We left St. John’s the morning of July 23rd. Ahead of us was a drive of 260 miles to our next destination. It makes for a long day since these are usually non-divided 2 lane highways. There are passing lanes at regular intervals, but focused attention is demanded of the driver at all times.
What, let alone the name of a town, could possibly justify adding another 20 miles to our route? Nothing unless the name of that town is Dildo (pop. 800), whose motto is, “Our Name Will Never Change!”
We first learned that there was a town in Newfoundland and Labrador named Dildo from Nadine, a native of the Province who we met in 2019 aboard a Viking Cruise Ship in South America.
The area now occupied by Dildo has been inhabited for over 4,000 years. The name of the community dates to at least 1711, although the origin of the town’s name, as well as namesake, have been lost to time.
Understandabley, the name has brought the community a bit of notoriety. In the 20th Century there were a number of efforts to change the name, all of which failed.
In 2019 American night talk show host, Jimmy Kimmel, featured a number of his show’s segments on Dildo, even having a staff member spend a week living in the community. Kimmel was named honorary mayor, and staff person, Guillermo Rodriguez, an honorary citizen.
Kimmel declared Hollywood the sister city to Dildo, and in that honor he gave Dildo a Hollywood styled sign. The Dildo sign stands erect on a hillside overlooking the harbor.
We visited the wharf which protects fishing and pleasure vessels by resisting deep penetration from the thrust and throbbing pulse of probing waves and stiff blowing winds.
We also ate breakfast here before venturing on to “Nan and Pop’s Dildo Souvenir Shop”, where we bought a few memories to take home.
By the way, our next campground is Dildo Run Provincial Park.
We have reached the easternmost extent of mainland North America, and perhaps the limits of our travel tolerance. The course of our journey has so far covered nearly 6,000 miles and consumed over 400 gallons of gas at a cost of nearly US $2,500. It’s been worth it.
St. John’s (pop. 110,000) is the capital of and largest city in the Province. From here it is virtually the same distance to Paris (2,481 miles) as it is to Chicago (2,479 miles). Kansas City is nearly 3,000 miles away “as the crow flies”.
St. John’s is a tourist destination, a major seaport, and a focal point for many historic events. It played a role in the Seven Years’ War (the French and Indian War), the American Revolution, the War of 1812, and each of the World Wars. It is also known as the location where Guglielmo Marconi first demonstrated the ability of his wireless communications technology to bridge the Atlantic Ocean.
In 1494 John Cabot, a Venetian in the service of England, became the first European to sail into its harbor. It became a European fishing camp in the early 1500’s, and a permanent settlement around 1630.
It is a cruise ship destination, but thankfully there were none in port during our visit. This may explain the relative quiet of the Water Street pedestrian zone and shops near the harbor.
Despite the excited urging of the delightful Monet at the Visitors Information Center, a not-quite-20 year old new in her first major job, we did not visit any of the many museums or centers of culture and government. No doubt they are worthy of the time, that we unfortunately did not have. We did take in enough to render rewarding our three days in St. John’s.
Pippy Park is the municipality’s main park and green space. The park includes a huge forested campground with fully serviced campsites. We camped there three nights, departing the morning of July 23rd. Campfires are not allowed, and the sounds of the city intrude upon the experience, but in all other respects it was pleasant. Since our focus was on seeing what the metropolitan area had to offer we actually spent little time in camp. Driving into the heart of the downtown took less than 10 minutes.
What we saw and experienced began with the 17th Century Port Wine Vaults of the Newman Company. Katherine explained the history of these vaults within which Portuguese Port from the Newman Company of Porto aged in large barrels before returning to Portugal for sale. It was believed that the constant movement occasioned in a cross-Atlantic ship journey together with St. John’s climate, rendered exceptional the Port wines aged here. Our host was excited to learn that we had walked the Camino, which she hopes to do within the next two years.
We took in Water Street which is often closed to traffic, George Street which features a crush of nightclubs and bars, and the nearby neighborhoods with their colorful row houses.
