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We returned with the rising tide. It was very exciting. Moving
back to the bridge much quicker than we left, arriving safe,
muddy and wet.
Before we left Fundy National Park, we changed our mind about
our travel schedule. We would forgo Quebec and the Gaspe’
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Peninsula. Our new plans would take us to Prince Edward
Island and Nova Scotia, then further north.
Changing our minds was a lot easier than making it happen. Try
as we might we couldn’t make any reservations anywhere,
except across to Newfoundland by the Ferry. We scheduled it
for a 6-day round trip.
First, we called Prince Edward Island, with cash, then with a
credit card, and finally with two phone cards. Nothing worked
in Canada. We called the operator, but that was no help. We
called our credit card’s customer service, no help there either.
We tried several phones, and none of them worked. So we
changed our schedule, in our minds, but not over the phone.
Never the less we packed up that evening, lowering our awning,
and moving the picnic table away from the rig. Leaving early
was a good idea, except for the fog along the Bay. But we were
headed inland towards Moncton, where we had to witness the
famous tidal bore of Fundy. Then onward to Prince Edward
Island.
At Moncton we stopped. The rain dripped off our blue-green
slickers, onto our shorts, down our legs to our socks, filling our
shoes. It had been raining steady for 30 minutes. We stood on
the banks of the Petticodiac River with our eyes glued upon it’s
banks. Not much to see, even with the clouds and mist, the bank
was flat and empty. A few birds, reflected off the barren muddy,
reddish stream as the rain masked the whispering current
moving toward the sea.
We stood our ground for 20 minutes, then 30 and longer. Rain
drops dripped from my glasses into my eyes, and there was
nothing dry to wipe them. Watching out along the flat wet
stream, searching for just the slightest clue or change in the
surface. We expected a 11:37 am tidal bore, but it was after 12
and still nothing had happening. Even when there seemed to be
a ripple, down around the bend, beyond our natural eyesight,
where the birds flew up from the water we could hardly believe
something was coming.
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Drenched, worried that during our long wait we could have
missed it. Our timing must have been off. It wasn’t. We didn’t
miss it. Here it came.
The famous Bore Tide of The Bay of Fundy; bubbling and
ripping along at a fast pace. Faster than I can run. Up around
the bend into Moncton, where it was known to be the highest
tidal bore in the world. Sometimes over a foot high.
This wall of water was only 4 or 5 inches high. It was
disappointing and a letdown because the eclipse of the century
was only a day ago. When the sun and the moon pull on the
earth together causing the greatest tides. Never-the-less it
spilled along filling the flat plains, and reversing the sluggish
current. Behind it the river proper with less fan-fare, fewer
bubbles, steadily renewing the river and making it a navigational
stream again. If for only a few hours.
We watched as it passed us, and turned around the next bend.
It wasn’t impressive. But our enthusiasm carried the day. We
were thrilled to see it.
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PRINCE EDWARD ISLAND
We had been heading northeast, but now turned almost east
from Moncton toward Prince Edward Island. For years, Canada
had planned to build a bridge to the Island. We reached the new
bridge to Prince Edward Island, Confederation Bridge. It is quite
a feat and created a new way to the seventh Province in Canada.
Crossing without too much wind, and a calm sea we arrived on
the Island to head directly across to Cavendish, and our
designated private campground Marco Polo Land.
Setting up camp went well and we had a good sleep. The
campsite was a ‘shoulder to shoulder’ affair, in an open grassy
field. Yet, no one seemed to mind. Especially the campers in
tents who have little privacy, and can be heard easily from
several sites away.
Early in the morning we did our chores. They generally include
the usual; like brewing Arlene’s coffee that’s set up the night
before. She’s served while still in bed. Then a few extra chores
like checking maps and other incidentals according to our plans
for the day.
Usually when I wake-up I’ve a pretty good idea about our plans.
Some how they materialize during the night. Today we started
out at the camp’s diner with bacon and eggs for $8.00C. That
translates into $5.00 for us including tax and tip.
We use credit cards as much as possible. Besides, their
convenience, they allow us to carry only emergency cash. In
addition they keep a monthly account of our expenses and for
the time being don’t charged anything for conversion.
Everyone at breakfast was cordial and helpful. The waitresses
and waiter were all nice looking teenagers. Each year we seem to
think everyone, especially the younger folks look better, more
handsome and prettier. One, an attractive young lady, named
Victoria told us an interesting story. She came from
Charlottetown and was studying medicine. When she becomes a
doctor she plans to return to her hometown, the Capital of
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Prince Edward Island, as the first specialist in Neo-Natal care in
the Province. Mothers will then be able to stay on the Island
instead of traveling to Halifax, Nova Scotia for babies to receive
care.
The campground had an Internet site so we headed down to the
computer station hoping that we could get on the computer
without waiting too long. Just our luck, that’s where we met our
‘New Best Friend’. Although I don’t remember his name calling
him ‘The Consultant’ will do. A friendly guy who worked for the
Canadian government and retired early. He was a young fellow,
and a bundle of information: Computers, National and
Provincial Parks, the Cabot Trail in Nova Scotia, The Island, and
a host of restaurants, and local ‘have-to-sees’. He was a PEI
treasure.
We needed help, as fairly or not; we pegged PEI as a retail
tourist Mecca, a chaotic carnival like Lake George, New York.
We weren’t totally wrong, but there’s so much to see, anywhere,
that a little thing like a Coney Island amusement park shouldn’t
get us down. We were about to be elevated from a ‘lay around
camp’ maybe play a few rounds of golf, and enjoy our 350
camping neighbors. We now had some real ideas and made
plans quickly.
I’m off the subject, however, the Campground can be translated
into 350 sites, on beautiful rolling grassy hills with no
hedgerows to separate sites. 350 computes to about 2100
hundred men women and children. I figure 10 kids per tent,
which easily makes about 3000 of them alone.
Don’t get me wrong, the parents are on vacation, and like all
North Americans, their children were left to run wild. Here at
Marco Polo that’s just what they were doing.
Back to ‘the Consultant’ he first helped us into AOL to send E-
mails. Then he gave us an itinerary for the Cabot Trail, where to
stay, and restaurants. One should stop at every overlook and go
from the west around to the east. With that one suggestion he
won Arlene’s heart and attention.
That’s such a great idea because it puts our camper on the inside
of all the cliffs. Arlene prefers to ride on the inside, so she can’t
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look down at the slightest drop, or as she describes it her doom,
and the abyss. Incidentally, it causes us to end up on the eastern
side in Ingonish Beach near North Sydney and the Ferry to
Newfoundland and Labrador.
While I was penning e-mails to our pals and relatives back home
he began giving Arlene a list of ‘To Do’s’ for PEI. This of course
is a test of the very basic level of friendship for a traveler. We
jotted them down and were on our way to try one out. Biddley
Beach and Sand Dunes on the east side of the National Park.
On our way however we passed another recommendation. It
was the Dune Gallery and Eatery. We stopped. Lots of ceramic
and pottery bowls had been thrown and baked, all looking pretty
nice. Some art, not so appealing, but oils and acrylics even
water colors of the countryside. Wood bowls mostly used for
serving salads carved from Ash, Beech, Maple, Cherry and Oak.
Everything priced according to the estimated type of tourist
they’d attract.
The restaurant was nice, with weird, catch-a-ladies eye entries
and a beautiful boutique dining room with small tables and a
lovely flower garden outside the luncheon area. I chose a pear
tart. See what I mean. It came in a crispy filo cup with pears,
pesto pine nuts & fresh basil, and blue cheese. Arlene had
something even neater, at least to the eye. An Asparagus, and
Tomato herb soup. It was half and half, red and green. She
didn’t mix it for a long time, spooning from each side, telling me
how pretty it was and how good the herbs and soup was on each
side. I gave her some of my tart to try, but it really didn’t go
with her soup. Boy, this was splendid.
