Fogo Island adventures

Spring in Newfoundland

2010-05-09T18:52:00.000-07:00

It's a gentle overnight crossing, but as we roll off the ferry into Port aux Basques the wind and rain buffet us with great determination. We pass several trailers overturned by the force of the wind.

Ah, spring in Newfoundland.

Now our challenge is to make the 3pm ferry crossing to Fogo Island, some seven hours driving away.

Even with the abysmal weather it's a beautiful drive. I've never seen so many shades of blue as in the lakes here, and the stands of birch along the road gleam white.

We arrive at the Farewell ferry at 2.30pm, having had to brake hard just once to avoid colliding with a moose crossing the road.

We see familiar faces inside on the one hour crossing to Man O'War cove. Outside, the nearby islands hunker low on the horizon and are obscured by the driving rain on the windows.

Our first stop is at the Shorefast Premises for a team meeting which sets the pace for what I know will be a hectic work schedule.

That's followed by a wonderful salt cod dinner with friends - welcome home they say - and it does feel good to be back on Fogo Island again.

The next morning there's still no let up in the weather. The thermometer outside our kitchen window seems to be stuck at zero day and night and the wind is blowing hard from the north. People are disappointed we did not bring better weather with us, but I hurriedly explain we just haven't had time to unpack it yet.

Ellie and Bill are ecstatic to be out of the van and in a house again - they race up and down the stairs. Even better is to be able to run up onto the hill behind us, albeit briefly as the cold wind drives us inside again.

We are startled to look out of our kitchen window in the afternoon to see several caribou casually chomping the grass within arms reach.

Eventually the weather relents and the thermometer climbs to 10'C. We take a walk out onto the rocky Back-Western Shore of Joe Batt's Arm - where construction of the Inn will shortly commence.

It's going to be another busy year on beautiful Fogo Island.

Danger Starts Automatically

2010-05-09T18:43:00.000-07:00

At Antigonish we rejoin the highway eastwards towards Cape Breton, and our night ferry to Newfoundland.

This is lobsterland, and lobster season to boot, so even the Port Hawksbury MacDonalds has an offering. Today is the first day the McLobster is on the menu and our curiosity overcomes our resistance to the ubiquitous arches. The billboard outside proclaims 'McLobster is back $619'. At that price we choose to order only one, and it had better be good! And it turns out to be not fried, and not bad either, although the white bread bun would float away in the wind if it wasn't kept in a plastic case with a rock on top of it.

We approach the ferry terminal at Sydney via Hwy 4 along the pretty south shore of Bras d' Or lake. The terminal is a busy place and the lines are filling up fast. It's good to hear the Newfoundland accents again. Tonight's crossing was the first we could book since entering Canada three nights ago, but it gave us an unexpected opportunity to explore Nova Scotia.

I'm very taken with a random sign on the building that warns 'Danger Starts Automatically' - good advice to keep in mind I think.

Karen spots an old Dodge GT in line with the license plate 'Codfsh' - now we know we are getting close to Newfoundland.

I cook up a deluxe scallop and smoked fish dinner whilst we wait to board the ferry, prepare some portable cocktail supplies for the crossing, and once on board we retire to our cabin for the evening.

Just how do you say that?

2010-05-09T18:33:00.000-07:00

Then it's onwards across the 'down-east' corner of Maine through a land of lakes, forests, moose and spelling challenges. We don't quite make the border that night, but find a great camp site next to a gravel pit. It's another one of those overnight spots that sounds awful, but is our favourite type. We are away from the highway, with lots of space for the dogs to run, no one else about, and it comes with a fabulous sunset and spectacular stars.

Our border crossing the next day across St. Stephen's Third Bridge into Nouveau Brunswick is lengthy but successful. Curiously, we spend time waiting for an immigration officer with Jane Halliwell Green - a rug hooking instructor from Maryland on her way to teach in Truro so our time is filled with interesting conversation at least. We speed through Digdeguash, Nauwigewauk and Quispamsis into Nova Scotia, through woods of white barked birch, struggling pine forests, glittering lakes, beaver dams, and past more and more warning signs about moose on the highway.

Tonight's camp site is at the Stewiake & Shubenacadie visitor center - not on our top ten list, but we're grateful for a level spot to park. It's a sort of Mastodon-Olympic combo experience. The Olympic sized crowds are courtesy of the next door Tim Horton's, at which there is a constant queue of people and cars. The concrete Mastodon is the visitor center's attraction, along with a concrete Fred Flintstone house, and concrete Barney Rubble car, all viewable only through a tall chain-link fence - just like the Olympic flame in Vancouver.

