The one thing that is a bit of an issue
when visiting Newfoundland is the ridiculously long time needed to cross a
relatively short piece of water, a mere 182 km, from North Sydney to Port Aux
Basque will cost you an entire day, and of course another to cross back.
You
must arrive two hours before departure, so an 11 45 departure means that you
book in at 9.45 and then arrive at the other end at 6 p.m. and that’s not the
time that you’ll actually disembark. You can also take the ferry to Argentia, relatively
close to St John’s, but that’s 18 hours crossing time. The ferry itself is
fine, and you could even book a berth, but that would be a bit of a waste for
me, especially as I am are doing the daytime crossing. You can cross at night,
which would probably involve less waste of time, but a loss of sleep instead,
as you arrive in the wee hours of the morning. Maybe time for a nice long
bridge? Be that as it is, Newfoundland is definitely worth the ferry rides. I
will certainly be back.
Ferry, from the ferry - North Sydney |
Due to some technical issue it is after 7
p.m. before we finally manage to get off the boat. After a brief stop at the
tourist information office, I head out on the – yes it is here too – the
Trans-Canada Highway (TCH). I am looking for a place to camp as there is zero accommodation
available in town, everywhere is fully booked.
The map from the tourist office indicates
a camping facilities in the Codroy Valley area. I take what I think is the
turnoff, but after about 5 km I realize that I must have taken a wrong turn.
There has been a guy on a motorcycle riding a few hundred yards behind me, he
pulls up next to me and asks what I’m looking for, so I tell him that I’m
looking for somewhere to camp for the night, he suggests, with what I think is
a leer, that I should just camp next to the river. Now I have seen Deliverance, and at a fairly
impressionable age, so I decide to just go back to the TCH and look for the
right turnoff. Now I am sure that the guy was just being helpful, I tell you that
Newfoundlanders are the nicest and friendliest people you could hope to find,
but I did want somewhere with some facilities. A few Kms down the TCH and
there, well signposted, is the turn-off to the RV and tent camp site.
Arriving in Port Aux Basque |
I pay $25 for my spot and start to set-up
camp. The sun is setting so it is not a moment too soon. My site includes a picnic table and a place to
make a fire, it also includes a small but vicious swarm of mosquitos. I apply
the insect repellant, liberally, to every exposed piece of skin, but clearly
these guys have not read the label and are not in the slightest repelled. So
everything I do is accompanied by lots of slapping.
I end up slapping my ears
so hard there is ringing that lasts about ten minutes. I have some tinned tuna
that I could have for supper, but there was a sign at the reception for ‘Fish and
Brew’ for $6. I’m intrigued, so I buy it. It’s shredded cod and shredded white
bread that has been dampened with cod flavoured water. They warm it up in a microwave
oven, it sounds a little gross, but actually it is quite good, like a fishy
bread pudding. I make some coffee with my primitive stove, which is a wick
spirit burner in a tinned vegetable can, cleaned out and with holes cut in, it
actually works pretty well. The sun sets and weirdly the mosquitos seem to lose
interest in me... maybe it’s the fish.
Two Midget Tent |
As
the camp quietens down, and the bad singing from a group of RV’s comes to an
end, I get to enjoy the evening and the stars. The stars alone make bearing the
mosquitoes worthwhile. I turn on my torch to locate my towel and tooth brush
and get to see a little fox trotting along the edge of the campsite. Finally, I crawl into my two midget tent and
into the sleeping bag, a good quality one that I bought for the trip. I am
lying on a ‘mattress’ it’s little more than a yoga mat, but way better than
nothing. I sleep, but confess that I’m not used to camping, so can’t claim that
I have a good night’s rest. I’m awake at 5 a.m. and make coffee, which restores
some semblance of coherent thought. The showers and toilets aren’t exactly
luxury, but they are clean and adequate. I can see maybe three tents amongst
the RV’s. The RV’s with names or perhaps brands, that evoke the wilderness, like
Wild Thing, Freedom Traveller, Eagle Wind and so on. The humble caravan has
morphed into literally driving around in a house. Some of these things are as
big as a Greyhound coach, and they sometimes tow a car behind them (sometimes a
boat as well) and when they stop and make camp little rooms pop out, like in a
Don Martin comic. They hook up to water and electricity and even sewage,
seriously, how to camp and not be camping at the same time. Maybe I’m jealous that the RV campers are all
enjoying a good sleep on Sealy Posturepedics and I’m grumpy from an
uncomfortable night on a yoga mat and up at the ass crack of dawn because I can’t
bear to lie down any more. Still these monsters are a pain in the ass on the
road. Riding behind one on a bike is as bad as riding behind any large truck, they
trail a wake of turbulence that blows you all over the road.