I must mention the desert. It was a delicate raspberry swirl
cheesecake and coffee. It was delicious, and we shared it. But,
as often the case Arlene was struck by how good it was and that
we needed to pay for it by going back on yet another diet.
Down the road was the Lobster meal of PEI, a church dinner,
family serving type place at Shaw’s Hotel. We’d need to wait a
while for that, maybe for Sunday brunch. Beyond it were the
dunes; our objective. They are part of the National SeaSide Park
along the northern coast of PEI and the Gulf of St Lawrence.
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They are covered with grass and rise 150 to 200 feet above the
red sandy beach, Biddley Beach.
There were people, on the beach, from evey part of Canada,
eastern and central, the Maritime, Quebec and Ontario. All
with umbrellas, ice chests, beach toys and blow-ups. There were
lifeguards and not far from the shore, floats and restricting lines
to keep people from going out beyond them.
This was a regular beach, like my childhood along the
Chesapeake Bay in Virginia, Colonial Beach. Signs were up
warning of the ‘Red Giants’. Jelly Fish at least a foot in
diameter. There were treatment booths, which administered a
home remedy cure of sand and salt water. We didn’t ask any
victims how well it worked. But, I’d have gone for ammonia,
which we use for fire
ants, and failing that maybe just plain urinating on the burn. In
any case these purple guys were strung out all over the beach.
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We walked down the beach and soon were past most of the
bathers, then headed up into the dunes along the shoreline. It
was a pretty easy path; despite walking in sand where each step
usually causes one to fall back some. From the top we could see
in every direction, out to sea to the horizon, and waves
rythmatically rolling on to shore. Back toward the Island small
valleys rose and fell among the grassy dunes, with ponds filling
in between. The wind blew across the dunes swaying the grasses
like cat paws on calm water. We took photos, sat and enjoyed
the view while Arlene braided strands of grass.
After some time we strolled back down to the beach and back to
camp. It occurred to us that we didn’t have the strength in our
legs like before, say a few years ago. My hip was sore and my
thighs wouldn’t lift me like they ought to. Arlene’s knee was
sore, other than that she doesn’t complain.
I need not say a word about the ‘Consultant’. He was worth his
weight in advice and we still had several places to go. Better yet,
we might see him again tomorrow at the computer center or at
breakfast.
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Getting back to camp broke the spell. Did I describe camp as a
carnival? Well I’m wrong it’s a ZOO. I just came back from the
John. On my way the 5,000 kids came rushing past on both
sides, on bikes & scooters, without helmets. Kids with cookies in
both hands running into the John to pee and eat, and to never
under any threat, to either flush or wash their hands. Kids
jumping on each other and screaming. Just screaming, my ears
couldn’t adjust to what the screams were about, if anything, but
surely not joy. Teenagers walking by smoking several cigarettes
at a time, two fisted. Babies, closer to their campsites were
throwing wood into the campfires while their adults; the ones on
vacation stuffed themselves with fat chips, peanuts and delicious
diabetic mayonnaise and cream cheese dips. All of this before
the sun set. I’m telling you it’s a ZOO.
Today we are on our way to Summerside, along the shores of the
Northumberland Strait. The ride is far enough so that I might
make a defense of my brash actions. Actions contributed to me
by my dear wife, and that I might never live down. It’s simply
called ‘easily influenced’.
Good ideas pop up all the time, and it’s up to us to know when to
take advantage of them. Sometimes it might not be so clear to
everyone just how good an idea might be or it may be so subtle
that it’s not even noticed. This could have been the problem
with this swell idea. It went a little like this.
Several winters ago we were visiting some dear friends in Naples
Florida, Sandy and Jack Peterson. He is a man of as many
charms as he has first names. George, Jack, Pete are only a few.
Sandy has a keen decorating eye which has made many homes
more beautiful including ours. She also is a swell cook and
entertainer. So when we visit it is always on our mind how to
dine in, rather than go to any of the wonderful expensive
restaurants in Naples.
Jack came home at his usual time, but we had already begun our
cocktails, and for a short while he’d be in catch-up mode. By the
time we sat down to dinner everything was rosy. Salad,
Spaghetti Alla Puttanesca or Spaghetti of the Whores, a fine New
York cheesecake, a couple of bottles of Chianti and coffee in the
most beautiful coffee set I’ve ever seen. Dinner was a delight.
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Now, I don’t want to confuse you by mentioning the grand coffee
set. Because, within the year we visited John Ringling’s estate in
Sarasota. Yes that’s where I saw a duplicate. Unfortunately it
wasn’t for sale. Nor in the years since have I ever seen anything
like it. I’ve settled on a Russian set that’s really quite nice. Too
bad, but, let’s concentrate on the sleeper item.
That’s right two; no actually three swell ideas when you count
dinner. Of course we got the recipe for the ‘Whores’, but the
beautiful carved salad bowl was to die for. It was like no other
I’ve ever seen; dark rich walnut with a grain that ran around it
rather than through it. I loved it and now we are approaching
Summerside and Thompson’s Woodcraft gallery and store. So
we went in.
I’ve mentioned all the local woods that others carved, and
offered here on the Island. They were okay, yet except for the
Cherry I wasn’t really tempted.
Wilfred Thompson met us at the door, and fortunately for us, we
were able to talk ourselves into an A1 tour of his shop. He
chooses tree trunks from the local farmers, cuts them into 10
foot lengths. And then into chunks depending upon what he
expects to make of them.
Huge bowls or extra long trays would come from larger chunks.
Knots were important, as the swirls and grains are stronger and
more attractive. Then, he carves each into a more refined ‘piece’
shape with his chain saw. That’s the first step, the next starts
after a drying season.
Focusing on the bowls, they came in every size and shape, large
ones with bowed sides, narrow deep ones with sharp vertical
sides, small ones for single service, and utensils. The woods
were as varied as the shapes, Cherry, Ash, Oak, Maple and
Beech. I like Cherry anything, but the Maple was really
appealing. The one I chose had many shades of light brown, and
pinks. It had lots of little darker knots, shaped like comas. The
grains swirled softly around but not over whelming the piece.
Near the rim on each side were clear markings of the heartwood.
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He called it Birds Eye Maple. It was large enough for eight or
ten salad serving, and after some discussion he tossed in a
couple of Birds Eye utensils. I’m glad he did as we had come to
the end of our line, and couldn’t afford any serving pieces. It’s
so beautiful that even today I don’t think about the price when
tossing a salad, but the joy of using it. $150.00…gulp!
You might think that buying the bowl would have ended the day
with a great deal of satisfaction. It did, and surely I was, but
down the road a ways near Kensington was another grand
exhibit called Woodleigh Gardens.
The story of Woodleigh Gardens and it’s replicas is about a
WWII veteran, Earnest Johnstone, who was taken by London’s
landmarks, and buildings. He set out to replicate them in
miniature models. Not so miniature that you couldn’t enter
them, but small enough to fit upon his 40 acres. You would
have to see the effort to believe it. Most were built with stones or
boulders, with towers, and spires, with steeple shaped windows
and doors.
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One with a white façade was Georgian; unfortunately I don’t
recall which it was. Others were the Tower of London, Dunvegan
Castle, small cottages with thatched roofs, and my favorite York
Minister Cathedral.
The gardens surrounded the landmarks making the setting quite
beautiful and peaceful. Paths wound around flowerbeds, over
small bowed bridges, across little streams and through large
mature maples and oaks. It was a delightful place to spend our
afternoon.
