Caravanning, Not Biking

"Bicycling" requires flexibility. We got chatting to Judy, while shivering in our Lycra, on the boat tour at Western Brook Pond. She and her husband, Claude, are on a 40+ day trip in an RV caravan across Atlantic Canada.

Vic and I had to catch the fifteen-seat bus from L'Anse aux Meadows on Thursday as it only runs certain days. It was a 11 hour ride down to the ferry terminal where we pitched our tent in the glow of the parking lot lights. Our plan was to spend the last day, biking out and back on the southern shore of Newfoundland. As we were finishing breakfast, in rolled 21 rigs in a convoy, and so we got to say hi to Judy again and meet their dog. They were on the way to Louisbourg, Nova Scotia and invited us to throw our bikes on their towed jeep and join them. I really wanted to see Louisbourg; Vic really wanted to get another day of biking. We hemmed and then hawed. And then we changed our reservation and took a ride with the big boys. I felt sad to watch Newfoundland recede into a hazy blue as we sailed away.

The recreation of Louisbourg was cool, the weather in Nova Scotia is hot, we've got a glimpse of how the "full-timers" live, and now we're sitting at the hotel where Vic is taking apart his bike for his flight back to Boston.

Leaving Newfoundland and back to Nova Scotia

The Newfoundland Polaroids

Newfoundland, Farewell

Ode to Newfoundland

When spreads thy cloak of shimm'ring white,
At Winter's stern command,
Thro' shortened day and starlit night,
We love thee, frozen land,
We love thee, we love thee,
We love thee, frozen land.

When blinding storm gusts fret thy shore,
And wild waves lash thy strand,
Thro' sprindrift swirl and tempest roar,
We love thee, wind-swept land,
We love thee, we love thee,
We love thee, wind-swept land.

As loved our fathers, so we love,
Where once they stood we stand,
Their prayer we raise to heav'n above,
God guard thee, Newfoundland,
God guard thee, God guard thee,
God guard thee, Newfoundland.

It's written by Sir Cavendish Boyle and here is the notation for the tune.

Myriam's Troubled Dreams

I like Vic's mother, but sometimes I worry that she finds me a bad influence on her son.

A Great Mystery Solved

It obvious to me that the archaeologists who dug up this mysterious wooden object did not ride their bicycles to the dig. It is as clear as day to me what this is.

It is a pedal.

The Norse used the most fuel efficient mode transportation as yet devised by man: a bicycle. They probably took the bikes back to Greenland when they left, which is why they've not found more bits.

Up with the Vikings!

I had just enough time to holler out "What a day to pick berries!" to the old fellow stooped by the side of the road picking berries. He yelled back, "It's a good morning , ain't it!"

The night before at our unexpected "Screeching In" at The Norseman, I learned that besides "Nish" being a tender spot on a "Smirt", or hurt, that Newfoundlanders like to negate most anything. The day was pouring with rain, freezing cold, and windy as hell. Most of our three days in L'Anse aux Meadows were.

L'Anse aux Meadows was a forgotten outport at the northern tip of Newfoundland until the early 1960's when a local fisherman told some intrepid Norwegians about the strange mounds located out in the sheep pasture. These turned out to be the remnants of a Norse outpost and it's the only known Norse settlement in North America. They think the Vikings were here around 1000 A.D. Now, while hardly a large town (there are 23 inhabitants), the area has a few bed and breakfasts and a healthy trade in plastic Viking hats (with horns) made in China.

At the top of Newfoundland

Pop Tarts, Skor & Win!

Last year while biking around Europe, I ate 300-400 tic tacs a day. Orange and Lime, sometimes alternating boxes, sometimes mixing them together.

This year, I am telling Vic, "Buy your own box of Pop Tarts. I'm not sharing!" So he does, which of course works out for the best because he likes the chocolate ones, while I prefer the fruit-filled ones with frosting and multi-colored sprinkles. They are healthier.