Dominating the cityscape is Signal Hill. During the colonial period it was the site of years of armed conflict between France and England. Whoever holds Signal Hill, holds the harbor and St. John’s.
This National Historic Site can be reached by car, or by a steep hike. I chose the hike from a lower parking lot, and in the process passed some re-enactors.
It was here that Marconi first demonstrated his wireless cross-ocean communications technology which changed the world.
The views from Signal Hill were amazing, as was the stiff gusting wind.
In the distance one could just make out a lighthouse on a jut of land. This was the Cape Spear Light and National Historic site.
Not more than 2 miles by line-of-sight, it was a winding 30 minute drive to get there. We had been cautioned to beware of moose as there are many in the area. The blind curves of the road make for frequent collisions between the huge animals (up to 1,200 pounds) and inattentive drivers.
Moose are not native to Newfoundland, but a few were imported onto the island from Labrador in 1878 and their numbers have since exploded to an estimated 120,000. We have yet to see a moose on this trip.
Cape Spear features Newfoundland’s oldest surviving lighthouse which dates to 1836.
The light was built in combination with the light keeper’s cottage, which has been wonderfully restored.
The interior has a few windows, but there appear to be many more on the exterior. In a nod to form over function the builders obsessively embraced symmetry by incorporating many “false windows” into the exterior.
Cape Spear was also a Second World War army base. Here two huge artillery pieces protected the approaches to St. John’s Harbor, which was the main port for naval ships that protected convoys of materials and troops to Europe from Nazi U-Boat “wolfpacks”.
One of these German submarines made it to the mouth of the harbor, launching 2 torpedoes which fortunately exploded harmlessly on the cliffs surrounding the harbor entrance.
Cape Spear is now served by a more modern lighthouse.
The Cape is also the easternmost point of land in mainland North America.
At the moment that this picture was taken I was the continental North America’s easternmost human.
Arguably, this is a distinction I once held on the westernmost point of Europe.
Our time in St. John’s also included two visits to quant Quidi Vidi Village.
From the 1600’s this was a seasonal fishing port. Each spring English fishermen would arrive and inhabit small “fishing rooms”, departing with their salt-preserved catch in the fall.
A number of these little cottages remain.
Our first visit was for dinner (expensive!) in an 1820’s cottage, and the second for a more relaxing (and less expensive) lunch paired with excellent beer at the Quidi Vidi Brewery.
We departed St. John’s the morning of July 23rd, concluding our 3 night stay in the city. More important to us, we are now heading west. That does not signal the end of interesting sites and experiences, one worthy of attention grabbing souvenirs appears in my next post.
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.
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.
We returned today to Canada’s Gros Morne National Park, however we are now camped at the seashore. It was a non-eventful 5 hour drive. Once camp was made, Christine took a nap and I set off on a 6km coastal hike.
The winds were brisk, cool, and constant.
I was following the old mail trail that until 1958 was the sole land route connecting the coastal fishing villages along this part of Newfoundland’s great western peninsula. In winter the mail delivery was by dogsled.
This was also “Tuckamore”, the locals name for the stunted and besieged woods that eek out their existence near the shore.
These trees, unlucky to have sprouted and taken root here, face the relentless onslaught of a stiff prevailing western wind. Cool and damp in summer, and murderously bitter in winter.
It is a gnomish forest. The trees are gnarled, twisted, and arthritic, becoming Nature’s own bonsai creations.
They strive to survive as a pack. Limbs interlock as they have learned to keep their heads down. Any that reach for the sky are beaten back, or die. The tangle is such that even the dead are denied their rest, perpetually held upright by their brothers and sisters.
Trees at the edge of the wood are forced into a rictus, branches forged to offer the least resistance to the winds.
Yet, this is a place that draws people. It drew me.
It is not a grand experience, like a Viking village, or walking atop the Earth’s mantle. But it is an experience to be absorbed and appreciated in the same manner, mindfully, present, and with all of one’s senses attuned.
It is for us to render “great” the “small experiences” with our attention… experiences that are presented to us every day, just as the sun sets… every day.