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We are leaving our campsite in touristy Marco Polo Land today
for a three-night stay on the eastern side of the Island. Each day
we were able to drive to wonderful beaches, seaside-fishing
villages, and over the rolling green hills of potato fields and
hardwood trees.
It’s not far to any part of the Island and we arrived at Brudenell
River Provincial Park early in the day, and set up quickly. We’ve
always set up quickly. Even before we had the RV. Maybe
because we’re more like travelers than campers.
Our friend Shelly, who we met in Alaska, differentiated between
travelers and campers. His wife Bernie helped him realize it.
He used to fish, and would motor to a spot among the Florida
islands and throw out his anchor. Then he met Bernie, and she
loved to go with him. But, after settling, she would ask what’s
around that bend? And around the bend they would go. Then
she’d say “Isn’t there a cove over there?” And over to the cove
they’d go. Soon it became apparent that he would need to
choose between fishing and traveling. He did, and a good one;
now he is, and they are travelers. As are we.
Mostly, it means we stay places for only a short while, pack
lightly and usually layout a simple campsite. Here at Brudenell
we picked out a flat site, backed into it, and attached our electric
line. We seldom use local water, preferring to buy Calgon or
other filtered water by the gallon. Occasionally we spread the
canopy, but always close it before retiring. Today it was pouring
rain so we left it rolled up.
Down the road a bit we stopped at the Rossignol Winery. Maybe
the only vineyard on PEI. To set the mode we enjoyed several
ounces of their reds & whites. That softened us up and therefore
we never uttered a word, like you could confuse the estate’s
name with the Ski Company.
We had drunk just about everything on board and needed to
replenish our shelves. So we bought a couple of mystery whites
that were in Bordeaux shaped bottles, and a late harvest desert
wine from the Ortega grape.
On the way back to camp we stopped at the Lobster Shanty. It
was okay. The Consultant was still doing pretty well. At the
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park’s Visitors Center we watched a video and saw some local
paintings. The video rekindled my batteries as I slept through it.
Arlene unfortunately doesn’t rejuvenate herself like that.
The paintings at the Visitors Center were done by a young man
from Murray River, and depicted Island scenes in the early
century. Farm fields, a General Store, and one of a 1930 car
being pulled from the mud by two draft horses.
At the General Store we learned the paintings belonged to his
Mother. The auto painting was interesting, because before the
1930’s automobiles were not allowed in PEI. They were illegal
in the Province.
We asked about the paintings and the Rangers took the time to
track down other works by the artist. Some were displayed near
the winery we had just passed. Paintings on the side of a couple
of barns and garages. They found the address of his mother &
father who lived in Murray River. We called them and were
invited over. They were fun to visit. Their son was a professor at
the University in Montreal, and they had traveled around the
world with the military before retiring home.
She told us that just down the road was an old gristmill, where
as a child she used to swim and bath. I figured that meant there
was no indoor plumbing. Which reminded me of my mother’s
stories around 1910 in Pennsylvania.
Later that evening we walked around camp and came across a
family cemetery, The markers went back many years, and
described families’ jobs or professions. One at the Gordons
family plot told of the merchants and sailors of last centuries
sailing ships.
Today we’ll move to another location near to the new bathhouse
and laundry. That will give us a chance to relax, wash sheets,
and things, sweep out and clean up the RV. For breakfast we
had eggs, bacon and toast. I prefer my toast well done, so I
moved the toaster outside on the picnic table. Previously I’d set
off the smoke alarm. It has been a quiet day, but we are now
ready to move on toward the ferry and Cape Breton.
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CAPE BRETON
By 5:30 a.m. we’d pulled the plug and headed for Woods Island,
Northumberland Ferry. The sea was calm for our crossing.
In an hour and half we traveled to Caribou Nova Scotia, and
were heading east on Canadian 104. Our first stop was to add
air to our tires. We stop frequently to check the air, but the
Canada Tire company couldn’t reach the inside tires. Our
second stop in Auld’s Cove, a truck stop couldn’t do it either. I
was beginning to think it may have something to do with being
American, but that’s a story we should save for the folks in
Quebec. Quebec has been on a ‘We’re French’ rip for a couple of
years. They have taken some pretty strong positions toward
Americans, speaking French not English.
When we bought the RV our mechanic, Nick, told us to keep the
best tires on the inside, which we’ve done. He didn’t add that we
should have valve extenders so these folks, at truck stops and
tire companies could get at them easily.
Nova Scotia is separated into three parts. There’s the middle
area we crossed into that connects with the mainland. The
southern area with Digby, Dartmouth, and Halifax, and the
northern area where the Cabot Trail and the Great Breton
Highlands are.
We were headed for the Cabot Trail crossing the Strait of Canso
into Cape Breton up the western side headed toward Inverness.
This is a pleasant drive, with strange names of villages, hills and
valleys. We had to look up these names. A Glen is a narrow
secluded valley. A Dale is another kind of valley, but we’re not
sure what kind. This is like being out west with Canyons, Draws,
and Gulches. A Loch, which we’ve seen several of, yet might not
recognize is a narrow opening bay.
Along the way Arlene tried to get me to pull over and take a
nap. We’d been on the road for nine hours, and it was a good
idea. We passed through many small communities. Finally,
stopping at one whose name we don’t recall, but it had a small
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Catholic Church. It was right on the roadside. We parked and
climbed the steps to the front door and entered this interesting
church.
The building was made of cut granite. Inside everything looked
like whitish gray marble. Of course, unless it was local it would
have been very expensive. On closer inspection it turned out to
be Linoleum. The floors, walls and every pillar were wrapped in
it. We were surprised, but it did look nice. Local folks told us
that the church had been built by the community a long time
ago.
By 4:30 p.m. we’d arrived at Cheticamp River and campground.
It’s part of Cape Breton Highlands National Park. Our site was
nestled nicely among some tall Birches. There were many other
campers, but it wasn’t crowed or open like Marco Polo. We had
picked up dinner from a grocery along the road. It was hot dogs
and potato salad.
There are no reservations in the National Park, but we were able
to buy a multi-day pass. There were several advantages to it. A
th
25% discount, which means each 4 night, was free. Secondly,
and at least as good given the number of campers in this park,
was that the Rangers would call ahead and try to save a place for
us. We’d like to stay in Broad Cove on the eastside of the park
but if we arrived on Friday there might not be any sites. Fridays
and Saturdays are usually the busiest everywhere. That’s when
all the locals can get away for the weekend.
By morning we had rested. It was still raining, but we decided
that our slickers were enough protection and we headed out
along the Salmon Trail. It followed the Cheticamp River, which
after rain for a week was running high, and over flowing, it’s
banks in places. We were able to skirt around those spots, and
walk several miles up stream. The forest around us was thick,
with Maples and White Birch. Sometimes so thick they created
a tunnel for us. Occasionally we could see the hillsides and
higher up the hardwoods were replaced with softer Fir and
Spruce.
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We had been told that the higher the elevation the shorter the
trees grew. That’s probably true, but maybe it’s more of a
combination between latitude and weather, as we were less than
2000 feet above the sea. I guess we were around 45 degrees
north. As things go it could be considered pretty far south. I
can remember crossing the 60 th parallel near Edmonton,
Alberta and thinking how far south we’d come from the
Northwest Territories. Even in Newfoundland we probably
won’t reach fifty degrees north.
Things do grow shorter here in this semi-tundra like
environment. I wonder if you could make a quick collection of
Bonsai trees, having a 100-year head start on selected trees.
Now that’s truly an American thought, getting it done quickly.
The walk was fun, even though the campground was crowded
only two couples were on the path, both heading in the opposite
direction. Arlene observed one with walking sticks. She believes
they would be some help to her and her knee.
When she makes observations like that it’s not long before we
act upon them. Unlike me, who might store-up those things for
years.