A couple nights ago in camp, we met Jerry, a thin fellow from Ontario who has been spending the summer walking across the abandoned rail beds of Newfoundland. He was eating Captain Crunch and resting for a week or two in Gros Morne. I am not sure where he found the Captain Crunch because the convenience store only had potato chips, coke, bottled water, hand-knitted socks and one can of Coleman fuel. For the past month he has been living off of cold, uncooked, dry oatmeal. He told us, as if it were as natural as the day, that if there is a town along the trail, he might stop and buy a can of beans and stand in the store to get out of the bugs and eat it cold as well. We gave him some of our warm instant rice and rehydrated vegetables.

In addition to eating Pop Tarts, I am hoarding candy bars which is something I rarely buy. I am favoring the chocolate-covered hard toffee of Skor though if I bite into them wrong they hurt the hell out of my broken tooth. Even that chocolate snob Vic is begging me for bits late a night. If I am in a generous mood, I will share. If I am crabby, I stare blankly at him trying to avoid the glare from his headlamp and say, "You should have thought of that when we passed that gas station 33 miles ago! waah haaa hahahah!" Of course, I can also wait until he has brushed his teeth at which point I can eat with impunity.

Cycling all the time requires copious amounts of energy. My calorie burn is extreme and I'm taking extreme measures. It will be nice to be home and eat alfalfa sprouts, beets, and tofu. Until then, I pass slabs of white bread to Vic-I-Can't-Eat-Carbs and moisten my finger to get at the crumbs at the bottom of the Pop-Tart wrapper.

Western Brook Pond

Bonne Bay essentially splits Gros Morne National Park in two. Cyclists from the south have it easy as they can skip the biggest hills by taking the short walk-on ferry across the harbor. After biking a hill the locals call "The Struggle,” Vic and I had no regrets missing a few hills.

It is odd how a bit of rain and strenuous activity can calm one's nerves. Starting the day, I felt like hugging Victor's neck with both hands. I needed some alone time and had not been getting it. We made the ride over on the ferry, but dallied too long getting groceries in Rocky Harbor to ensure we'd make it to the top of Gros Morne Mountain and back to camp before darkfall. I was hateful and aggressive by the time we got to the trail head. There, we compromised on a plan to hike the long way around so that we could turn back, if needed, to avoid riding in the dark. Actually, I told Vic this is what I was doing, with or without him, which of course is horrible back-country manners. As it turned out, the turn-around "pact" was soaked by rain and pointless. It's impossible to get out of the weather when you are surrounded by three-foot trees. Suddenly, I stopped loathing Vic: he was warm and composed.

Now feeling inexplicably friendly toward Vic and everyone else, we joined a couple we'd met earlier in the week for dinner in a small cabin for dinner. Chris and Susan had shown up the same morning we'd bussed from St. John's looking ill-prepared for a trek around Gros Morne on their oddly loaded bikes. Turns out, they're real pros and have plenty of week-long trips under their lo-fi belts. They had candles, which made our little dinner cabin extra sweet and drier.

Western Brook Pond is an ex-fjord. It's what they call an ultraoligotrophic lake. This means the water is so cold, clear, and pure that it’s nearly lifeless. It doesn't even conduct electricity well. We made a mad dash up the coast to get there in time for the boat tour, only to have the boat delayed due to fog. We did in fact get in a boat, but spent most of the time huddled inside the cabin in our "Now-that-you've-stopped-you-must-freeze-to-death" Lycra. I had pains of jealousy, watching a couple get of the boat at the end of the Pond to do a five-day backcountry trek across the bogs to Gros Morne Mountain. They'll see the spot of Newfoundland's most impressive 2005 tourist brochure photo.

North of Western Brook Pond, the road goes strangely flat against the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The water has a green hue I associate with the Caribbean. Cyclists normally travel this road heading north to avoid the headwinds. The traffic is light, the fishing communities small, while the escarpment of the Long Range adds drama on your right. If the weather is good, it’s as close to perfect cycling as one can get.

