July 28, 2022.

On the morning of July 25th we set out from our camp at Dildo Run Provincial Park for the fishing community of Twillingate. Located about 15 miles from camp and on the Twillingate Islands of Notre Dame Bay, this town of 2,100 people is nicknamed “The Iceberg Capital of the World”.

Unfortunately, we arrived too late in the season to see any near-shore icebergs. We did take in a pleasant drive to the highway’s end where a brief hike rewarded us with wonderful views of the harbor and rugged coastline.

For over 200 years Twillingate was an important trade and service center for the Labrador and north shore fisheries. Once a thriving fishing port, Twillingate has had to turn its eyes to other commerce because of the collapse of fishing stock due to overfishing and government imposed fishing moratorium of 1992. The moratorium has slowly brought back fish numbers and restored some commercial fishing, but remains unpopular with many local fishermen.

Twillingate has found success in fostering local tourism and is favored as an “artists colony”.

For 40 years it has played host to the annual “Fish, Fun, & Folk Festival”, drawing thousands of visitors. Sadly we just missed this as the week long event began a few days following our visit.

As we continued to explore Twillingate, Christine noticed a small winery up ahead and suggested a visit.

We pulled into the parking lot of the Auk-Island Winery expecting to spend a few minutes there out from the overcast drizzle that had developed.

Though small, Auk-Island features a wide array of wines and has hosted visitors from around the world. We inquired about tastings.

For CA $20 the two of us were presented with pourings from 20 of the winery’s 22 offerings.

With the assistance of of Brandy, and her great sense of humor, we set about tasting and rating… tasting and rating… and tasting…

I think that there is method to this as the wines loosen both inhibitions and one’s wallet.

We found many of the wines wonderful to our palate. Some wine “connoisseurs” might not be impressed with the non-grape based varieties, but we especially enjoyed the offerings created from dandelion and rhubarb, not to mention more pedestrian fruits like raspberries and strawberries.

Grapes are not native to Newfoundland or Labrador. When Leif Erickson mentioned “Vinland”, he was identifying New Brunswick, or perhaps coastal Maine, not Newfoundland where his camp, now known as L’ Anse aux Meadows, is located. It is thus most appropriate that Aux-Island focuses on creating excellent non-grape wines.

Wine tasting concluded, Christine lined up a case worth of bottles at the cash register.

As Donna was running the tab she turned to me and asked if I’d kissed a Cod yet. With some regret I replied that I missed my chance in St. John’s. “Well, I can get you ‘screeched-in’ here if you want. All I’ve got to do is get Chris!”

I gave my assent and soon Donna returned, wearing a Sou’wester hat and foul weather coat, “Chris” lovingly cradled in her arms.

Other customers became interested in this bit of theater and soon a number of others lined up to be “screeched”.

“Chris” is a once alive, now frozen, Codfish. As Donna advised, I could consider “Chris” male or female, depending on my preference. Chris is female.

I thought that all I had to do was to kiss the Cod in order to be “screeched-in”. How wrong I was.

In disabusing me of the notion Donna explained that I first had to demonstrate language proficiency with a number of common Newfoundlander phrases. Then I would kiss the Cod, drink a toast of screech in one fell swallow, and finally take the Oath that would earn me the Certificate and status as an Honorary Newfoundlander. Sounded easy enough.

First, as a “come from away” (mainlander or foreigner) I had to ask properly to be screeched in by responding, “Yes b’y!” Then the impossible began.

Donna: “Repeat after me….” followed by a series of incomprehensible phrases that I and the others haplessly tried to imitate. The attempts brought roars of laughter from Donna, Brandy, and all others present as witnesses.

Next came kissing the Cod, to which Donna added that technique and passion would be rated by applause. “Tongue or no tongue?” I asked. This question earned an applause, as did my full-on embrace of the fish.

Finally there was the shot of the “adult beverage”, followed by the Oath and required answer to the question, “Is you a Screecher?”