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For dinner we went into town. This was the last
recommendation from the ‘Consultant’. It was another good
one. We had fresh cod and over cooked vegetables, with
butterscotch pie for me and apple for her. The town of
Cheticamp is spread out along the roadside, and has lots of
shops devoted to selling local folk crafts like paintings, carvings
and trinkets. It seemed like time for retribution, you know after
the wooden bowl. After dinner we visited several of these shops.
Arlene has been searching in every nook and cranny for
something. I suspect anything will do, and fear those moments
as she generally leaves all reason behind; as she does from time
to time. She found something near the restaurant, a hook-a-rug
operator.
The local lady in-charge explained in never ending simplicity
how the rug was made. The industrial yarn was dyed, bought
next door at the co-op along with the super market dye. The
burlap of highest quality came from Scotland, and was stretched
while the yarn was interwoven, weaving the rug into shape.
Pretty and bright colors made up these rugs.
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Sorry, but I’m reminded of our last Great Depression and my
grandmother’s farm, and probably many homes all across our
land. These colorful rugs were made of rags, old rags tied and
woven together. Not what I want at home.
I’m was also reminded of the several cats and kittens I’ve owned
over the years, and how easily they would unravel, and destroy a
hook-a-rug with a single pull. Please, Arlene take a deep breath.
Let’s look elsewhere.
Well, maybe her last bite of pie was too much, or it had been a
long day, and she just didn’t have the energy to pursue it any
further. She was at any rate uneasy and just wanted to go back
to camp.
Oh My! Did we, did I just dodge a bullet?
Heading back to camp the rain continued. The sharp hills and
valleys cut a swath into the highlands; the heavy mist and clouds
hung over the tree tops.
KONG! KONG! KONG!
Arlene repeated.
Now this is part of what makes her so adorable. Although it’s
not uncommon for her to hallucinate. Particularly after a good
meal and a good physical workout like her hike today.
KONG! KONG! KONG!
She repeated again.
There was no need to get overly exercised by this, as we were not
under attack. We arrived back at camp, safely. She was tired,
and quickly fell asleep. The King Kong adventure passed
although the clouds still hung onto the hillsides.
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This morning she was up, but continued this strange behavior.
She showed an uncommon interest in me. ‘Maybe I’d like her to
make breakfast for me’? IN BED..My but, I only eat in bed at
night. I’d probably like a back rub also. Sure I always want that.
She moved on and started cleaning with a vengeance, starting
under the oven.
Umm, that’s one of the really good storage areas in the RV.
After everything was out she moved on to the shower area.
Oops, this was getting out of hand and I need to step in, and
apologetically, add a little sanity. It obviously was caused by
days of rain.
We’ve noticed that getting out of the RV is pretty important to
our well being. Days upon days of either rain or heat can cause
us to be sequestered inside. It upsets our agenda and causes our
relationship to become extra creative.
It didn’t take much, as she put most of the stuff back under the
oven. She didn’t complain much either. Only one or two
questions about some important gear we were carrying. What’s
this electric drill for? And without waiting for an answer.
What’s this Q-Max search light for? Still she didn’t wait. Maybe
it was enough that she pointed out those things that we would
never, ever, ever use.
Now she’s headed back to the shower. I am somewhat relieved
as there’s a lot of her things in there. She comes out with a bag
of cosmetics. It really slows her down, as she pulls a couple of
bottles and jars out. She opens one and starts applying
something to her eyelids. She holds up another jar and says she
won’t need it; here in the wilderness.
Where the hell is the sun? We need to go for a hike, a swim in
the rageing river, climb a mountain. Something.
We headed north out of camp towards Pleasant Bay. The King
Kong like terrain continued.
Geologically Cape Breton Highlands is supposed to be split into
four different geologic plates. Those things that our earth’s
crust floats around on. The oldest is above the National Park.
Another includes the Park. My impression is that these plates
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are similar to the ones of Ireland, Scotland and the British Isles,
and for some reason broke away. Floating over to the ‘New
World’.
The land rises up from the Gulf, maybe 1,000 to 1300 or even
1400 feet around Mount French or Mackinsey. That steep rise
creates vistas that are breath taking. We drove up and down the
sides of these hills, stopping at every outlook. I don’t want to
give the wrong impression, roads are at a premium. There is
only one and it skirts along the shore of the Gulf of St Lawrence.
At one point Arlene was sure she saw whales swimming below.
The calm, placid gulf had cat’s paws over it from the light winds,
but no waves. With the binoculars she spotted fins. They
looked like dorsal fins, black and shiny, as they moved up and
down rythmaticly through the sea. It was difficult otherwise to
see them. I couldn’t find them with the camera.
It was surprising how these seas had calmed in one day.
Yesterday the tops of waves were being blown off them as they
rolled into shore 5 or 6 feet high. Today they might have been
six inches.
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We walked out across the tops of these mountains, if you could
call them that. They rise up from the sea and then flatten out.
On top the Highlands look mostly like a bog, wet and spongy.
There are ponds and hills with stunted trees and bushes which
are really dense. The hills are flat yet cut by steep valleys and
glens. Probably cut and carved by glaciers thousands of years
ago.
There were old trees of every kind, and microenvironments
within each valley. The Spruce and Firs were less than three feet
tall, yet maybe a hundred years old. The cold and windy
conditions stunted their growth. We walked past many of them.
The terrain was very rough; poorly drained and a few inches
beneath the earth was granite. Walking was difficult. We had to
step over, around, and on many roots. At one point, along the
narrow pathway we saw hoof marks. Our guess was, a Moose
passed by earlier.
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Down below us along the River was a forest of very old Sugar
Maples. They stood 75 to 100 feet tall. As we walked among
them we noticed lots of young sprouts all around us. We
supposed they were waiting their turn to push up into the sun.
Trees that we might have identified as Birch could have been
Beechnut or Hazelnut, as their leaves are similar. The Rangers
told us that there was a Walnut tree along the coast. We didn’t
see it. Nor did they think it had propagated in this environment.
Back in camp we prepared to go to the amphitheater to listen to
a Rangers talk. As you might have guessed we’d heard a Ranger
talk about the Highlands Geology.
We had also met and talked with many of our neighbors. They
were a diverse group. One, a Blacksmith who recently had been
to Alaska, another a Cardiologist.
One camper had his extended family with him. We watched
him, while he spent most of his time trying to entertain his two
youngsters, 8 and 11. I think he wants to wear them out so they
will sleep. He takes them hiking, plays catch and other games
with them. By bedtime he was exhausted, and the kids were still
wired and ready to go.
We had a fresh Blueberry Pie, which after cutting a couple of
small slices from it took it over to a young couple that was
traveling in a van. They had built a rack about a foot off the
floor of the van, where they kept all their camp and cooking
gear. Above, on the rack they spread their air mattress and
sleeping bags. That’s pretty neat.
We attended the Rangers lecture and heard several stories. The
Salmon story in Nova Scotia is bleak, like that of Cod. The
salmon had been over fished and under protected.
The Cheticamp River is one of the natural Atlantic Salmon
Rivers in the Province. It had been fished for many generations
until about 1974 when all licenses were retired and no fishing
was allowed. Since then all fishing in the river has been ‘Catch
and Release’.
Like Northwestern Salmon they come back to their birthplace to
lay their eggs. However, they may return year after year to their
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spawning grounds to reproduce. After which they return to the
sea. They think they may live to be 11 or 12 years old.
The last count of them was 100. That’s not many, and a poor
number to use for any statistical evaluation. During the years
more than 700 have been introduced to the River, yet last year
only 25 were counted as returning. Among the problems is a
weak interest on the part of the government, and the special
gene pool that Nova Scotia wants to use for their waters. So
although the Cheticamp is a natural place for salmon to spawn.