Fortified with Horton-food in the morning, we take a detour to the South Shore of Nova Scotia to visit Mahone Bay and the UNESCO World Heritage site of Lunenberg, the home of the Bluenose sailing ship.

The architecture is wonderful, lunch at Fleur de Sel is great, but the Bluenose is under blue tarps, being remade, again. There are several Economusee businesses in Mahone Bay and we stop at two - Amos Pewter and Spruce Top Rug Hooking Studio. They are good models for what we could be working towards on Fogo Island. Heritage houses converted to working artist studios.

We turn east again, winding along the eastern shore through small fishing communities and beautiful bays. We pick up some fresh scallops for dinner, and also make a stop at the J. Willy Krauch & Sons fish smokery in Tangier for some of the best smoked mackerel and salmon we've ever had. Sadly they were all out of smoked eel - the eel supply was described to us as 'erotic' (sic) - but that gives us good reason to go back!

There is a distinct chill in the evening air now we are in the Maritime provinces, but it keeps the voracious blackfly at bay. At Spanish Ship bay the road turns inland and the soil turns red. We drive through Scottish farmland with names like Mackenzie on the mailboxes, and lakes by the name of Lochaber. A big black bear ambles across the road and turns to look at us for a moment before disappearing into the woods as we screech to a halt, fumbling too late, for the camera.

Boston - the Cocktail City

2010-05-09T18:16:00.000-07:00

Last night we overnighted near Bushkill in the Pocono's on the eastern border between Pennsylvania and New Jersey alongside the Delaware river. We found a deserted spot next to an old empty house engulfed with wild honeysuckle. The cool air was sweet with its scent, and we rested well in preparation for our highway battle to Boston tomorrow.

It's a fact that four fifths of the population lives east of the Mississippi and we are really noticing the increasing density as we move east.

We're back in Boston - the Cocktail City - and manage to navigate our way to friends Ian and Liz without incident. Turning into their driveway from the competitive city driving is like entering an oasis of calm. Hidden behind their building is a private space backed by a forty foot rock wall - a surprising and welcome spot to park for a couple of days. Before they return home we get laundry and showers taken care of so we're presentable, and eager, for cocktail hour at 5pm. It's good not to be moving for a while, and even the dogs get baths although they are less happy about it than we are.

We also catch up with Julie and Roger - whom we knew from Seattle - and all put in a good team effort to deplete our bar supplies prior to crossing the Canadian border. Julie's new ceramic designs are wonderful and we spend time sharing news of friends now scattered across the country.

The bug man cometh - it's a real challenge to keep the windscreen clear, and a long way up to reach the windscreen!

Blue Ridge Parkway Misadventures

2010-04-30T16:09:00.000-07:00

It turns out we have a frustrating few days ahead of us as our plans keep being thwarted. Good job we have the bourbon.

First we were to visit the Raiford Gallery in Roswell, GA, but couldn't since Judy was about to leave for a show, and the mileage was too great to get there in time.

So we headed for the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. But news of a terrible storm approaching with tornadic winds and golfball sized hail had us on the run past the Park to Asheville.

In Asheville we wanted to visit the Highlands Craft Guild, and the Grovewood Gallery but we soon discovered the Obama family were visiting for the weekend, and marshall law was in effect. Our persistence paid off though, and after many secret service security sweeps of our van, we were allowed through into the inner security zone - even though we weren't on 'the list'. The Obama's were staying in the hotel next to the Gallery and the men in long raincoats and sunglasses kept an stern eye on us rough types.

Then we went up to the Blue Ridge Parkway, which turned out to be shut for 50 miles due to previous storm damage, and completely swathed in thick fog. So we had to stop and wait it out. The next day we made 40 miles, never knowing what was beyond the 20 foot visibility around us. The fog rolls around us as if we are in a giant steambath. Occasionally we glimpse tantalising vistas of endless rolling hills.

Today we made about 90 miles and finally broke out into beautiful sunshine, but the campground we made it to has not yet opened for the season.

The white dogwoods are in full bloom, the rhododendrons and azaleas not far behind. We're really enjoying hearing people talk to us - the accents here are so soft and gentle. Even the police in Asheville telling us where to go sound like they are singing us a lullaby.

