I drove here from Corner Brook today, up through Gros Morne National Park, where we went for a couple of hikes through the boreal (balsam fir-black spruce-eastern larch) forest and admired the steep cliffs adjoining both sea and "pond." The Western Brook Pond, for example, seems a bit large to merit such a diminutive name:
So, the "pond" isn't just the water in the foreground - it goes clear back, through the mountains. They're actually inland fjords, glacially carved and then with sediment between the sea and the "pond," so the water is fresh.
I went to lunch in a town called Rocky Harbour, where I had moose pizza at a place that had everything from DVD rentals to tourist knick-knacks to homemade baked goods. After writing a bunch of postcards about how I haven't even seen a moose yet, Marvin and I came upon a mother-moose (cow?) and her lil' un right off the trail. They were eating alder leaves and couldn't be less concerned about the humans (other tourists, as well as myself) staring at them.
I found out, from the handy informative kiosks, that Newfoundland is mostly bog, not marsh. The soil is thin but the organic matter, "pickled" by acidity and cold, has stacked up. I'm not sure that I read a terribly scientific kiosk, but I like the idea of twigs and leaves and creatures pickling under my feet.
While driving, you occasionally see this sign:
Also, there's a huge sign that tells you the number of moose-vehicle collisions within Gros Morne in the year. This year, there have been 25.
When we got to Port aux Choix, about halfway up the northern peninsula on the western coast of Newfoundland, I was looking for a campsite. Then the wind picked up. I turned into an old motel, a bit beaten down. I went in and stood at the counter, and a woman with fake blond hair and leathery skin scowled at me.
"Do you have any vacancy?" I asked.
"Yeh." She said.
"Okay. How much for a single room?"
"It's ninety-four dollars."
So I left, as I'm not likely to enjoy a smoky, moldy room from a grumpy old lady. The wind was really blowing, but I figured I had a sleeping bag, and there must be something better in town. I drove past the "downtown," a few abandoned buildings, a fish plant, and a restaurant, and arrived at Jeannie's Sunrise B&B. I turned in, and parked. Not expecting to find vacancy, as several cars were already parked in the tiny lot.
I walked in. "Who's there? Oh, do you have reservations?" came a trill from upstairs. A plump woman bent over the railing and smiled. "Hellooooo!"
"Do you have any vacancy?" I asked.
"Of course, m'love. Come in! Is it just you?"
She proceeded to ask me questions, guide me around the little house ("and here's the common room, and there's the tea kettle, help yerself"), and tell me about herself ("I'm from right here, never wanted to leave. Nope, never.") The room is $79.
Across the street from the B&B is a little butchery:
I tried to record Jeannie in a conversation with a local man, but it came out too muffled. I've got to actually be right next to them, and I don't want to seem too nosy or make them self-conscious. I noticed that Jeannie spoke much more slowly with me than with the other man ("Oh, yeh must know me brudder Liam, he's over there," she said to him). I've also noticed that women have this habit of saying "yeah" with a sharp intake of breath. The first time I heard it, I thought maybe the lady had a lung problem. But now I've heard lots of women do it. They say "yeah" but breathing in, rather than out.
Port aux Choix is apparently a corruption of a Basque term; the place was part of the French fishery in the 1700s after the Treaty of Utrecht, when Britain got the bulk of Newfoundland. Neither country put many (white) settlers here, though, until the 20th century. There's a long history of Indians in the area, with found burial sites and at least three distinct cultures identified by archaeologists.
The town is very Newfie, with little square houses and fishing boats lined up in neat rows:
The wind is blowing:
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