Its waters run cold and clear. The riverbed is filled with pebbles
and cobblestones, and the temperature is regulated by the
upstream reservoir. It doesn’t seem to be making the grade.
The fishing industry, along the eastern coastline is hell bent on
destroying itself. Fishermen, instead of trying to reduce their
catch, just can’t do it, leaving their over fished oceans, and seas
empty, and getting worst.
This lecture was not a happy one, and surely not targeted at the
children, like so many American National Park lectures. It also
seems to be more of a ‘cry baby’ story than the usual ‘sledge
hammer’ approach of Americans. In either case our National
Parks over the continent are getting the short end of the stick
from our politicians, and our zealous economic captains of
industry.
After breaking camp we traveled again over the Cabot Trail.
There was a light rain and the fog clung to the hillsides and
valleys. For a change the overcast gave us a good view of the
Gulf. This time we could easily see the whales. There were
several pods of them, all pilot whales, 5 or more together. At
one stop we could actually hear them blow as they surfaced. We
drove past a Red Tailed hawk, which flew up in front of the RV
and straight ahead along the highway.
At the top of the Island we drove off the road toward Meat Cove.
That’s as far as it goes. It’s the end of the line. By a chance
encounter at the northern end, we came upon this spectacular
event. I’m not sure which town or community it was, only that
it was small by anyone’s standards, maybe 20 homes. It was a
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fishing village, and I have no idea why we stopped, maybe a
small sign ‘sailboats’ on the lawn.
We approached the small home, but no one was around.
Peaking through a window we were looking into a small
workshop. Inside, on a workbench was a large schooner
sailboat. The hull was 5 feet long, and the masts reached almost
to the ceiling. It was a magnificent model in size and detail. The
th
full keel modeled the sleek sailing vessels of the 19 century like
Nova Scotia’s famous Blue Nose. The decks were cut from single
strips of wood; the tackle was carved in detail. Multiple masts
stood with rigging.
We wonder what people do during the long winters. Some must
build ships or dories or models. I suspect this took several
winters. It’s a masterpiece, and the seaman/fisherman, was a
special craftsman. It was a museum piece.
This was one of those rare experiences that you could never plan
on. We never saw anyone around, nor were we able to talk to
anyone about it. We just saw it, and enjoyed it.
It had been a leisurely drive around the top of the Cape, and
down the eastern side to our next stop at Ingonish Beach. We’d
leave here for the Port of North Sydney. Our camp was called
Broad Cove, and around each campsite was a single tree.
I’m tired, more than I thought, so let’s just say this place was a
bit disappointing. Arlene grabbed a towel and shampoo and
took off toward the shower. I noticed her limping so her fall on
our last hike must still be bothering her.
It had been a short hike but more strenuous than usual. We
crossed the bog, around a pond, and down a steep hillside.
Stone steps had been built into the hill, which helped on one
hand, but hurts if you fall on them. Arlene did and hurt her
knee, but didn’t cut it. We kept going down the valley toward
the beach and the mouth of the creek. The vistas were
marvelous; they overlooked the beach and the small cove where
the water rushed in along the rocky walls. Granite is everywhere
this was pink and brown. The water was black and when it
reached the end of the channel it made a squeaking noise. We
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watched it for a while, and then headed back. Arlene hobbled
along but didn’t complain, and didn’t say much.
She is feeling better after her shower. The warm water helped
sooth it and relax her. We’ll rest that knee for a few days,
starting right now. With wine in hand and as tired as we were
we sat back and relaxed.
One of our favorite pastimes is to watch our camp neighbors.
The ‘hood’ so to speak. That’s lots of fun and we laugh at the
different characters.
It struck me during this relaxed period that we might shift our
video focus from landscapes, and commentary, where we almost
never film any people to something more pleasant and
interesting; people. We could conduct interviews. Like Barbara
Walters or Diane Sawyer, or probably more like Charles Karault
and his ‘On the Road’ type stuff. His were more like it, down
home, earthy like interviews. We both thought this was a pretty
good idea.
Okay, so the next day we tried one of these interviews. A new
wave video, on a couple of youngsters down on the beach.
The beach was empty except for these three, who were probably
10 to 13 years old. They had been in the water for some time
and I suppose pretty cold, but they were not idlely swimming
around. They were very busy.
Each time one of them came back to shore they brought along a
lobster. They were catching lobsters with their bare hands.
They must have been at it for some time, as they had dug a small
pond in the sand, where they put their crustaceans. Maybe 5
lobsters and a couple of crabs. One boy stayed in the water
beyond the breakers with his goggles, while the other two; a boy
and girl were now on the beach shivering near their treasure.
I have to admit being raised in a unorganized, catch-can, pick-
me-up world, where as a kid if I or any of my friends wanted to
do something we had to get it together, organize it, define the
rules and if it required equipment like a piece of rubber hose for
stick ball, or a tennis racket and balls we’d have to find them.
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Because tennis was such a big deal. We’d have to take care of
the courts ourselves. They were dirt, or clay and we would roll
the courts, and line them ourselves. My parents, along with the
other kid’s parents worked for the War effort in Washington. So
we were pretty much left on our own to play, by ourselves.
I mention my background only because it did my heart good to
see these three industrious kids doing their own thing, amusing
and entertaining themselves in what looked like a pretty creative
adventure.
After watching for a while I moved in with the video. The
camera is really obvious and that immediately could cause an
unnatural response. So I kept it low and without a script, asked
a few, this is going to take some work, questions. Fortunately,
these kids were delighted with their undertaking and not-in-the-
least bashful in the face of a videoed interview.
They were spontaneous and even though a lobster had taken a
bite or two from them and even drew blood. They still picked
them up so I could see.
Their plan was to collect as many of anything that moved under
the water, and that they could catch. They put them in the sand
trap, or pond, as I called it, and would wait until the new tide.
With the tide their pond would become flooded and their catch
would swim back out to sea.
This was a good plan and their enthusiasm for it was clearly
recognizable. It would probably work if the tide were high
enough, at least for the 8 or so lobsters. However, the crabs had
already gone their own way. They had dug into the sand and
disappeared. The rising tide caused them to dig a little deeper.
Now this video interviewing may just work out. Just think if we
could have gotten Alfred and Maralee on video. They were real
campers; owned 7 tents had several trailers, and had camped in
Cape Breton Highlands all their lives.
We were back at camp and the wine was pouring. So there we
sat discussing the ‘hood’ sipping our wine strategizing about
who would make good videos and who should be first. Some of
our neighbors made the list, but it was too late in the evening to
record them. In fact our batteries had run down, and they as
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well as ourselves needed to be recharged. Here is a list we made
up of several neighbors and some questions we would ask.
As we drank the evening digressed, as you might see from a part
of our list that survived.
The ‘Lincoln Navigator’ camper with a slide out
trailer, mountain bikes, covered with protective
canvas, from New Jersey.
Interview Topic: What are you thinking?
The lady with a hair wig, three children, and a
husband all in a pop-up camper.
Interview Topic: Is it horsehair?
A young man that for hours swayed back and
forth, in an erotic motion, as if he was practicing
something. But we couldn’t tell if he was
practicing or challenged.
Interview Topic: None, we’d let that pass.
A group of separate campers, we’ll call the ‘bellies’,
because they drove between their campsites to
visit each other. They weren’t more than 10
campsites apart.
Interview Topic: What are you thinking?
Arlene has always believed that Pop-up’s leak.
There was a couple with a big blue tarp over half of
it. That’s why they are last on the list. They might
be coached into admitting leaks or maybe not.
They could of course have an altogether different
story. Like maybe they were drying the tarp.
Interview Topic: Didn’t you know they
leak?