Tomorrow we were going to try and make it to Karen's elderly aunt Eleanor and cousin Linda, but she's going into hospital for knee surgery. And so it goes on.

So instead I think we will just head for a super highway and get some miles on the clock towards Boston.

But it's all good and what scenery we have seen is beautiful and we are laughing about it.

We are very excited about a local program that installs big paintings of heritage quilts on barns. They have a touring guide so you can drive around and see them. It's very popular. Couldn't we do that on Fogo Island?

Quilters paradise

2010-04-30T15:42:00.000-07:00

Now onwards to Paducah, and quilting madness. Friends Victoria and Michael Terra (http://www.terracottage.biz/) moved to Paducah about two (or was it three?) years ago, also as part of an artist relocation program. Now I don't want to give you the impression that we have lots of friends who need to be relocated to protect their identities or for their own safety. Not at all. These artist relocation programs are efforts by cities to reinvigorate their economies through the arts. Typically, the real estate is inexpensive and low interest loans are available to assist with renovations. Here's a link to the Paducah program -

http://www.paducaharts.com/about_the_program.php

We have timed our arrival in Paducah to coincide with the American Quilters Society annual conference and quilt show. Paducah is also home to the National Quilt museum (http://www.quiltmuseum.org/). The whole town is jammed with quilters from around the world, although the Eyjafjallajokull volcano has disrupted some travelers from Europe. There are some 400 quilts entered in the competition, with $120,000 in prize monies. The quilts are breathtaking and we spend many hours marveling at them. Victoria and Michaels' daughter Xan, a docent at the museum, gives us the low down on the politics of quilting.

One exhibit - Imagine Hope - features quilts by Hollis Chatelain that are really extraordinary and we are lucky enough to be able to talk with her for some time in the Museum. Later that evening we crash a society dinner posing as chef's assistants - Michael Terra was asked to create the dinner menu - where she is surprised to see us again, and intrigued with the initiatives on Fogo Island.

Check out: http://imaginehopeworldwide.org/index.php and http://www.hollisart.com/index.php

On our way out of town we pause to purchase some Kentucky bourbon, then it's onwards to Georgia. Not exactly in a straight line to Newfoundland, but that's how we like to travel.

It turns out we have a frustrating few days ahead of us as our plans keep being thwarted. Good job we have the bourbon.

Quilting in paducah

2010-04-30T15:41:00.000-07:00

2010-04-27T10:38:00.000-07:00

Onwards into Kansas today. The mountains are behind us - evidenced by the observation that highway rest-stops now have air-conditioning instead of heaters.

Elevations continue to fall and the land flattens out around us. In one dusty town we stop to snap a picture of a building built of fossilized wood in 1933, some 150 million years old. But we have no time to stop to see the world's largest hand-dug well, the Agricultural Hall of Fame, or the Kansas Barbed Wire museum.

The vast open-range cattle ranches of the high desert have given way to feed lots and agriculture.

Stern signs at the entrance to highways proclaim: No animals - led, ridden or driven.

Long central-pivot sprinkler systems slowly irrigate the radius of giant circular fields for big agribusiness.

Small towns are regularly spaced about every ten miles, visible in advance by their tall grain silos and water storage towers.

We plunge back onto Interstate 70 and speed towards Hannibal, Missouri - home of Mark Twain, and our friends Mike and Melissa (colesnaps.com) who moved here about four years ago as part of an artist relocation program. They are restoring a large church (originally a Knights of Pithias lodge) for studio space, and living in the house next door. We even catch a glimpse of Mark Twain officiating at a civic ceremony of some kind.

2010-04-27T10:14:00.000-07:00

2010-04-26T14:54:00.001-07:00

We soon eagerly exit Interstate 70 again for Hwy 50, our highway of choice to cross the Rockies, and the Continental Divide. The climb follows the Gunnison river upstream through a narrow ravine, which occasionally widens into fertile, hidden flats where the red dogwood and yellow willow appear to set the river on fire. Long and narrow working ranches with weathered but elegant ranch houses are set into clefts in the valley sides.

The summit is at 10,149 feet and then we slowly wind our way down to the Great Sand Dunes National Park at 8500' elevation.

This unusual Park features the product of the winds blowing relentlessly against a fold in the Rockies, and the power of water to concentrate the sand back at the foot of them. The giant sand dunes are the tallest in America at 830 feet tall. They ripple along the mountain's base for thirty miles, distinct against the snow capped peaks above, the shades and shadows constantly shifting as the light changes.