On the northern side of Gros Morne park

It's a Little Like Wyoming

It's the Tablelands that make Gros Morne National Park so important because it's the largest bit of undisturbed, un-mined exposed mantle in the world. Most plants don't really like to grow on the highly mineralized rock and it drains exceptionally quickly. It is basically a Martian landscape jutting out of the bogs and ancient glacial-carved valleys around it. I'll have to do a bit more reading to actually remember how the mantle ended up on top of the crust, but it happened before Pangaea. That's a long time ago.

Hikes around the Tablelands

Views of St. John's

Pedal Biking in Avalon

"It's just a wee hill, mainly flat. Ye two can probably get up it with out pushing your pedal bikes," the friendly store clerk said. She was a vicious liar, though I have a hard time holding grudges against folks who refer to me as "ye".

Newfound-LAND has been simply, purely amazing. From the dizzying fogged-in descents and pushing the bike up out of cove after cove on the first day on the eastern coast, to the wind swept barrens out of St. John's, every day has included at least one jaw-dropping moment, usually more.

Highlights include:

Standing nearly over the bird colony at St. Mary's, where thousands of gannets, the largest pelagic birds of the North Atlantic, nest to raise their young.

Watching the sheep ford the shallow river that dumps into the small harbor at Branch, while having coffee with Basil and his family and learning more about the Irish immigration during the 1750's. Basil says that most of the towns on the pennisula are 100% Irish Catholics, and it's like Ireland was 40 years ago. I can believe that.

Hiking over the narrow cove at LaManche, a fishing outport destroyed in the 60's by tidal waves and spending part of the afternoon out at sea, looking at puffins. They are shy.

Riding the bikes to Cape Spear, the furthest point east in North America. There were whales. We took the ubiquitous photo and met a few of the Trans-Canada cyclists who end their trip here.

Eating. Thus far, between Vic and I, we've tried cod tongues, fish and brewis (which is a mash of salt cod and hardtack), moose pie, and fish chowder and more fish chowder. If that weren't enough, it appears that the national dish of Newfoundland maybe be the french fry. It is odd to watch Vic devour carbs.

The other night, I was walking under the meteor shower that's been going on to get some water. The park rangers pulled up in his truck to make sure everything was fine. It was nearly 10 pm. We got to talking about the biking Vic and I are doing. The older of the two happened to be from Branch. He said, "Oh! They are always trying to get me to come down there for some dreenkin, paartyin', seenging' and they say, if ye can't come down for a week, don't ye bother coming at all!" It seems to be the Newfoundland way.

I told him we were already looking forward to coming back as it's difficult to see all the things you'd like to see when you move so slowly on the bike. He told me, "Next summer, when you come back, you've got to leave your pedal bike at home and get yourself a Harley-Davidson." I leaned in conspiratorially into the truck and stage whispered, "Oil is for sissies." He slapped my arm as the younger ranger laughed and then they drove away.

I'm so going back to cycle some more in Avalon

Smackdown! Puffins vs. Penguins

Penguins are not all that. They don't like Newfoundland. I find this hard to believe. They do however look rather dashing and get a hell of a lot more press than the whimsical, nervous puffin.

This is what I now know about puffins after taking a boat out to the Witless Bay bird sanctuary.

1. Puffins do not like boats.
2. They can mostly fly. They beat their wings 400 times a minutes. If they are having difficulty getting airborne, they will dive and swim away.
3. Unlike penguins, who carry their eggs around on their feet, puffins dig burrows in the peat to lay eggs. They live on the top of the island. Below them, you will find other birds such as black-legged kittiwakes and muerres (who look a lot like penguins and nest in lines)
4. Seagulls will chase puffins in the air, grab them by the neck and then drown them. They are the puffins main predator.
5. Puffins, like everything else up here, really groove on eating capelin: a small fish that as far as we can tell is a bit like a sardine.
6. Puffins have much bigger noses than penguins.
7. Unlike penguins, puffins live at sea most of the year.
8. Puffins do not vacation in Argentina.


You can listen to puffins and learn more stuff here.