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NEWFOUNDLAND I
We were first in line for the Ferry to Newfoundland. The port at
North Sydney was like most larger city harbors. Cranes loading
and unloading large ships. A separate dock for the Ferry was
more organized than Woods Landing and had a four-story
administration building. We thought we’d left anything above
two stories behind in Boston. From here the ferries cross the
Atlantic Ocean to Argentia, near St Johns and Port-aux-
Basques. Our trip is long enough. It’s scheduled for 6 hours.
I’d dread going to the other end of the Island, 14 hours.
I’ve never cared much for being first in line, maybe because my
name starts with ‘Z’. But in the top 5 or so has its rewards.
People, whether in or out of their vehicles in the top group seem
to have the most interesting stories. If for some reason you’ve
never been near the front of a line I’d recommend trying it. It’s
easy; just arrive 3 hours before the place opens up.
Our finest times at the front of the line have been in Florida
waiting for Grapefruit League, baseball tickets. The late
Washington Nationals, then Minnesota Twins, and now the
Texas Rangers held spring training just down the road from us.
Selective tickets, not season, go on sale in February and usually
about 9 in the morning. Arlene, and I would rise at 3a.m.,
bundle up and always got to the ticket office by 4; with our camp
chairs and thermos. This would allow us to be in the top 5 or so.
The folks that gathered at that hour were real baseball die-
hards, with as many good stories as they had experience with
the sport. Some were managers of local teams, others teachers,
and a few like us, with assorted backgrounds.
We drove aboard the Ferry, and parked in the bowels of the
ship, inches from a truck. The Ferry left on time in late
afternoon. The ocean was calm, with rolling waves. The ship
had a rhythmic movement, swaying back and forth. Not enough
to cause anyone discomfort. The trip was uneventful, but we
arrived after dark at Port-aux-Basques.
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Despite this being Newfoundland’s 50 anniversary as part of
th
the Canadian Confederation, over 33,000 visitors were
expected. We didn’t have a Hawaiian greeting. There was no
one at the docks.
The evening however, was beautiful, clear sky, no city lights;
stars flickered brilliantly with enough light to lead us to Grand
Codroy, our overnight camp.
My first impression of Newfoundlanders reminded me of Edgar
Bergin, the ventriloquist. They seemed to talk without moving
their lips. After two quick encounters, giving them the benefit of
my doubts, I couldn’t understand a word. In fact I wasn’t sure
they were even speaking, except for the strange sounds.
Languages and dialects aren’t my cup of tea. I have a very poor
ear for such things and have suffered for it. My earliest
recollection of this problem was during the 1950’s, on my first
trip though Georgia. I was sure I’d entered some strange foreign
land while traveling to Florida.
My English, as slow and often inarticulate as it is, has never
been questioned. That is my diction. Once a dialectian tried to
place my origins He was pretty good, a court stenogpher, who
at once placed Arlene’s dialect from Waterbury Connecticut. He
identified my fake ‘you’ll’ and a few other learned idiosyncrasies
right away, but that didn’t help. I evidently have very few
special dialectic mannerisms in my speech. After learning that I
was from Washington DC, he attributed it to that. Although it
could be argued most people in Washington spoke dialectic free
English. He claimed that Washington was a weird place and a
dialectic free spot.
Being tone deaf, as I described, causes camp registration to be
an adventure. Often a bi-lingual attendant will laugh pleasantly
and make friendly comments like ‘Bonjour’ ‘It’s nice to have you
visit’ or ‘How can I help you today?’ after I stumble through a
greeting sounding like ‘Bone Your’.
Things will get better, the longer we stay and the more I hear.
The easier it will be to understand, and that’s important. We set
up a plan today, reviewing the places we wanted to go and the
distances. Newfoundland was much larger than we originally
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assumed. It’s 600 miles across to St John’s alone. We realized
the need to call the Ferry and make another date for returning.
They were delighted to hear from us and gladly changed our
return date, allowing us another 6 or 7 days.
With our chores done, and our new plan in place we took the
afternoon to drive along the ocean shoreline down to Rose
Blanche. What a beautiful way to introduce this province.
Could the island be solid granite? With just a thin sheath of
topsoil maybe 5 or 6 inches deep. Sure it could. That might
explain why the major industry is fishing, because no one could
plow fields, or even dig gardens.
We wove our way along the road, stopping often to climb the
hills between the channel and ocean. Sometimes there were
walkways and granite steps to the top of these hills, other times
we just climbed up and around the boulders, brush, and grassy
knolls. Each excursion left us high enough to see both the waves
crashing against the rough shoreline, and on the other side the
calm protected channel. There wasn’t a lot of traffic in the
channel, but usually we could watch a small fishing boat, with a
cabin. They all had protective cabins.
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At one stop, there was a simple granite tower with built in steps
and a gravel pathway leading up to it? It was a lighthouse with a
very simple and primitive design. Blocks of granite, cut a foot
thick for inside and outside walls, and wooden benches in the
single open rooms. It was cold inside, yet from the second floor
we could see out over the waves, the rocks and some distance
down the shoreline.
At the end of the road was the community of Rose Blanche. It
was small. It hugged the channel, and homes climbed up the
rocky slopes only a couple of tiers. The homes were mostly two
stories, and climbed the slopes themselves. Each level being set
back from the next, resting upon the rocky hill. The single lane
road was lined with telephone poles. In town proper, about 7
houses were all painted white. The garages were built separate
from the houses. Smaller Boats, mostly with open cockpits, like
dories were pulled out of the water and lay beside the homes.
We didn’t see any stores so they probably drove into Port-Aux-
Basque to the market.
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What was stunning was the simplicity, the cleanliness and the
colorful beauty of these homes. They were like Easter eggs,
Blue, Turquoise, Green, White, Rose, Red, Yellow or Gray.
Every imaginable color standing out against the green and gray
hills, brilliantly in the sunlight. It was a beautiful unforgettable
sight.
Here was Newfoundland, and for all our travels around the
Island we would never replace this image.
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WELCOME TO NEWFOUNDLAND!
Today we’re headed for Corner Brook, the second largest town,
besides St John’s. We also discovered the second largest
industry on the island, lumber. There are lots of trees, and
forests everywhere, but it’s hard to understand where they find
enough earth to grow. It’s not difficult to see that Corner Brook
is also built on the hillsides of granite. We drove around town
and found a parking place at Canadian Tire, and a suggestion for
lunch. That was Jennifer’s.
Her place was on the second floor of a wooden building. The
stairs were narrow and creaked. When we got to the top there
was a waiting room, in which we waited until Jennifer came over
and told us that it would be a long wait. We weren’t
discouraged, and waited a while before being seated. We had a
nice buffet lunch.
Outside on the street we walked around and came upon an ‘all
Newfoundland’ store. The proprietor seemed proud when he
told us nothing was from China. Like Jennifer’s, all the
buildings in town were wood. We browsed over several neat
things. I liked the wooden boats, sailing boats, and dory’s. They
had bone, and wood carvings and wool clothing. Arlene bought
her first carved wooden Loon. A cute little back bird with a
polk-a-dotted white breast.
The most interesting item in the store was an orange-yellow jar
of preserves, It was called by several names, but for us it was
‘Baked Apple’. It’s a small raspberry like fruit, except in color,
which grew on a small plant, 4 inches high. It produced only
one berry. It liked the cold, and grew in bogs. The best place for
it was in Labrador.
The shop had several small jars of it, which we bought one, just
to try. For several reasons we were told that they were very
expensive. Of course it was and scarce, we had never seen
anything like it. But the proprietor smiled as he said the other
reason for their cost was that you had to go into the bog to pick
them and you might not survive the trip. The danger evidently
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wasn’t the bog so much as these little berries ripened at the
same time the black flies swarm. .
