Gros Morne

I am at a loss for the right word - just the right word.

There are really no words to express this amazing UNESCO Heritage site that Gros Morne National Park is.  Stunning? - It has that capacity to stun.  Breathtaking?  Indeed, it can, but it is really more than that.  And the two days we remained in the park is not adequate to truly understand this place.

Wrapped around Bonne Bay, an arm off the Gulf of St, Lawrence, it is a place that rises to lofty cloud borne heights seemingly right from the ocean. These mountains are more like the Appalachians, wide, rolling green capped hilltops rather that rocky caps, with the exception of the Tablelands, a massive dome of exposed yellowish peridotite, the result of a geologic uplifting of the earths mantle - and a rock hounds dream!

Tablelands and the predominant yellow peridotite

Following our "mummer" experience, we all decided that Woody Point is just the right town from which to visit Gros Morne.  Rich and I spent the day atop Tablelands, climbing to a high promontory, and exhausting all  possible photographic options - or so it seemed until we saw yet another picture.  We arranged our cab back to Woody Point to await the water taxi to take us across Bonne Bay to our next stop in Rocky Harbor, on the east side of the bay, requiring a hilly ramble to our next motel.

Water Taxi

Reunited with Clara, who spent the day riding in search of a beach (and never having actually found one) we all shared a room for the next two nights to fully explore the park.  But as the evening was young, we visited a local pub for dinner and a "kitchen  party" as it  was called.  This, a single musician sort of orchestrates audience participation in songs, stories and such, even handing out all manner of banging sticks and rattles to have the audience participate in the music, mostly Newfie tunes. It was a fun evening again, of dancing and drumming.

The next morning, Clara was hoping to  summit Gros Morne, but the weather was not in any way cooperative, greeting us in singular liquid fashion.  We decided to take a taxi to the trailhead for Western Brook Pond, having made a reservation for the tour boat that circles this long, narrow fjord.  We arrived in dense fog, and waited for several hours in which we talked of life forward, only to have the tour cancelled - logically - because of the fog, even though it showed signs of starting to lift.  So instead, we walked a trail for a short distance and sat by Western Brook that drains the lake, sitting on a rock, and gradually taking in the theater which was the mountains unveiling before us.  What a magnificent sight!  The clouds gradually lifted, revealing the immense height and steepness that is this canyon in late afternoon sunshine, however briefly it lasted.  It was actually a fun, mellow and serene way to spend the late afternoon before walking out and catching our cab back to town.  Most of the day washed out, but the best part was saved for last - dessert!

At the "theater" that is clouds lifting . . .

. . . to a perfect backdrop.

Following an excellent meal at Earl's Restaurant (where several had suggested the best moose in town - for me Moose Stew), we retired early, a bit spent.  But the next morning, packing up and catching some pancakes, we parted ways with Clara, our enthusiastic, delightful, energetic, funny and charming travel companion of the past several days. It was like travelling with my daughter Laura, who has a similar wanderlust and enthusiasm for exploration (but NOT on a bike). Such fun, but a certain sweet  sorrow.   Ride on Clara, as I know you will read this, and say hi to your Mum!  [Ed: And we later learned that Clara achieved her goal of summiting Gros Morne peak (a 7 hour hike) while we were on the lake.] 

Inside the fjord

Rich and I headed north for the upper peninsula of Newfoundland, but on the way managed to get the last two seats on the same tour ferry we missed the day before, as the cloud ceiling was high and no rain.  It was a stunning two hour excursion up the fjord, taking in sheer walls of rock plummeting into the fjord, graced with frequent and high waterfalls.  But the ferry was a bit crowded, and with a high cloud deck and a grey cast to the light, we both agreed the visual magic was not the same as the day before, as we watched this same canyon evolve, bathed in late afternoon sun. That will be my memory.

And the word?  Magical.  I think it fits.  Enjoy the scenery:

TABLELANDS:

What appears to me to be Helleborus - strangely beautiful

 Harebells (Campanula rontundifolia)

View to the high glaciers of the Tablelands plateau from our promontory

The main water fall, glacier fed

Such a variety of plant life in this "moonscape"

View of Bonne Bay from the high promontory

View down west valley from promontory

WESTERN BROOK POND:

The clouds starting to lift

Oh, the waterfalls aplenty!

An old wash out, used by Caribou to cross in winter
to the highlands on the opposite side.

The mouth of the fjord, from inside looking west

And the formations were endless.

The Characters We Meet

Aye, the characters ye meet!

One interesting aspect of bicycle travel is the people you meet - there is a certain camaraderie around a shared experience of the ardors of bicycling, drawing travelers into either casual conversation, or a more enduring experience.  Such is the case of my current trip to Newfoundland, Labrador and Quebec - our Cote du Nord tour.

A bit of travelogue is in order - Rich Freyholtz, my veteran travel companion, and I flew to Sydney, Nova Scotia and boarded a ferry for Port aux Basque, across the Gulf of St. Lawrence.  We sailed from bright, warm sunshine into a foggy, damp village, where it impressed me that the ferry could navigate, and indeed overwhelm the town in this small protected harbor.  Staying in the North Motel for the night, we took off, heading along the TransCanada Highway (TCH) in "mauzy" conditions - damp, wet, rainy in Newfie brogue - riding along a stretch of road with no services for some 60 miles.  Just  hills. Ever building hills - mountains to the locals.