“Deed I is, me ol’ cock, and long may your big jib draw!” Was the proper response, but uttered quickly as one long word and sounding like you had just left the dentist’s chair with mouth and tongue still numb from novocaine injections.

Our “brief” impulse visit to the Auk-Island Winery expanded to almost 2 hours and has become one of our fondest memories of our time in the Province.

It was not quite 5 p.m. and our stomachs had begun to cry, “Feed me”. We didn’t find anything in town that excited our tastebuds, but I recalled some crude signs on the way to Twillingate that indicated a seafood restaurant and “Lobster Pool”. We were off to pick up that trail.

10 minutes down the road and there was the sign. We turned and a few miles more brought us to “Sansome’s Lobster Pool, Dockside Dining, Kitchen, and Restrooms.”

We were not alone. Sansome’s must thrive on word of mouth, and those mouths must really have been talking. This was a real hidden gem!

Here is the “Lobster Pool” and soon to be victims…

Here the lobsters are being cooked…

And here we are at table with Floridians Suzanne and Brad, along with francophones Simone and Oliver from Quebec.

Not more than an hour earlier we had been strangers. However, the tiny restaurant had developed an imposing waiting list. Christine and I were next in line. Staff eyed the table that had just opened, a table for 6.

Christine reached out to the two couples and asked if they wished to join us. The replies and relief from each of them and the restaurant staff were immediate. Thus began one of the finest and most memorable dining experiences of this trip.

It takes just a moment and a kind word to turn a stranger into a friend.

Peace Everyone. Pete

July 20, 2022.

I have a fondness for using a metaphor that captures the vision of humanity as a vast tapestry. Billions of threads interwoven to create the fabric. Most threads never join, but some are a complex braid of threads within the tapestry, such as my relationship with Christine, my children, and grandchildren.

In 2017 Christine and I were well into our 12 week Alaskan/Canada camping trip. On June 7th we were camped on Sitka Island. We met a charming couple, Ron and Lene Meck who were from Salt Lake City, Utah. We hit it off immediately, shared dinner, hikes, and our “stories“. Our paths parted with no expectation of any future meeting.

In 2018 Christine and I had arrived in Madrid Spain, on our way to Lisbon and Porto Portugal to hike the Portuguese route of the Camino de Santiago. I was blogging our journey on my website with links also posted to Facebook. I received a text message from Ron Meck, “Are you guys really in Madrid? So are we!!!” They had seen one of my posts. We arranged to meet each other that evening. We shared dinner, an evening stroll through the streets of Madrid, and more companionship. We promised to keep in touch.

2019 came and I was on a 3 week solo camping trip that would take me near Salt Lake City. I reached out to Ron and Lena. They graciously welcomed me into their home. At my departure I urged, ”We must actually PLAN to get together!”

Of course, COVID imposed its own “plans” which prevented any on our part.

This last spring I shared online our intention to travel to Canada’s Newfoundland and Labrador Province. Again this was picked up by the Meck’s, and damn if I didn’t receive another message from Ron, “We will be there this summer as well!”

They had their itinerary and we had ours. We spoke and marveled at the coincidence, but the Province is huge (larger than California) and no plans were made to get together.

A few nights ago I sent a message to them asking how their trip was progressing. I had seen on Facebook that they had suffered some mechanical problems with their RV. Ron and Lena replied that they were in St. John’s Newfoundland and would be leaving there on the 20th. “Ron, we are ARRIVING in St. John’s on the 20th!” Incredibly, we would be traveling the same highway, at the same time, but in opposite directions.

On July 20th, 2022, at 12:30 p.m., 114 miles northeast of St. John’s Newfoundland, four threads of the human tapestry again intersected, embraced, broke bread, and celebrated life. Who knows what tomorrow may bring.

Peace Everyone, Pete.

July 18, 2022.

Don’t look for Richard Burton or Clint Eastwood within this post, that’s the 1970’s movie and this is still Canada’s Gros Morne National Park.