It reminds us of our adventure crossing the Sahara desert in 1989.

Our campsite faces the mountains, and in late afternoon a series of thunderstorms roll over us. We sit in the front seats with cocktails, watching the dunes briefly turn white with hail. Lightning repeatedly strikes the dunes. On the crests of the dunes wind whips up the sand, like the spray flung off a giant wave. As the storms pass, a herd of deer graze their way across the cactus scrub in front of us and vanish into the Pinon pine forest.

Unusually for us, we take an early morning hike, frost still outlining the footsteps of deer on the trail, up to a dune overlook. Then down onto the dunes, to the strange river that flows over the sand, continually returning sand back to them from the mountains, before itself sinking and vanishing into the sand.

2010-04-26T14:51:00.000-07:00

Here's a few more pics - crossing the Continental Divide, Ellie map-reading, a trailer being a storm-magnet, and our Sand Dunes campsite.

2010-04-26T14:39:00.001-07:00

We turn onto Hwy 50 - the lonliest highway in America - straight down to the middle of Nevada through the Toiyabe Mountain Range. Tonight we are camped in a wildlife viewing area in the foothills, snow-capped mountains rise abruptly on either side of the valley. Curry and cocktails are followed by watching 'Big Love' in preparation for Utah.

The days are hot and dry, the shimmering horizon seems impossibly far away, and the nights cool down fast.

We exit into Utah through the Snake Range at 7000 feet elevation, into the land of white mirages and dry salt lakes of the Sevier Desert.

In the afternoon we are astonished as we pass through the San Rafael Swell, a vast seabed 160 million years ago, but now thrust upwards by plate tectonics, it's strata exposed and weathered into other-wordly appearance.

The followers of Mormon, who settled in this region, must have thought they were approaching hell itself.

We haven't spotted any polygamists yet, despite our Big Love primer.

Tonight we are aiming for Fruita, just over the Colorado border, where I chanced upon great BBQ pork last time we passed this way. Not many great dinner choices for Karen, but I leave with sticky fingers and a big smile.

2010-04-26T14:37:00.000-07:00

2010-04-26T14:32:00.001-07:00

A False Start

2010-04-26T14:26:00.000-07:00

Well it's been a while since my last post so thanks for coming back to check the blog again.

It's now April 2010 and we are driving back to Fogo Island, Newfoundland again.

I'll be there through mid October, and Karen will be returning home to work on our switch cover business from early June to late August.

Our plan is to arrive on Fogo Island in early May, and we have allowed ourselves about three weeks for the trip.

We start by driving due south but pull up short in Eugene, Oregon for our first (and hopefully last on this trip) visit to a Sprinter dealer to remedy a persistent squeak . This time the entire drive line needs replacing.

If we had a rubber stamp from every dealer we've visited our passbook would be full by now.

Perhaps it's just a thoughtful and caring Daimler/Chrysler customer satisfaction plan to assure that by the time the warranty runs out, all major vehicle components will have already been replaced.

On this trip we have only two canines with us - Ruby has stayed with Carole, Perry and Micah in Portland since she has such a stressful time on the roads. Ellie is enjoying her undisputed seniority, and Bill is just happy to be along for the ride. We miss Ruby a lot, but have to admit it's a more pleasant ride for us too without the constant panting and anxious glances at every bump in the road.

At Medford we cut east across the bottom of Oregon on Hwy 140 through the high desert towards Nevada. Our first night is on a high plateau, concealed from the road by a giant brush pile. It doesn't sound very special but we love it. Snow capped mountains in the distance, open range all around us. The silence is wonderful, punctuated only by the howl of coyotes in the distance. Only three cars pass our turn off all night.

In the morning we slowly pass through herds of cattle being driven down the highway by real cowboys with big hats and fancy saddles.

2009-05-29T13:54:00.001-07:00

Today was a most memorable day. In the morning I was out on the water in glorious sunshine chasing icebergs. And in the evening I was facing a mountain of fresh lobster for dinner.

And that's before I even mention that Karen arrived back on Fogo Island just a few days ago as well.

It's now late May and the icebergs are numerous and huge. Many stand over three hundred feet high, but move surprisingly quickly in the frigid Labrador current.

Pete takes us out in his speedboat to get a closer look at one shaped like the tip of the Matterhorn. We keep a respectful distance away in case it rolls over - it is a spectacular sight.