Finally, here is a real birder's blog and one that breaks my heart: Birding Babylon. It's a facinating look at the birds of Iraq being written by one of our stationed soldiers.

Daytripping at Witless Bay

926 miles to Giant Fiddle

This is a picture of me with the world's largest "illuminated" fiddle. The designation seems to imply that there is an even bigger violin out there, sitting in the dark. Where is it?

Last night I stayed in a hotel! with towels! a pool! privacy! and Victor! He and his fancy new bike arrived safely and today we are doing are final sorting (my God, for a lighter bike!) and laundry before heading to the Newfoundland ferry. On the ferry, we'll spend the afternoon playing cards and chatting with the other cyclists. So far, we know that Dick and Pauline who biked from Toronto and Roger and Gary who biked from Vancouver will be aboard. Dick says to expect a few others as well. I was telling Vic we need to dash to the liquor agency to get a bottle of something to share.

It's a 14 hour ferry ride to Newfoundland. It seems like we are taking a trip to the edge of the world. I can't wait.

Cycling notes:

It is 926 miles from the Portland, Maine train station to the ferry terminal at North Sydney. The decent thing about riding this distance to start my vacation is that I do not have to take my fat pants to Newfoundland.

Sydney is a surprisingly dreary town, sprawling with box stores coming in. The folks I met there were however, incredibly nice and helpful. If you need bike repair (me: another chain!), Frameworks is walking distance from the harbor.

There are no outfitters in Sydney (or it appears Cape Breton). I spent half a day not finding MSR/Primus Isobutane fuel canisters. We may be buying a new, heavier camp stove or eating more gas station food before we get to St. John's.

There are no campgrounds in or close to Sydney. I split a room with R and G at the Royal Hotel, one of the cheaper hotels along the waterfront. It is clean. There is a university dorm on the way out of town toward Glace Bay.

It is a comparatively flat 18 miles from Sydney to North Sydney. North Sydney has pretty much everything you might need (except fuel canisters), meaning unless there was a concert, you could skip Sydney if you are catching the ferry.

Out the Eastern Shore

Nova Scotians pride themselves on their friendliness. Whether it's the insularity of the small villages or the fact they see plenty of sweaty tourers, they in fact strike me as incredibly reserved and a bit shy. It's odd for anyone to wave first, shout hello, or ask me any questions while I'm stopped at the store. Is it possible to have a province of wall-flowers?

None of the roads I've been on have a shoulder. Most drivers are incredibly polite, giving me lots of room and actually slowing down if it is unsafe to pass (lots of hill crests). Every now and then, some teenage boy will do something stupid. Yesterday, some asshole kid threw a coke can at me. These are the same kids that wouldn't dare say a thing to you at the store. It can put me in a foul, hateful mood for hours because there's not much else to focus on...

Yesterday, I did not stay hateful for long. As I stopped on a hill taking some photos, an older fellow on an equally old bike was swerving up the hill on it's broken gears. He rode up, admired the view of the ocean with me and invited me down to meet his Newfie wife, Betty Lou, and have some cake and coffee. The angel food cake with wild blueberries was delicious and made better tasting as it also happened to be Hector's birthday cake. How fast I forgot about kids throwing cans and wall-flowers as I spent a good 30 minutes cooling down and laughing with H and B.

Continuing on down the road, I passed a sign for the Stone Soup festival, a small music gathering in Moser River. That evening found me, with the sky full of stars, listening to local musicians singing mainly local sea songs and old western tunes.

The next morning, I chatted with Gayle and Jurgen, the founders of the Bay of Islands non-profit. They organize the festival, but their primary goal is to build community sustainability in this economically depressed corner of Nova Scotia. They are working to increase knowledge of organic farming, low-impact forestry practices, while developing local craftsmanship and production.

As Gayle told me in the morning over coffee, she used to feel like there wasn't much she could do about problems in the world, but if she doesn't try, than nothing will change. It's good work these folks are doing out on the edge of the cold ocean.

The Eastern Shore looks a bit like Seattle