I pack the bike and head north. I plan to
stay in the Gros Morne area and see some of this famous National Park. After
not too long in the saddle, I stop for breakfast at a gas station café, Crabbe’s
River Restaurant and without hesitation order the ‘Truckers’ Special’, I’m
hungry and the effects of the cup of black instant coffee I had at the campsite
has worn off.
The ‘Truckers’ Special’ hits the spot and some. Stuffed with loads
of protein, fat and carbs, and no longer crabbe, I get back on the KLR and back
on the road. Next stop, Deer Lake, a most unoriginal name, I think there is
hardly a county in this country that does not sport at least one Deer Lake. I
guess the settlers that named the places didn’t worry too much about
originality, there was a lake and there were deer. It’s like in South Africa
there are lots of ‘Mooi’ rivers, ‘mooi’ meaning (more or less) ‘nice’. In a dry
country every river is a nice river! From Deer Lake I take the Viking Trail
towards the coast and Gros Morne National Park.
This part of Newfoundland is mountainous,
and let me say achingly lovely. I had expected a bleaker topography from this
province, but here at least it is mountains, ocean and forest. The forest is
mostly evergreen conifer, but I spot a scattering of deciduous.
The road is
just fabulous to ride, it is in great nick and wonderfully curvy. I wrote about
the Cabot Trail as one of those special places where mountains meet the ocean,
this is another. It has another advantage; it is definitely not overcrowded.
One can stop at a lookout point and be alone with the beauty, at least for a
short while. It has become a very warm day, but there is a nice breeze that
helps to counter the heat. Gros Morne National Park is named after the highest
peak in the chain of mountains that runs parallel to the west coat of the
island, which are actually part of the Appalachians. Roughly translated from
French, Gros Morne means ‘great sombre’, which if you think about it is
probably a good name for almost any mountain. This looks like a really great
area to do some hiking, which I won’t be doing, aside from not being equipped
for hiking, I am not fit enough to tackle a serious climb… or maybe I’m just
lazy.
A word about mountains, I think I have
mentioned how much I miss real mountains in the flat land of Ontario. There is
something about mountains that helps a person to keep perspective in life,
especially when you live close to mountains and can look at then everyday. They
remind one of how utterly trivial your issues are and when you are dead and
totally forgotten by everyone, the mountains will have hardly changed at all,
yet they too will finally be ground down to nothing. Indeed, all the striving
and struggling of humanity that has taken place, and will ever take place, is
within barely a moment on the time scale that mountains measure time by. Of
course mountains are just gorgeous to look at.
It’s getting to mid afternoon and the small
town of Rocky Harbour is in sight. It’s in an enclave of non-national park land
a real tourist spot, with lots of places for tourists to stay. I am tired from
my previous night of not sleeping well and have decided that Rocky Harbour is
where I will stop. My idea is to have a nap, then do a bit of exploring on the
bike, have some supper, the Truckers’ Special has negated any need for lunch,
then get an early night. But the no vacancy signs on every establishment is not
encouraging. Perhaps it’s another night on the yoga mat in the two midget tent.
I know I should man-up do the camping, at least in the interest of economy, but
I am a bit of a baby when it comes to creature comfort. I spot a B & B that
doesn’t have a no vacancy sign up, and check in. It’s more than I want to pay,
but they discount the rate because they are not offering breakfast for tomorrow.
So they are actually just a B, suits me, I’m happy with the discounted rate,
and the room is really nice.
After the promised nap, I ride up to Lobster
Cove Light House, which is an interesting museum, about when this was a working
light house and not just a tourist attraction. It’s nice, and there are some
lovely walks in the area with stunning views.
It is time for some additional executive
decisions. Labrador is not on the cards for this trip. I have realized that the
Trans-Labrador Highway is a bit less substantial than the name lets one think.
There is a 565 km stretch that is gravel and the condition of the road is
unpredictable. There is also nothing along that stretch, so if I do get into
trouble I will probably have to abandon the bike. So whereas I’m fine to ride a
road like this, but this trip should be considered more like an expedition than
a casual ride, it is best to do it in a larger group or supported by someone
with a truck. I have been experiencing a few niggling issues with the KLR, it
has been cutting out in the wet, which tells me that I’m definitely not
prepared for the Trans-Labrador Highway. Call me chicken if you want, but as mentioned
elsewhere in these chronicles, discretion is the better part of valour.
Tomorrow I will ride up to Daniel’s Harbour, which will be the end point of
this trip. Daniel’s Harbour will mark the furthest point away from home, when I
turn around there, I will be homeward bound.