The surface is worn by the waves, and the jagged edges show where slabs have sheared off.

On a much smaller chunk of ice - technically called a 'bergy bit' - we see a stranded arctic fox that looks as if he's been adrift for a while. With the wind now blowing onshore, we can only hope he's lucky enough to hit land soon.

The crab and lobster season should be well under way by now, but the abundance of ice is hampering fishing. Luckily Winston has acquired some lobster and we're invited to dinner. What a beautiful sight - bright red crustaceans covering the table.

Soon we must leave and head back home to Washington for the summer. This week we begin preparing the Sprinter for another road trip. But first perhaps some gourmet ice cream from Growlers - a newly opened enterprise serving delicious ice cream, and located at the bottom of our driveway!

Iceberg Excursion

2009-05-29T13:17:00.000-07:00

2009-05-27T04:19:00.000-07:00

Return to Fogo Island

2009-05-27T04:10:00.000-07:00

After a trip to England in late April I'm now back in Canada - with an official work permit no less.

My next hurdle was getting to Fogo Island once I had landed in Gander.

The ice on and around Fogo Island has almost all melted, but it's been replaced by thick winter pack ice from the Labrador.

This ice broke the propeller off the regular ferry last week, then disabled the replacement ferry, and trapped even the icebreaker sent to relieve the small ferry. Now we have to wait until the wind changes and the ice moves along its way.

Since the ferry service is deemed an 'essential Government service' they are required to run air craft service to the Island - for the same cost as the ferry. That would be free to get on the Island, and $2.50 for a foot passenger to leave the Island!

So there's a small plane running from Gander, and a helicopter running from Farewell, an hours drive closer to the Island and where the ferry departs from. I opted to drive to Farewell thinking my car would at least then be easier to retrieve when the ferry starts to run again.

Bad idea. The helicopter can only hold four people, and make three runs - two to Fogo Is and one to Change Is - before it must return to Gander to refuel which takes two hours. Many people had been waiting in Farewell for 36 hours so I was way at the back of the line. Having wasted five hours on that option, I drove back to Gander, hoping to catch the last plane that day.

Lucky me. I was the only passenger on the 7pm plane and was treated to a view of the ice, the trapped icebreaker, and the Island from the air.

So now I'm back with the happy dogs, and trying to catch up with all that has happened in my absence.

The Island looks really different having shed its winter coat - I even found some Partridgeberries up on the hill which were delicious!

2009-05-27T04:01:00.000-07:00

Spring Tries to Arrive

2009-05-27T03:57:00.000-07:00

We are now officially into Spring, and winter is slowly relaxing its grip.

As I walk the dogs up the snow choked droke, my boots plunge down uncertainly through the soft snow.

Rocks and the tops of berry bushes are emerging, and the smell of dank earth is in the air.

There is even birdsong once again.

Pausing to turn and view the frozen white harbour behind me, the tinkling of unseen trickling water is beneath me.

Onshore winds keep the harbour ice mostly intact, although there are blue holes appearing every day.

It's already too unstable to walk out on.

Around the shore, thick jagged pans of ice lie broken, the slabs jutting up where rocks have finally cracked them with the rising and falling tides.

The caribou now stay off the ice on the ponds, although it takes the first skidoo to sink through the ice before people grow wary of it.

I watch a hockey game played on the wharf, the puck now replaced with a ball, and skates hung in the shed for another season.

Fishermen are readying their boats for the crabbing season, already started further south where the harbour ice is gone. Concern for the ice is now focused on the huge rafts of saltwater pack ice drifting past offshore, some miles long. They tear away fishing gear and trap longliners until the icebreaker can smash a path to them.

Giant ancient icebergs drift by offshore, weathered into fantastical shapes.

2009-05-27T03:18:00.000-07:00

Winter Pictures

2009-02-12T20:53:00.001-08:00

Here's some recent pictures of the way winter looks on Fogo Island.

Now That's a Winter!