We aren’t going to encounter any black flies on this trip, but
years ago I did. It was north of Quebec City, at a remote
campground. We were in a tent. Dan at the time was 5 years
old and was a toe-headed kid. He had lots of energy, and it was
really difficult to keep him protected. He ran around a lot. The
fly’s bit him all over, but mostly on his head. They would get
tangled in his white locks. My image of him and the flies around
his head was something like the Al Capp comic strip character
that was always followed by a big black cloud. In this case it
was black flies all over Dan’s poor head.
It began raining as we left Corner Brook and would for the next
several days. Driving in the rain is never much fun, and really
exhausts me.
I might say there’s a rule of roads. It’s simple; the further north
one goes the fewer roads. Newfoundland is a good example.
One road, Canadian Route 1 traverses the entire island, from
Port-aux-Basques to St John’s, wandering so to speak all over.
There are a few other roads, but only the one highway. Rain by
itself causes one to be a little more attentive, but because Route
1 is the only highway all the traffic uses it. The heavy trucks
actually sink in and cause ruts, two in each lane. This makes
driving really hard, as the water runs into these ruts and causes
your tires to slip and slide. It’s called skiing, and although we
had new tires, which push lots of water away, we still slid
around.
We camped along the way, at Kona Beach in Springfield right on
the beach. The wind blew at a constant 20 miles per hour. It’s
easy to tell that speed, as flags will stand straight out, as ours
did.
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On a side trip we drove to Twillingate, a small fishing village on
an island just off the northern shore. The secondary roads were
pretty rough. Inhabitants rely upon Cod, and hoped they would
come back, but of course they have not. Even a moratorium on
fishing hasn’t helped.
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Today an individual or family is allowed to catch 10 during a
designated 3-day period. Companies are not any better off; they
can only catch about 5,000 pounds during the season. That’s
hardly enough to pay for taking a boat out.
There was one more stop before we got to St John’s, Terra Nova.
This National Park was in the deep forest, along the indented
shoreline. We had a nice site, surrounded by trees. Most of
Newfoundland is forested, and either swampy or boggish.
That’s a great habitat for Moose. And there are reported to be
plenty of them.
Surprisingly Moose are not native to the island. They were
originally introduced around 1920. But, for some reason didn’t
survive. They were reintroduced later and it worked, they
reproduced. There are now more Moose than people. That fact
might cause some drivers or hikers to be a little cautious.
Some say, that Moose are the most dangerous animals in North
America. Those same people, for whom I have great regard,
believe it’s because they are unpredictable. I’m sure that’s a
code word for stupid. We’ve heard stories of hikers being treed
for hours by Moose. I’ve had one pass in front of me on a
backcountry road, so close that their body blocked the light from
the windshield. With the skinniest legs they may support 2000
pounds, and can move, like lightening.
It’s always important to be safe and ready for any suspected
occurrence. We practiced Moose sightings, and alert responses.
Simply, when on foot don’t act like it’s a Bear and stand your
ground. Nor like a Mountain Lion or Panther, backing off
slowly. The best advice we had was, if possible move away, far
away. If that’s not possible get behind a tree. Hopefully, choose
one that you can climb. Climb high and to the most comfortable
spot you can find as you could be there for a while
We also practiced auto responses. They don’t have to jump out
in front of the RV while driving 50 or so. That may be too late,
and because they’re so high off the ground you could expect
them to go right through the windshield. But, our scenarios
were for sighting them along the side of the road, which gave us
a little time to react.
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The good news is Arlene never sleeps. She watches the road,
like a hawk, all the time. Me, just some of the time. She, from
time to time remarks on different things she sees. Observations
about me are generally either, I look tired, or a question like ‘am
I hungry? In either case that means stop driving and get off the
road. Otherwise it’s usually an announcement. ‘Hey look at
that’ or ‘There’s a deer’ or ‘Did you see that?’
All men, all partners, are pretty good at deciphering these
notices and can often tell if they are just curious observations or
are more serious alerts. That’s why practicing Moose alerts is so
important.
If I see a Moose while driving I’ll try to take evasive action, if
necessary. If Arlene sees one she needs to help me out a little.
Screaming ‘ MOOSE!’ isn’t helpful. It just causes total chaos. It
can upset the driver for hours. Instead we practiced her alerting
me to the Moose, and at the very same time, immediately,
pointing to it with out stretched arms. And please, Arlene,
exaggerate the action.
I don’t usually describe Arlene in a negative manner, but there
are times. This is one of them. It’s pretty important for ‘our’
safety, both her’s and mine to get this right. She is hesitant to act
out, and it takes a lot of encouragement to get her to respond
like our Moose alert plan would cause her to do. She is much
more reserved, and surely believed that a simple shout-it-out
would do. Practicing therefore became a real chore. In my most
positive posture, I demanded it.
By the time we arrived in St John’s we had practiced lots and
Arlene had become pretty animated about it. ‘MOOSE!’ She
would shout and point to the side of the road.
St John’s has a long European history, starting in the 1490’s
with John Cabot. Its perfect protected harbor has caused it to be
the center of trade and commerce in Newfoundland ever since.
We expected it to be as old as its history, but were surprised to
find it to be young, vibrant and a very colorful city.
We camped on the hillside at Pippy Park, on a reasonably flat
site, with trees, and a 3 way hook-up, that’s water, electric and
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sewer. It was a nice site but we wouldn’t spend much time
there, as we were mostly on the go.
We went to Boon’s where we hoped to buy some SOIREE 99’
polo shirts with Newfoundland, Labrador and the province flag
th
embroidered on the sleeves. This is their 50 so we had called
ahead to make sure they would have them in each size for the
clan back home. Unfortunately, they had sold out.
Streets don’t run in an orderly fashion. It seems that towns that
grew up on sea coasts often are designed to inhibit pirates as
opposed to helping travelers. St. John’s is like that. If you live
there you obviously know your way around despite the lack of
and the reliability of the signs. So very soon we picked out some
landmarks to guide us. In town we used the confederation
building. On the outskirts we used Signal Hill, which rose above
the city.
On the way back across town we stopped at the Post Office,
mailed a few cards and then headed to Costco. Yes, Costco. the
very warehouse store of everyone’s dreams. Even before we
went shopping we took several pictures of it with us in the
foreground just to prove it. Then we called to Vermont to talk to
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Matt and Laura. They are the only ones in our family that go to
Costco.
We’ve been going to Costco since before it existed and called
itself Price Club. Simply, we believed that we could shop there
blindfolded, and choose anything. Although it might not be
something we either wanted or needed, it would be good quality.
We wouldn’t say that about other warehouse stores. Costco has
stores all over North America, mostly on the coasts, and a few in
other countries like Japan and Australia. They also offer travel
excursions like cruises. We’d like to see a travel trip, two weeks
or maybe 3 to multiple Costco sites with a few other encouraging
activities.
It’s true that we spend too much time in Costco, and while
traveling have driven out of our way just for lunch. That’s
happened in Montana, Arizona, and in California. But, we’ve
also been to their stores all over the continent, from Alaska to
Washington to Mexico, from Florida to Vermont and now
Newfoundland.
Downtown, there is a shopping area near the waterfront. The
houses and buildings are all wooden, usually smallish, and
colorfully painted. The stores have lots of items, souvenirs,
clothing, and whisky.
The latter, ‘SCREECH’ is the most popular drink in
Newfoundland and is supposed to be drunk all over the Island.
It was once a horribly cheap rum of about 80% alcohol, for
sailors, but has been refined. From something like ‘White
Lightning’ or Moonshine around 80% to 90 % alcohol to a
moderate 40%, like many whiskies.