But continuing with the theme expressed in my last reflection, today was large, huge, at times bigger than my camera’s ability to accommodate, and yes it was ‘Great’ consistent with both meanings of that word.

Today was Western Brook Pond, located within Gros Morne Park and the Long Range Mountains, the northernmost extreme of the Appalachian Mountains. Western Brook Pond is the name, but it is hardly a “pond”.

Measuring 10 miles long, and six tenths of a mile wide, this freshwater fjord is surrounded by 2,000 foot cliffs, scores of waterfalls, and other things wonderful to the eye.

Within it we were small, almost insignificant things suspended 600 feet above the “pond’s” bottom, cruising on the pristine waters it holds.

Pristine is an accurate description for the water. I could even call it “distilled” without taking too much license with the word.

When ecologists sought to evaluate the purity of the water they used an instrument that measures mineral content by the water’s ability to conduct electricity. The instrument did’t give a reading. At first it was thought that the device was defective, but other tests revealed that there was virtually no mineral content. The waters were non-conductive, just like distilled water.

There was also virtually no organic matter, highly unusual for a body of water this size. That explained the scarcity of aquatic life. But why no dissolved minerals and little organic matter? The answer is that the watershed of Western Brook Pond is almost entirely comprised of igneous rock with only a thin layer of soil. Igneous rock resists erosion. The pond is “ultraoligotrophic”.

It is fed by Stag Brook at its eastern terminus, and scores of cliffside waterfalls, the highest of these being Pissing Mare Falls which at 1,150 above the waters it feeds is one of the highest waterfalls in eastern North America.

At one time this was a true salt water fjord that was carved through the action of glaciers that grew and then receded with each successive Ice Age. At one time it was located at sea level, but with the melting of the last glaciers the land rebounded and Western Brook Pond is now about 90 feet above sea level.

Technically, fjords are salt water bodies. In every other feature, save for its fresh water, Western Brook Pond is a fjord whose fresh waters take 15 years to be fully exchanged by the waters that feed it.

There are three vessels that serve to transport tourists on the waters, West Brook I, II, and unsurprisingly III. We were passengers on West Brook II, which was flown in by helicopter in 4 parts and assembled on shore. West Brook I was pulled in on huge sleds in winter, and III’s parts were delivered by sled and helicopter. These boats and their crews have been specially certified to operate without disturbing the unique ecology.

I learned of Western Brook Pond 5 days earlier in a conversation with Oscar, a fellow camper. He urged that this was a “must do” experience. I made online reservations, but with some concern that the weather report predicted over a 90% probability of rain. A ranger told me to pay no heed to the weather report as in these parts they do well to be accurate for 48 hours.

She was right. The day broke sunny with wisps of clouds on a deep blue sky. An early morning haze clung to the ground. We arrived at the parking lot more than the recommended one hour before boarding, hoping to catch a bite at the shoreside cafe. It’s a pleasant 3km hike from the parking lot to the boat dock and cafe on a well groomed trail. Upon arrival at the cafe we learned that supplies had not yet arrived. Coffee and packaged brownies had to suffice.

The boat was fully booked for the 10 a.m. departure. Onboard there were backcountry campers who were deposited ashore at the eastern terminus of Western Brook Pond for their five day hike to, and assent of, Gros Morne Mountain.

There was also a young lady from Bangladesh who asked us to help her memorialize the experience by taking her picture holding the flags of Canada and her home country.

And then there was Ron and his daughter, Natasha.

I have found in our travels that there are people with whom I sense an almost immediate affinity. After just a few words the comfort is such that we begin exchanging our “stories”. Such was the case this day with Tena who staffs the gate at our campground, and Sheleigh our waitress at Java Jake’s restaurant where we lunched in Rocky Harbor. Ron and Natasha were special. They were the kind of people we hated to say goodbye to. We left them hoping that someday we would meet again.

Ron is 88, and at 32 Natasha is his youngest of 5 children. Her oldest sibling is 36 years her senior. Ron dedicated a life to the service of the United States, retiring as a colonel in the Army. During a stint at the base In Leavanworth Kansas he completed his Masters Degree through the University of Missouri at Kansas City, my law school Alma Mater. After retirement Ron took up teaching as a second career from which he has fully retired.

