Ridin' the Rock

I rode off the Caribou at 7:30 in the morning on
September 22nd, the first day of autumn and the day after Hurricane Igor struck. I had no idea what sort of disaster I was riding into, no map of the island, and no fellow cyclists on the ferry to team up with. I did, however, have an visual image of Newfoundland that I'd been creating in my head for the past year.

My sources have mostly been postcards and calender shots, as well as a few pages from this book about Canada that my friends Jackie so thoughtfully presented to me for my 25th birthday. And you know what? The 'rock' was exactly as I imagined it. It's strange to arrive someplace and feel like the landscape is already familiar; like the sneak preview for a movie that was spot on. The only place that I felt a similar dejavu was in Saskatchewan, every other place that I've pedaled through hit me as an unknown territory full of surprises. I mean, there's still plenty of surprises to be found in Newfoundland, but when I pedaled off the ferry and began my way down the Transcanada I was comforted by the enourmous mounds of rock, the strange misty bogs, and the brightly coloured houses built on the edge of the sea. I felt as if I was riding into a painting that I'd already seen and fallen in love with long ago.

The ferry landed in Port aux Basques, 906km from the capital in St. John's. I turned left and headed through town to see the community wake up before I started my trek eastward. Fathers walking their children out to the bus stop, taxis curving round the smouldering corners as they drove people to work, cats wandering in through windows after a night on the prowl. Weather worn faces of fishermen were illuminated in the windows of diners, the line up of vehicles for Timmy's extending well down the main drag. I passed all this and smiled to myself, realizing that I was not going to drown in the washout of Hurricane Igor; life in this part of the island continued as per usual. When I picked up my road map at the Visitor's Center I learned that the bulk of the damage was east of Gander: the Avalon Peninsula and throughout the Bonavista area were hit pretty hard. But the western half of the province, as well as Labrador, sustained nothing worse than high winds and a few toppled deck chairs.

But it was cold. A biting, sharp coolness attacked my face and knuckles. I shouldn't have been surprised, since practically everyone on the mainland had warned me that Newfoundland was a few degrees cooler than the rest of the Maritimes. So I tucked my fingers into my gloves (first time I've worn them for a while) and wrapped my bandanna around my ears to lesson the blows from the gusting wind before I set out amongst this strange rocky landscape. Leaving the Port, I found myself surrounded by rock and ponds, low thickity shrubs and stunted trees. Before long I cruised through Table Mountains (self explanatory) and the exceptionally windy Wreckhouse region. At an Irving gas station in the middle of nowhere, a construction worker gave me some worthwhile advice: "you've got to keep yours eyes open, cus the landscape here changes every fifteen minutes!".

On a bike, that translates to every hour or so, give or take...but I have found it to be true; nothing stays the same for long. The scenery moves from the sea to the shore, through wetlands and up rocky mountains. Away from the picturesque fishing villages which dot the coast, the inland of the province is made up of dense woods broken up by bodies of water (brooks, ponds, bogs, rivers). It's a pretty wild place here, and I love it :) I can cycle for hours without seeing a house, power station, or town. Side roads wind away from the highway to tiny coastal communities where boat was once the dominant form of transportation. During my first few days, I was leapfrogging these Navy fellas who were running across the province to raise money for the Children's Make a Wish Foundation. It was reassuring to see that I wasn't the only one crazy enough to be crossing the rock by human powered locomotion in early fall. It was also nice to have some familiar faces pop up now and again.

Another thing that I anticipated (and received) was a warm welcome by the friendly folks of Newfoundland. Prior to my arrival, everyone had been telling me that the final stretch of my journey would be a treat: "Newfies are the kindest folk you'll ever meet-if you can understand their accents". Now that I'm here, I can positively confirm both parts of this statement. Invitations for dinner, cups of tea, warm smiles, handfuls of plums, the list goes on. People here are curious and outgoing, always offering to lend a helping hand. I basically feel as if I could put my trust in any individual that I meet on the street; which is something I would never say about Surrey.

So each region, sometimes an individual village, will have it's own specific dialect. I can understand most folks, but the old timer fishermen or hunters? Forget about it! I need a translator. My first night I camped in someones backyard in St. George's. I covered about 14okm that day, and didn't sleep much on the rough ferry ride the night before, so I was pretty tired. I was grateful when Limbert, the man who gave me permission to camp on his lawn ("yes m'darlin', I don't see why not!") also invited me in for dinner. He was a stout built hunting guide with a few old scars on his face and thick, gnarled hands. And I couldn't understand a single word that escaped his lips. Well, maybe that's an exaggeration: I understood about 30% of what he said, I got the gist of things. So I was still doing better than in Quebec, and his teenage son Logan translated for me, which really helped. We talked about the moose hunt, their cabin up in the woods, snowmobiling, ice fishing and ATVing. They have this 8 wheeled thing that can go on land, water, or snow. I quickly realized that Newfoundland was an outdoors person's paradise, and slithered into my sleepingbag eagerly awaiting the rest of my adventure through the rugged province dangling on the edge of the North American continent.