It possibly got its name from the sound of a sailor screaming,
after getting his breath back after a shot of it. We got three
bottles. One a miniature the other two 5 th’s . One 5 for Ed our
th
friend in Maine who told us the legend. The miniature was to
see if we could stand it. Both are still in our cabinet at home
unopened. Fear of the legend over came us.
Arlene added to her collection of Loons. This one is a little
whistle, that cries eerily like a loon. This is the 2 in her
nd
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collection. We also bought some tee shirts, and polo or golf
shirts with Newfoundland/Labrador insignias on them.
I’ve said the town is young and colorful. Probably because
younger people have a stronger constitution than us seniors and
don’t mind the cold as much. Everyone was wearing shorts, and
there’s plenty for them to do here. During the summer outside
activities, like golf, baseball, hiking and camping are popular.
Education is the primary draw, the University and College, along
with the Island’s Medical Center and school.
It’s colorful because ‘Newfies’ seem to love their houses in bright
colors. They were close together, which is a good idea in the
cold, but strangely there weren’t any garages. They take good
care of their homes painting and maintaining them. We found
the town inviting, lively and friendly with children everywhere.
What a day, it was really swell. On our way back to camp we
drove past a place called ‘East Side Mario’s’ which we had little
or no interest in except that the name ‘Mario’s’ reminded me of
a little take-out down the street from my early home in
Arlington.
Mario’s in Arlington Virginia was a ‘50’s fast-food place for
subs. They were made to order and the best 6-12 inch steak
sandwiches I’ve ever eaten. The guys behind the counter would
take orders, as many as 10, at a time. Then cook them. Steak,
cheese, pickle, lettuce tomato, mustard, mayonnaise, onions and
anything else you might want for a condiment. Each done
separately, they never missed. I’ve seen as many as 15 orders,
never written, never missed, all at one time. No wonder when I
saw the name I recalled this place when I was a teen.
We’ve made our way around town today, and back to camp. The
information center had some local maps, that Arlene did a fine
job of reading and navigating us around.
We were up early, but didn’t get out of camp until later in the
morning. We headed for Signal Hill. It was a steep climb on a
narrow road. Once you got up a little way there were few trees
or shrubs, just an early fall straw colored grass. Signal Hill is
adaptly named for its strategic position over St John’s.
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There were many battles fought here between the English and
French and the relics have been left behind, barracks,
encampments and so on. That was interesting, but more
important to us was the spectacular view, and The legacy of
Guglielmo Marconi.
Marconi, an Italian, Nobel Prize winner, was given credit or took
credit for the first transatlantic wireless communications. He
supposedly transmitted a message from Wexford England to
Signal Hill in 1901. A distance of 2,200 miles. His
transmission was done during the day, which caused quite a stir
as radio waves might only go ¼ that distance. At the time no
one knew how far they might go, and of course the Newfies
weren’t skeptical.
Never-the-less Marconi performed some remarkable feats. He
had assembled his apparatus in Italy at an early age and upon
moving to England received a lot of attention; he was 21 years
old. By 1898 he had transmitted across the English Channel.
The next year he broadcast the America’s Cup in Sandy Hook
New York, although not internationally.
By 1902 he had undertaken many long distance
communications and no longer was his work questioned. This
picture from archives, are men on Signal Hill putting up a kite,
which was used as an antenna.
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Morse code used for transmission by Marconi has a simple base.
It transmits either short or long, dot or dash. It’s enough to
know that it’s very close to binary, but to a youngster in
elementary school it became the nemesis of my teacher and the
joy and enthusiasm of my classmates. Even before studying
Marconi we each had a small 6-inch ruler. Everyone in class
had a ruler for math and other things.
The translation of Morse code, shorts and longs to a ruler was
swift. During class the activity was fierce. While class
instruction could be almost any subject, Math, History,
Grammar, or Geography. It didn’t make any difference as the
under current was always.
Dot-dash, dash-dash, dot-dash, dash-dash-dot-dot, dot-dot,
dash-dash, dash-dash-dot or short ruler-long ruler, long ruler-
long ruler and so on. ‘AMAZING’. And so we were, and so was
Marconi and Signal Hill.
The view from Signal Hill was also special. Even Cape Spear
was visible, the most eastern point in North America. But
beneath, and across from us were two high hills, 500 feet or so.
They marked the channel into St John’s a naturally, protected,
deep water harbor. A sailor could hardly ask for a better shelter.
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The lighthouse signals the entrance. We watched several ships
enter, and leave figuring that nothing could be safer. There were
stories however, that would introduce a semblance of caution.
Not about the protected port, but about being this far north.
Arlene, and I have sailed for years, along the East coast mostly
from the Chesapeake Bay and Long Island Sound. As we moved
north we incurred different challenges. In the Bay, we cared less
about running aground. The Bay is shallow, and sandy. If you
run aground you wait until the next tide and pull off. Further
north in the Sound, you don’t want to run aground, because of
the dangerous rocks. Moving further north the sea becomes
even more dangerous and here in Newfoundland there is only
granite.
Down below us was yet another challenge, the cold of the north
and calving glaciers. We’d seen several icebergs; some may have
been 6o feet high. That’s pretty high given they are 2/3 below
the water line. Look at the picture of the entrance. I surmise
that 60 feet would come up to the first building. Our summer
here is not very hot, and a 60 foot berg might not be around
now. We didn’t see any blocking the harbor.
The showstopper, the stories we’d heard were about larger
Icebergs. Bergs that would close the canal. Bergs that would
reach above the lighthouse and the Red Roofed attendant’s
home. That thought didn’t linger long on this summer day. We
watched a few more ships headed for safe harbor and turned to
go back down to the city.
On the way down we decided to go over to Cape Spear. It’s crazy
to want to say that you’ve been to the furthest point, east in
North America. But we did. We also thought it was important
to go to the furthest point east in the United States, Cadillac
Mountain.
At the point we walked around and took a couple of pictures on
a few misty rocks and watched the sunrise.
Just south of St. John’s is Witless Bay. We headed down that
way to go out to the Bird Sanctuary. It’s a fly zone and
thousands of birds nest off shore on four different islands.
Some places have strange names. This is one of them, and I was
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to shy to ask. Some of the other Provinces make fun of ‘Newfies’
so it’s only a guess that something terrible happened. Maybe
there was a courageous seaman they named the Bay after.
We decided to go on a tour to see the Puffins. Also off shore is a
very large community of Petrels. As kayakers, were familiar
with a fine boat named after these birds so it would also be nice
to see them. I suspect the boats would have many of the
qualities of the birds. Agile, able to make sharp turns on a dime,
really fast, and a pleasure to watch in the air as the boats are on
the sea.
Our tour boat looked like a large lobster boat, possibly 45 feet
long, with a single doghouse, and plenty of deck space both fore
and aft. That made our trip pretty comfortable, as the ocean was
calm, with four-foot swells. We carried our cameras and wore
slickers just in case. The sky was cloudy, no sign of rain, and the
water like we’d become accustomed to was dark blue, almost
black.
The first island was shrouded in mist. That’s one of those
things. When you go on an excursion sometimes it’s hard to tell
what’s going to happen. We didn’t see any birds, only waves
braking onto the rocky cliffs.
Our next island was clear and there were hundreds of Petrels
flying and darting above while thousands were perched, and
nesting on the rocky hills. Very little grass grew, no trees or
bushes, and the rocks were mostly white covered with guano.
The boat came close enough so we could see the birds nesting.
There were so many that it looked like a poke-a-dot dress,
brown with white dots.
The Puffin community was different. The island had a few wind
swept trees, much more grass, growing in clumps, and lots of
colored beaked birds. It’s mating season and they were busy,
showing their colors. Here are two of these cute fellows on the
rocks.
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