. Route 510
followed a fast running Pinware River. It became apparent, like
in Cape Breton Highlands that on the crests and plains of this
land nothing grew very high. But, down in the valleys the trees
grew higher under the protection of the hillsides. We were
driving along the top of these hills and could see out along the
tundra.

A car was parked alongside the road. We saw a fellow, bent low
picking some kind of fruit. We stopped and climbed through the
tough under brush to him. He was picking ‘Cloud Berries’. A
little orange-yellowish berry that looked like a raspberry with
multiple nodes. He didn’t pick them one by one with his hands,
but used a comb tool. It was as wide as a comb about 8 inches,
but the teeth were long, 5 inches and spaced further apart. He
swiftly swept the low tangled plants and came up with a fist full


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of ‘Cloud Berries’, which he dumped into a pail. By the time
we’d gotten there he had just about filled the pail.
These berries were the famous, delicate, unique ‘Baked Apples’
that we had found in Corner Brook, where we bought a small jar
of its jam. We picked a few ourselves. Enough so we could have
them on our cereal in the morning, and maybe a few with cream
after dinner.
This view of the Pinware River reveals the rough terrain in
Labrador. The granite, boulders that underlie the entire
countryside. Under the hills protection the trees grow relatively
high in contrast to the low growing tundra that looks like there
is nothing there at all.




























We camped in the Pinware Provincial Park. It was a low area
near the sea, and like everywhere we’ve been, boggish. Tall
grasses grew on each side of the narrow dirt road which circled
the camp. They kept us from seeing much of anything. One
campsite at a time was revealed. We chose a flat spot and
settled in for the night.





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Night in the north comes a little later than Florida. So it’s
possible for it to be pretty light around 11 pm. I’ve never had a
problem sleeping, so when my biological clock says it’s time, I
doze off. Arlene on the other hand needs more than her natural
instincts to sleep. We pull all the blinds and sometimes sing soft
lullabies. If that doesn’t work I can always tell her a story. That
never fails.
There might have been one other camper in the park. We were
therefore surprised by the knock on our door around 8:30 p.m.
that evening. We weren’t expecting anyone. It was Ranger
Martin Lowe who had come by to welcome us to Labrador and
collect the park’s camping fee.
Ranger Lowe was a congenial fellow, who had been with the
Provincial Park Service here in Labrador for 16 years. He was in
no hurry and talked with us for quite a while telling us story
after story.

We were curious about the winter, and asked him how it was.
He told us about the winter snow. It would begin in late
September covering the countryside. No land would be seen

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again until late Spring. Outside our camp the snow would be so
high that it would cover our RV. Storms would cause ‘white
outs’ for days, where you couldn’t see 5 feet into them.

We mentioned the ‘Cloud Berries’ we’d had for dinner. He
laughed and told us a story about a traveler from Texas who had
a really hard day. He wanted a Baked Apple, and expected
something like our idea of one. Out of the oven filled with
raisins and walnuts, and coated with maple syrup. Was he
surprised to see these little orange berries? Martin Lowe
laughed further, and supposed that the man’s day continued to
be difficult here in the wilderness.
We had lots of questions, as few Newfoundlanders were very
talkative. I have a theory that northerners are a little less
friendly and talkative because of the amount of sun they get
during a year. New Englanders, who live in caves so much of
the year rarely get out to socialize. Of course that’s not true.
Except, come on down South and you’ll see how friendly folks
are which might cause you to wonder.
We asked where he was born and how long he’d lived in
Labrador. Boy was that a story. He was born in St Anthony 44
years ago at Genfell’s Hospital, and lived in Labrador all his life,
except for school. As a baby, his mother carried him across the
strait in a small open motorboat. Imagine that. It brought to
life Genfell’s stories about the need for medical service and how
difficult it was even in the 60’s to get medical help. He was a
living testimony to the man’s work.

Ranger Lowe said it was a little easier today, for emergencies
they fly medi-vac helicopters, big orange ones, to and from St
Anthony. Or if needed to St John’s where there is a Medical
School and facilities. It reminded us of the waitress at Marco
Polo that wanted to return to Charlottetown after her medical
schooling to practice Neo-Natal Care for women.


Outside, the night sky had risen. Clear and brilliant, every star
that fills the Northern Hempshire was aglow. The clarity of the
air and the sky was evident from the time we left the ferry. This
was going to be a fantastic visit. Cool and dry days and star

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studded nights. Our interest in the heavens, and the
constellations was again peaked. We could walk around camp
without a flashlight it was so bright, and so quiet. Awsome!

