Newfoundland Awaits

John Robinson
John Robinson

It’s a six-hour ferry ride from North Sydney to Port-aux-Basque. The schedule is sporadic in the summer, and non-existent the remainder of the year. We drive aboard at 9:00 PM, joining the parade of other vehicles lined up for the trip. Approaching midnight we watch the deckhands slip the lines as the twin screws churn the black water with a mighty surge.

Newfoundland is “way up there” as son Adam described it upon locating it on the globe a few months before. Indeed, heading north from Virginia, Maine is not even half way there. And by the time one does get to Newfoundland, it’s only a hop skip and a jump to the British Isles and Europe. This explains why Newfoundland was on the track of the early Norse navigators as they explored westward.

My family of five is traveling to Newfoundland over 1000 years after the Vikings, but some things never change. The ocean, for instance – it’s rough on our night passage, the heaving of the thick (I hope) steel hull rocking us to fitful sleep in the ship’s passenger lounge. I think about the icebergs often encountered in these waters, and about how modern ship’s radar is certainly a nice invention.

The road north from Port-aux-Basques up the west coast of this big island takes us through stunningly austere country. It’s windswept, barren, and rocky land for the most part, interspersed with dense forests. Lighthouses perched on brooding headlands draw us northward. Driving off of the ferry at dawn we are greeted by a grey and dismal day, but a few hours later the scudding clouds have disappeared and been replaced by sharp blue sky and a stiff breeze.

Newfoundland Awaits

Newfoundland is big, some 400 miles across. It is the 10th largest island in the world, but its population is sparse. It seems that moose and caribou are more abundant than people. Originating with the Norsemen, fisherman from Portugal, Spain, England and France came to the waters off Newfoundland for the schools of teeming fish, and the latter two countries both laid significant claim to the fishing rights. Finally, after years of bickering, France relinquished its fishing rights. Money changed hands, and France retained sovereignty over several outlying islands, which to this day remain utterly French. In the 1920’s Newfoundland became independent of England, and in 1949 became a province of the Canadian Federation. As one can imagine, becoming part of Canada is something both appreciated and maligned by the Newfoundlanders, folks steadfast in their independent spirit, yet realistic in their outlook.

We’re setting up our tents in the drizzle, at a rather primitive campground situated on a bluff overlooking the rocky shore. The boys are adept at the basics of setting up their tent, and as they do so I glance seaward and am amazed at how enclosed we are in this fog and drizzle – in our own wild little world it seems. This is Gros Morne National Park, on the west coast of Newfoundland. Deep fiords flanked by high, wind-blown cliffs characterize the place. In such weather; it is somewhat foreboding, yet spectacular. Earlier today we engaged in intensive beach combing on its the Rocky shores.. Storm-tossed lobster traps, buoys with once-bright stripes now faded to pastels, and miles of frayed line of all sorts dominate the list of treasures which we find.

It’s another day and we’re hiking the Broom Point trail out to a remote headland on the very northwest tip of Newfoundland. On the way back from the breezy lookout we detour to a sheltered cove where we come across a cemetery from the late 1800’s. Reading the inscriptions on the headstones is a sobering reminder of the truly hard life which was led by the islanders of the past. Most of the graves are of young children. We read where a given family may have lost two or three children in the span of 6 months or so. Walking back to the car, following our frolicking young sons, I shudder at the thought of losing a child and of the fragility of life.

The hardships which the Newfoundlanders endure continue into the twenty-first century. Following decades of fisheries decline due to over-fishing and pollution, their main livelihood is all but gone, nets rotting in heaps. Official unemployment figures are about 35 percent, but locals say it’s more like 60 percent. For many islanders, reluctantly accepting welfare from the Canadian federation is necessary for survival, but unsettling to the spirit of these fiercely independent people.

Point Richie lighthouse is at the end of a grassy, rutted road. Our aging vehicle bounces along as we pursue an evening picnic site. As we pull up to the starched white, deserted structure we note that providence has placed a picnic table in just the right spot that is out of the wind and fully bathed in the warm rays of the late afternoon sun. Soon I found myself in a reverie induced by the pleasant hissing of the little stove as I cook the stew, and by the lyrical voices of the boys as they play nearby. Tomorrow we start the long trek home, but there’s no doubt that some of the austere solitude and raw beauty of Newfoundland has gotten under my skin, and like so much of life’s experiences, will be with me forever.

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