The ferry dwarfing Channel Port aux Basque - discovered by Cook

As we ride separately during the day for the most part, I was well ahead of Rich when I came across  a cyclist stopped by the side of  the road hunched over his bike, and a heavily loaded single wheel trailer, just having a smoke.  He had the appearance of just coming out of the deep woods - heavy dark beard, no teeth (just lost them), definitely grizzled.  We chatted as I had asked if he needed assistance - "nope, just taking a break" - he was starting to ride again so we rode together for maybe 100 feet - "I'm a turtle, you go on.  Was riding with a girl. Fast like a rocket up ahead".  Getting the impression there was no more conversation left, I parted ways and rode on, getting pounded with rain.  At least the wet tailwind was a benefit.

Pulled up to the first convenience store since Port aux Basque (a C-store is a bikers best friend) and went to park my bike, when I noticed another bike, and pulled behind it.  No sooner had I done so than a diminutive woman wearing pink flip flops comes out and said "hi". It would be easy with her appearance to immediately consider her NOT to be a bicyclist.  Flip flops as riding shoes?  I asked her, somewhat incredulously, if she was the bicyclist (with a huge load on her bike) and she was.  That was the start of a long conversation.  Escaping the rain, we went inside to a small restaurant attached to the store and chatted while I awaited Rich to catch up.

Meet Clara Valcarcel, a 27 year old Spaniard living and working in Toronto, mostly as a server, to learn English and experience foreign travel for a year.  With her degree in architectural technology, we had something in common.  She left Toronto June 2nd, seemingly on a whim as a bike tourist, picking up second hand gear - too much of it!  As we were chatting - and dripping - over vegetable soup, the grizzled "turtle", Danyel Guy, he for two days travelling companion of Clara, arrived, followed shortly thereafter by Rich.  So we all sat, ate, dripped and talked.  Turns out we were all planning to stay in the only motel for a long time - the Midway Motel, perfectly named by its location  between  Port-aux-Basque and Corner Brook - a vintage 1974 motel, long in need of repair, owned in the same family all those years (and of course for sale), but quiet and clean - we were the only guests.  And she permitted us the necessary use of her dryer!

Now a bit about Danyel, an itinerant traveler and carpenter, he carries his 28 oz framing hammer with him.  Loaded with stories, he ardently spoke of how to repel bears (with a "porcupine" stick), how to keep a herd of elk from rampaging your camp (pop balloons, but have them ready in the tent), and that his sharpened claws on his framing hammer is much better than an axe.  We were fairly in stitches, if a bit incredulous, at these tales, but it managed to bond the team.

As it was raining the next morning, we all took off for Corner Brook, Danyel's final destination.  Again, there were no services along the entire stretch until Pinchgut Lake, a mere 10 KM from Corner Brook.  So it was a long haul across many hills, lakes, and quite beautiful country - it you could imagine it!  Clara and I rode together, as she is absolutely one of the few people that can actually keep up with me over the long haul, even with her overloaded bike.  Rich and Danyel followed about an hour behind, catching Clara and I in a small restaurant alongside Pinchgut Lake, eating pie and having a good hot cup of tea.  Life is good!

Rich, Peter, Clara and Danyel

We hustled the last 10 kilometers into Corner Brook, a larger city/regional center, while the skies finally started to clear.  Danyel and Clara stayed at a friend of Danyel's, and Rich and I holed up in  the Grenfell College dorm, open for travelers. We all agreed to meet for breakfast.

It was a farewell breakfast for Danyel, who overnight had already picked up a 4 week gig as a rigger.  As a rough and ready type, he seemed genuine in his appreciation of our company over the past two days, and also of the riding cap I gave him.  Parting ways with hugs around, Rich, Clara and I headed out of town when the second flat of the morning occurred for Rich, so he went to the only bike shop in this region to get it looked at.

As our riding mantra is "just go", Clara and I headed up toward Deer Lake, our turn-off point to the Gros Morne Provincial Park,with a gentle ramble along the lake amid overcast but dry skies and cool temps.  Following a respite at a C-store, we turned west on Rt 430 toward the Park with a long steady climb, and a few long, steep climbs as we approached the tiny hamlet of Wiltondale, where the entrance center was.

Peter and Clara at the entrance to Gros Morne

Pausing for information and desperately needed food, we proceeded on at a late hour toward our final destination, the west shore of Bonne Bay and the village of Woody Point.  Finally, a quiet country road, and plenty of photo opportunities, but a few massive mountain passes to cross.  I was gassed - my quads were "barking" and I resorted to walking some of the steeper hills.  But the difficulty of the terrain was made only slightly better by the stunning scenery - with no rain and sun starting to peek out.  And then, a van pulls up, Rich pops out - he had continuous flat problems and gave up just outside of Deer Lake without enough spare tubes, and grabbed our panniers.  Riding without panniers Clara was a bird flying up the hills, and I was the turtle, so she helped me get through to a monstrous descent to Bonne Bay. We were both enthralled by the scenery, making many stops for pictures before pulling into the Victorian Manor Inn, a delightful fourplex with a great view to the Park.

Beginning the descent to Bonne Bay as the clouds broke

Bonne Bay -Woody Point in the distance

We showered and headed down into this small, very quaint town for dinner at a pub - the Merchants Warehouse - complete with fish and chips (fresh cod), Newfoundland beer (their Quidi Vidi1892 label is highly recommended), and an interesting local tradition: mummers. Coming into the pub, dressed in face-hiding costumes, a group of (presumably all) women danced to the music and encouraged our participation to celebrate 5 months to the day until Christmas. Tradition has it that "mummers" tour the town at Christmas, their faces and identities hidden in exchange for "gifts" of libations, until their identity is revealed.  For the visual mummer experience, this video clip:

We three danced, drummed and participated in the festivities, making it a great way to end a great day, and also to recall all the characters we meet on the way!

Rich and Clara whirling and swirling