We have branches across the west coast.

Of Newfoundland, of course. I forgot who I was talkin' to.
-Newfie bank teller

When people here refer to the west coast, they are talking about the west coast of Newfoundland, as opposed to the population center of St. John's, over on the east coast. On the radio: "a band from the west coast," at an art gathering, "I'm from the west coast." The west coast of Newfoundland.

I've been here nearly a week, and I'm getting a feel for the place. The streets wind around steep hills, but the town is centered on the bay (north, down), which conforms to my Dallesian sense of direction (river, north, down) and if I get lost, I look for the smokestacks of the pulp and paper mill.

I went for a hike this morning with Marvin, across marshy bogs (need to learn the distinction between a marsh and a bog, I suppose), my foot occasionally sinking in muck up to the calf. We walked down a majestic valley, with the Blow Me Down mountains on either side. We found a great swimming hole, probably ten feet deep in one spot, and as I was taking my shoes off, I heard desperate, flailing swimming from below. Marvin had jumped in off the rocks and couldn't get out. No worries, I grabbed his collar and he was much more careful after that.

The Blow Me Down Mountains:


We hiked back several kilometers (ahem, metriphiles) and as we were gazing over a pond, I saw a large black shape duck behind a shrub. I watched it emerge the other side, a huge black bear. Then I saw the two cubs, running behind her. They lumbered away from me, so I watched them for a bit, holding Marvin close. They were far enough away that I wasn't too worried, but then the mother turned around and looked right at me, and reared up on her hind legs, just watching me. I was scared enough and backed away slowly, then picked up a large rock to carry. Why a rock? Would it help me in a bear attack? No, but it made me feel tough.

In the afternoon today, I went to an art show and gathering at a neighboring town called MacIvers. The gathering was at a farm/art collective, with a giant meadow where they'd displayed in huge white letters the name of the collective: Full Tilt. I didn't get a picture, as I'd forgotten my camera, but the scenery was strikingly similar to the Gorge, with steep hills around a large body of water. And here's a link to a photo collection from one of the artsy young guys there. The meadow had a few art installations and I chatted with some local creative types, and once again ran into several people I'd met from Grenfell.

A few quick notes:
Good coffee at a place called Brewed Awakening. And a pretty good crowd. It's not Interzone, but no place is.
Terrible beer everywhere, with fake IPA available and nothing better than an insipid lager. The wine isn't too bad, and I've been sampling the Nova Scotia and Newfoundland varieties. Seriously, not too bad.
The hiking is amazing and regal, but so remote and boggy. Everyone is already talking about winter, which makes me nervous. E, a history prof at Grenfell, said that many of the houses are completely snow-covered in winter because of the plows. He said you could just walk between the roofs of some neighborhoods.
People seem pretty laid-back, but not sickly sweet. It's a nice attitude. A lot of "m'love" and "m'dear" in everyday speech.
Nobody knows anything about Oregon. Nor have most people been particularly interested. It's insular.

I found the Newfoundland flower today while hiking. It's a pitcher plant, and it's a strangely lovely little rust-colored thing. I still haven't seen a moose.