Natasha is a teacher whose summer breaks allow her to travel extensively. Ron quipped, “I did 2 tours of duty in Vietnam during the war, and now she has been in Hanoi as both a tourist and a teacher!”

As one might expect, Ron’s advanced years have taken some toll on his mobility. In this Natasha is his support. Their love and respect for each other is palpable. That and their shared passion for travel are the connections that allow them to bridge the gulf of their years as they cross countries and continents together.

At a late lunch Christine and I talked long in reflecting upon the mornings experiences. We could have focused on the rare vistas of Western Brook Pond, instead it was the rarer beauty of a father and daughter’s relationship.

Peace Everyone. Pete

PS. During the cruise I asked the tour guide if the scenery ever became ordinary to her. With a wisp of sadness hinting in her smile she said yes. As I left the boat I extended to her a wish for fresh eyes.

To you I offer the same wish as you view the relationships you hold dear. Resist allowing them to become ordinary. Use fresh eyes.

July 6, 2022.

We broke camp in the rain, we drove in the rain, we set up camp in the rain. Driving rain that all but defeated our windshield wipers. Fog at times so disorienting that it made me feel as if I was inside of a ping-pong ball. Over three hours of this on two lane roads and an hour after our arrival at camp my knuckles were still white. A damp relentless cold (thankfully!) made the mosquitos take cover, I care not where because it wasn’t around me.

Thinking about those little bastards I wondered how fast their wings must beat to make that infernal hum. The answer: 300 to 600 beats per SECOND! To put that into perspective, hummingbird wings clock at about 80 per second. Supposedly a mosquito can only fly about 1.5 miles per hour. They must set up a relay once they’ve set their sights on me.

Skies intermittently cleared of rain not long after we made camp at Blomidon Provincial Park located high on cliffs overlooking the Bay of Fundy.

However, temps continued to fall to just over 50 degrees. The winds picked up into the 30’s.

Blomidon PP is a pleasant surprise. Very basic campsites, but such a variety of settings. We are near the cliffside, somewhat sheltered by trees and scrub.

A short walk from us the campsites are in a broad open pasture.

There we spoke with Barb and Paul, campers from Vermont. We plan on sharing a campfire tomorrow provided that the winds subside.

On the way to Blomidon we stopped in the charming community of Kentville to do laundry. We plan on a longer visit when we again drive through on Friday as we head to Halifax.

Braving the elements this evening I pulled out the smaller of two Dutch Ovens to bake, or should I say over-bake, cornbread as a compliment to Christine’s split pea and ham soup.

We were able to enjoy both outside during a lull in the climatic action. Tomorrow is forecast to be pleasantly sunny with a high in the mid-60’s, mid-50’s at night.

In a moment of clarity at dinner “my muse” spoke to Christine. “I love what we are doing. It helps me to appreciate but not miss Kansas City. I love our life in Kansas City, yet while we are there I find gratitude for our life on the road. I look forward to our “next thing”, but not at the expense of embracing the moment.”

Earlier in the day at the laundromat I read an essay shared by a friend. The essay was written by a woman facing terminal brain cancer. In the “prime of her life” she was struggling to understand and accept her lot. During counseling she was presented with the question, “Are you running from death, or are you running toward life?” The question gives me pause, just as it did her.

Death is a destination we all will share. At 70 I see more and more acquaintances, friends, and relatives “exit”. Running from death is not only folly but the energy thus spent could be directed toward embracing the experience of life.

What is running toward life? One man’s answer:

“Sing like no one is listening, love like you’ve never been hurt, dance like no one is watching and live like it’s heaven on earth.” -Mark Twain

To this I will add: Don’t put off until tomorrow the things that you may find you are then unable to do.

Peace Everyone. Have Fun, Do Good, and for the sake of those who love you Be Safe. Pete