We moved on to Red Bay, a community of about 200 people.
It’s the end of the line for Route 510. From here one can go
anywhere in Labrador as long as they travel by sea or by air.
Over land is by mule as there are no more roads leaving here.
Red Bay is a natural harbor, with very deep water. They say it’s
so deep that a battleship could easily and safely navigate its
waters. And possibly did during World War II.































Before the War, and before the 19 century Red Bay was a
th
th
beehive of seasonal activity. During the late 16 and 17
th
century it was the major outpost for the Basque. World-class
Portuguese sailors that fished the Atlantic for whales. This was
before ‘Drake’ discovered oil in Pennsylvania. These sailors
were the Rockefellers of the whale oil world. Whale oil was used
as fuel for lamps, for cooking, and for furnaces.



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It wasn’t an easy life. Before winter sailors would be shipped off
to Labrador for the whaling season, often ‘Shanghaied’, without
a means to return. Their only survival was to work the whales,
and render the oil.
The name of the bay ‘RED’ came from the number of the whales
that were slaughtered which caused the bay to run red with
blood, all summer.

It’s believed that so many Wright and Bowhead Whales were
killed that the Basque emptied the waters. During the late
1800’s there was less and less whaling around the Atlantic and
Labrador’s shores.
There has been a great deal of research done in Red Bay and a
museum has some interesting models as well as boats and ships
that have been rescued from the water.
Here is a model showing how the barrels were put together to
ship the oil. The folk craft that created the models are a
testimony to the interest that the local population has for their
history.



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The Whaling Boat was found in the waters and reconstructed by
the anthropologist that found it.

























Arlene and I are always surprised when traveling across our
country. Red Bay is no exception. We realize that much of our
world has been lived in before us, but we marvel at the industry,
the fortitude and the stamina of our Forefathers who undertook
such efforts.



























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While in Red Bay we stopped at the only diner for lunch and did
a little shopping. Our lunch was some kind of fish, probably
Cod. It was non-descript, and from the reaction we had from it
that evening it probably was cooked in whale oil. We also
stopped at the local bakery and grocery where we were able to
get the last ‘Cloud Berry’ pie.
Lucky us, it was expensive, but we were able to have several
pieces, before going to bed. It too was made with different
ingredients than we use. Say, nothing was processed, like we
know it. The crust was probably made with lard. Something
neither of us have eaten since childhood. Accordingly our
stomachs and digestive tracks responded appropriately. We
didn’t sleep much on our last night in Labrador









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.







































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NEWFOUNDLAND III



Once back in Newfoundland we made a final stop in Port au
Choix. A small fishing village where we had another Cod lunch.
It was much better than the greasy one across the Strait.
Afterward a walk around the harbor helped us digest it.
Down the main road we passed a shipyard. These yards have
always attracted us, so we turned around and drove down to it.
Our own boat was once docked in a dandy’s harbor with lots of
other yachts and pleasure craft. After a couple of encounters
with the greedy management we moved to a shipyard.
The marina rented our slip when we were out, even though we’d
paid for the entire season.
The shipyard was a great move. We had learned our lesson.
Beside the civilized treatment we received it was a mind-
expanding experience about boats in general and how to care for
them. The shipyard was a major stainless manufacture of
crafted rails. They also encouraged, and harbored the
development of early Carbon Fiber Boats.
We have rooted around many shipyards along the Connecticut
coastline. One of our most interesting experiences was when we
came across two 12 meter, America’s Cup boats. One was the
Columbia, a winner, and the other its sister ship New York,
outfitted with a motor and luxurious accommations. Some of
the best things are found in the strangest places. These two
were in an old, dilapidated barn on the waterfront.

All across Newfoundland we had seen lots of small boats, and
several large ones, but never a real shipyard. Here there were 10
large fishing boats drydocked in a line. On the waterfront of
Port au Choix was a real shipyard. Each boat was in a different
stage of repair. We pulled in and got out to inspect the place.


The Surf Clipper was having its netting replaced. Our RV is
parked just behind the boat on the left.

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Arlene was ready to climb aboard the bright green ship at the
end of the line, it was the Venture.


































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The Eastern Prince had just been repainted and was having a
major overhaul..

























This stripped boat was in for a major overhaul. They were going
to cut it in half and extend it by 15 feet. Then they would fill in
the middle. If you look closely there’s a plywood plank between
the two cabin windows. That’s where they plan to slice the ship
in half.
The Captain of the extended boat confirmed all the stories we’d
heard about the fishing drought. The laws were so strict that it
was questionable whether to go out at all. Even with these
restitutions they didn’t seem to be repopulating the seas with
fish.
He had never left the island. He fished all his life, and in the last
15 years owned, and skippered his own boat. But, like so many
youngsters, his daughter had left the island to go to school. She
lived in Michigan, and was getting married. For the first time in
his life he would leave, and go to Michigan for the wedding. He
was just a little nervous about going and flying.
We told him a bit about Michigan and assured him that he
would like it. Then we asked how he would repaint his boat. He
hadn’t given it much thought as, first things first, he’d see how
the extension effort came out.


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This time, like harden travelers we felt no need to race back to
Port-aux-Basque and the ferry. We had a little time, so we
stopped in Corner Brook for a final meal at Jennifer’s. Our last
camp in Newfoundland was the same as our first as we traced
our way down Canadian 1 to Conroy. It was still difficult
understanding these ‘Newfies’, but we had a great time and
would go back for a longer visit anytime.

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NOVA SCOTIA



We loaded onto the large sea going ferry and took a quiet trip
across the Ocean back to North Sydney, Nova Scotia.

We felt some relief as we debarked from the ferry. Finally we’re
back on terra ferma. That’s not the case, as we are still in the
Canadian Islands, but we didn’t care. We drove out of port like
we had a mission. The clean air of Newfoundland had been lost
in the busy world of North Sydney and we were headed away
from it.
Our objective was Louisbourg. It didn’t take long getting there.
We camped near the town, within walking distance. Being able
to walk around town was really nice, it was our good fortune.
Close to us was the summer playhouse, where a rousing musical
comedy and spoof on their neighbors the ‘Newfie’s’ was playing.
It raised the house, and every ones spirits. It was just the thing
to get us started, and we were singing and dancing as we left.

Louisbourg is an old French village. The first new world fort
was established around 1730. It guarded their treasures, which
at the time were parts of Quebec, Nova Scotia, and
Newfoundland. By that time it was apparent that North
America was worth the effort, at least some of it, and they had a
good foot hold, between the St Lawrence River valley in the
north and Louisiana in the south.
The fortress was in excellent condition, and far more
extravagant than many we’d previously visited. The French
obviously, had other things in mind besides a military stockade.
There were chapels for worship. The governor had his own
chapel which was pretty nice.










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There were social parlors where women darned and wove
intricate lace for their tables, walls and garments. We tried
counting the number of bobbins, and ended with about 27.
There might have been more.




























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The fort was square, enclosed with battlements and cannons
along the walls. Inside it was large enough to house and protect
an entire village as well as the soldier’s barracks. This view has a
couple of village homes, or quarters, with a garden in-between,
and barracks in the background.
























































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Our visit made us feel like we’d returned to a more civilized
world. Where retailers filled stores with tourist items, and
groceries of processed goods. It’s only fair to say we felt more
comfortable. With renewed enthusiasm.
We backtracked through North Sidney, and down the Andrews
Channel to a town named Baddeck.
Baddeck is a lovely town, with many grand estates. Once a busy
ship building port, it had become popular for the wealthy to
summer. Sort of like our Adirondacks or Mount Desert Island.
It was the last home and estate of Alexander Graham Bell.

From the time he invented the telephone he had been fortunate
enough to benefit from it economically. People thought he
moved to Baddeck, in his later life, not just because of similarly
wealthy people. Because it reminded him of Scotland where he
was born, and he found some people who spoke Gaelic.
His estate was on a beautiful wooded hillside, with a large lawn.
His home and laboratory were attached. We spent a pleasant
afternoon there. Bell himself was one of those fascinating
characters that forever encouraged ones belief in mankind.

The telephone had a huge effect on our electronic world today.
But, so did many other inventions and investigations from his
inquisitive mind developed.
Among them he invented a ‘photo phone’ that transmitted
pictures through the air. Not really today’s communications,
but he should have a little credit. He tried breeding sheep trying
to produce more at a time, tried taking salt out of the sea water
making it fresh and drinkable. He also loved kites and flying
things.
We found his home and history to be interesting. At one point
he responded to a similar issue that Arlene and I are concerned
about. Our memory. He claimed that ‘There cannot be mental
atrophy in any person who continues to observe.’ That was
encouraging, but he continued, ‘As long as one remembered
what he observed.’ Now which statement was so important to
us? Well it’s our memory that’s eluding us.




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We’re perfectly capable of forgetting what we did yesterday.
But, it might not be lost forever, it can come back. Our
forgetfulness may work when we want to do something while
inside the RV and when we get outside, not remember. Only to
remember on our way back into the RV. That’s a little different,
not a permanent memory loss, but a temporary one.

In either case our memory and grasp of it often causes and
uneasy feeling and anxiety. I am more frustrated by it than
Arlene. But because of it I believe we both spend more time in a
dreamy, fantasy state. Our sense of the world is not as crisp as it
once was.
We made one other stop before Halifax. Once across the Strait
of Canso. We put up our maps and drove down the island. It
was great fun, taking different back roads going one way, and
then another not really knowing where we were.
Nova Scotia’s countryside is hilly, not mountainous, and it must
have more apple trees and kinds of apples than anywhere on
earth. Although our famed Johnny Appleseed spread his seeds
all over the Midwest, he surely could have gotten his seeds from
Nova Scotia.
We met a retired RCMP, Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman,
in camp one night. Arlene and I have been in love with these
guys, forever. Since Sergeant Preston with his red coat, dog and
pistol. The pistol that was tied around his neck so he wouldn’t
lose it in a tussle, or in the snow.

The Mounty had one of those large noisy Harley’s and was
crossing the country on tour. We were amazed at the simplicity
of his gear. He wore a leather outfit, had foul weather gear, a
small camp stove, a tent, some grub, and a sleeping bag. That
peaked our imagination, and except for the Red Coat fit the bill
to a tee. The pistol was probably in his saddlebag.
We wondered more until coming out on the northern side of
Halifax. We found a camp in Dartmouth near Banook Lake. It
was a good place just a short trip across The Narrows into
downtown Halifax.




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Halifax, Nova Scotia is another deep-water harbor, where ships
gathered into convoys before crossing to England and Europe
during WWII.

I’ve written over and over again about the WWII effort that took
place here in the Maritime. I’ve brought it up too many times,
and I won’t mention it again. It’s like the South and their lack of
restraint with the Civil War or whatever they might want to call
it. Where Americans slaughtered themselves by the thousands.
I venture there’s no town in the South that doesn’t cling to that
destructive period of our history. It’s overdone and of
questionable value. Some say the southern reenactments ought
to use live ammo.

We’re in Halifax and want to do four things. Eat a nice dinner.
Go to the waterfront. Go to the Maritime Museum. And visit the
beautiful flower gardens.
We’ll start by dropping by Costco. It seems we can’t pass them
up. We needed the RV worked over, a little maintence, and they
did a nice job. We got all 6 tires pumped full of air, 80 lbs each,
our oil changed and a new air filter. All this because we were
able to slip inside the garage bay with over an inch to spare.
The wind had been howling most of the day as an east coast
hurricane was passing. It wasn’t going to keep us from our
plans, but as we got into the RV a shopping cart blew across the
parking lot right into our door. It left a couple of blue paint
marks on our creamy colored door and a small dent. After
cussing, and rubbing a lot the creamy door reappeared. The
dent stayed.
We often go days or even weeks without much news. That’s
good, except for the weather. Here in Halifax we were getting a
lot of Canadian news. That’s okay as it doesn’t have the same
effect on us as home town news. But the news of another
hurricane alerted us to a more active weather pattern. One we
might encounter as we moved south along the eastern coast. We
now began to pay attention.






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What is it about English Gardens that are so beautiful? Even
gardens of English derivatives like here in Halifax, or for that
matter New Brunswick.

They are magnificent, the roses, iris, begonias, marigolds,
alyssum, black eyes susan’’, and my favorite, pansies. We design
our gardens in a catch-can manner, planting everything among
everything. At least it looks that way, and I like it, but the
formality of these gardens is grand. We spent the afternoon
wandering amongst the flowers.











































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Today it’s going to be totally different, we’re back on track, and
we’ll go to the waterfront first. That’s where all the action is. It
took a while to find a place to park. Then we walked down the
hill to the waterfront, not much more than a mile. The
waterfront was a little different than we expected. There were
several docks with large sailboats tied to them. Two ketches,
and a sloop, all over 40 feet long. Boy were they beautiful.
Beyond them there were 12 or more tub boats.
We surveyed the yachts, and dreamed about our own sea
voyages. Our blue water dreams were to sail in a double ender
called Southern Cross. They made several sizes, but we liked the
38 foot best. Anything larger and we didn’t think we could
handle it in a storm or swell. Besides loving the shape of the

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double ender, we thought it would be perfect to deflect a
following sea.




























Another dock jutted way out into the water, it was several stories
high, and housed the Maritime Museum. Beyond that we
couldn’t see.
We then went into the museum. It was really nice. I was
brought up in Washington DC, the museum capital of the world.
To some extent I’d say I’ve lived in and wandered around
museums all my life and discovered a simple and single cardinal
rule. Everyone should follow it, or expect your trip to end in
total exhaustion. Choose only a few of things to see, and limit
yourself to them.

The museum was really nice we started with the ship models,
and then moved on to the rowboats, the sail, and the steam
exhibits. Many museums have added hand-craft exhibitions to
their calendar, and this one was making a small boat.
We visited the museum for a while. We were tired and wearing
down.




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The rowboats were really interesting. Halifax has a history of
racing sculls. At the turn of the century they say they had as
many as 11 rowing clubs. I’d never given it much thought,
although my high school had a rowing crew. They were really
good, and had won the National Schoolboy Rowing
Championship 12 years in a row. They had also raced in the
schoolboy regatta in Henley England. Come to think of it look
at all the French impressionists that included rowing in their
Sunday afternoon paintings; Renoir and Sewart were just a few.
History tells us that rowing, or racing shells came about when
seamen would row out to sea to meet ships coming into harbor.
The first one to reach the ship would be able to lead the ship into
harbor. Later, as steam took over, they became racing shells,
much more streamlined and like we know them today. Sleek
long shells that may be 2 feet wide. The Eights hold 8 powerful
men or women and one skinny cocksain.
I’m a sucker for ship models, but not much of a model builder.
Once we had stopped at the Blue Jacket in Maine. A renowned
company that builds museum quality ship models. They also
sell them to street customers as well as through the New York
Times.

The proprietor, ‘Suzie’ was very friendly, and greeted us with her
Portuguese Water dog. We spent a lot of time looking at these
beautiful models, Gallons, Clipper Ships, Schooners, sleek Chris
Craft motorboats, and simple kayaks and dory’s. After a while
we talked to her about the models and which ones would be
appropriate for me to build. She asked a few questions, in which
she ascertained my modeling skills and then recommended two
boats. One a lantine rigged sail, and a dory. These were very
simple builds. She didn’t apologize, but explained that she
wouldn’t sell anything beyond my skill level.
I was crushed, but can probably get over it through pure
admiration of those beautiful models.








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It’s dinnertime and we’re beckoned by the ambience of the
outside cafes along the waterfront. It’s summer time the living
is good. It’s warm and there’s a slight breeze off the water. We
walked by several cafes read their menus and like a lottery
choose one. There’s no ‘consultant’ to aide us, but the menu
looked good. ‘Saltys’ was our choice, on the hillside with cobble
stones overlooking the harbor. Cobblestone streets are a
reminate of the 19 century ship ballast. The stones were
th
dumped into the streets when a more valuable cargo was loaded
aboard.

The waiter was friendly. He asked if we’d like a drink before
dinner. We could handle that and ordered white wine and a
vodka gimlet on the rocks. He took our credit card and didn’t
give it back.
WHAT’S WAS THIS ABOUT!

WHERE’S MY CREDIT CARD!
He patiently explained that restaurants in the neighborhood
were being careful about people eating and drinking and
running off. I suppose it’s something like filling your tank with
gas and driving away without paying. Only that’s my credit


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card! It’s enough that they have it outside of my sight. I don’t
like it! Arlene say’s relax Richard, it will be okay. My eye! It’s
my credit they’re fooling with.


The second Gimlet came. It soothed my anger. The next one
did even more. By the time we ordered dinner I was feeling
pretty good and really didn’t care if the Gimlet came on the
rocks or not. Now I didn’t care in the least about my credit card
either.
Our shrimp cocktails came and we enjoyed them. A little later
I’d changed my mind about these northern water shrimp. They
are chalky, and regardless of how fresh they may be they can’t
compare to Louisiana or even South Carolina shrimp. Upon a
more sobered position I’ve sworn off them. We both ordered
halibut for dinner. Arlene’s was blackened and pan-fried, mine
was just pan-fried. I can’t take the pepper.
We had a ball that evening, the town is a really fun place. And
we were able to find our RV and get back to camp safely.
We’ve completed our three objectives and only have to visit Fort
George. It’s not a chore, and I’m giving the wrong impression if
it sounds that way. Maybe they’ll shoot off a cannon causing us
to be deaf for a couple of hours. What more fun could we ask
for?
The Halifax Citadel was originally built just after the Frenchs’
Louisbourg Fort. There was quite a difference between their
structures and location. Halifax was a major port and the town
was built around the waterfront. Fort George, the fort that’s still
standing was built around 1856 and it’s high on the hill
overlooking the harbor and town. This site was superior to the
French’s location for military protection. In those days ships
would have to pass by from the east coast on their way to
Europe.
It was a British Colony, the 14 in North America and
th
presumably included all of Nova Scotia, New Brunswick,
Newfoundland, Labrador, and parts of Quebec’s Gaspe’
Peninsula.


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