2009-02-12T20:12:00.000-08:00

Winter has really moved in here to stay. I was shocked, returning from England where a few inches shut down the Old Country.
I arrived in Gander at 2am, and it took over an hour to free the car - digging out, de-icing, and freeing the wheels frozen into the thick ice on the ground.
Luckily I had a bag of salt, and a shovel stashed in the back, once I freed the door and de-iced the lock.
And it was snowing. Cold too.
On the ferry, we are surrounded by thick white lily-pads of ice ten feet across, slowly subduing the waves as they grow larger and larger, eventually coalescing in a jagged patchwork, pushing out from the shore.
On Fogo Island the wind is blowing the snow around; I can barely make out the caribou crossing the icy highway; can't see the house from the road. Ice obscures the faint center line on the road.
Light from bright headlights, shining on the horizontally hurtling snow, is thrown back in a disorienting reflection of white specks. Slowly and dimly is best.
Luckily Dave has plowed the driveway, using a giant pickup with a snow blade on the front, scraping the snow down to the ice layer. Charging the mound, piling it up high, wheels hissing and spinning on the ice as the snowbank compacts.
Now I just have to scale the berm to get to the house.
I took the pictures the next day. In places sinking into snow up to my hip, and also, I noticed, well over the top of my boots. Gasping in the wind - iit's like that feeling when you stick your head out of a train window and the rushing wind makes it feel like you can't catch a breath for a moment. Fingers quickly numbing, fumbling with the camera.
The local Weather Station TV channel - and it's a really good idea to check the weather before going out - says the temperature is -15C, and feels like -30C with the wind chill.
Yikes. Even the dogs are reluctant to venture far, looking up hesitantly as the wind makes the power-lines wail.
Ice crystals grow on the windows like fractals, obscuring the storm.
And today the sun shone and the wind was still - a thermometer in the brightness even crept up above freezing.
Stumbling through deep snow on the hills behind the house my breath instantly freezes in my beard, a hardening mask. The dogs lurch after each other, Ruby's short legs ploughing through, Bill and Ellie leaping like frogs across the snowbanks.
The harbour ice stretches out to sea in a hundred shades of blue, merging into the bruised grey clouds.
White houses, trimmed in red, stand boldly against the blue sky.
It's mesmerising.
In the middle of the harbour sits a pig-pen, blown out in the storm, now gripped in the ice. The pig long since in the freezer.
More snow forecast this weekend.
Luckily I can walk to the Cafe in just about any weather, with my snowshoes.
Jonathan

www.shorefast.org
http://www.releases.gov.nl.ca/releases/2009/intrd/0123n03.htm

2008-11-22T10:59:00.000-08:00

2008-11-22T10:41:00.000-08:00

2008-11-22T10:23:00.000-08:00

Photos of Summer

2008-10-30T18:14:00.000-07:00

No sign of any leaving visible

2008-08-19T14:12:00.000-07:00

July was an astonishingly beautiful, and swelteringly hot, month. I was completely taken by surprise by the heat and glorious sunshine. It's a peculiar experience to be striding about on a rocky headland, in shorts and tee shirt, reddening under the sun's burning rays, and also admiring icebergs slowly drifting by.
The spouts of whales burst the oceans' surface as they feed on the migrating capelin.
Along the trails wildflowers have exploded in a rush of colour - brilliant blue iris speckle the heaths, and groups of deep red pitcher plants populate the marshy bogs. Vivid yellow water lillies flower on the ponds, and are followed by blooms of a fluffy white variety.
In the cool of the evening, hoards of ravenous mosquitos appear. Everyone scrambles to find where they stored the window screens last Fall, and for a couple of nights my home on wheels is a movable feast for the mosquitos, until I too find a window screen solution.
The opening of Nicole's Cafe is a great success - the food is fabulous and beautiful, and the kitchen has been working at maximum capacity ever since. Word quickly spreads of the new dining experience, and the other fine restaurants - from the West of Newfoundland to St. Johns - come to sample the fine cuisine and atmosphere.
On several occasions we gorge ourselves at Pete and Margarets' house on the last of the seasons' crab and lobster, fresh off the boats, and very affordable. It proves impossible to stop eating the exquisite crustaceans until all that remains is a towering pile of shells on the table.
The 'Personal Food Fishery' for cod also opens for a few weeks, and many people take the opportunity to harvest and salt their allowance of five cod a day.
The summer music Festivals occur in July and August and the ferry lines grow as more and more visitors flock onto Fogo Island. There's lots of traditional music, as well as traditional foods such as Fish and Brewis, and Toutons, on offer.
The communities of Stag Harbour and Fogo have their 'Come Home Year' festival too this year, which makes for a bumper crowd. The 'Come Home Year' is a curiosity that can only exist in a place where so many people have been forced to leave. There are half a million Newfoundlanders that live in Newfoundland. But there are a million and a half that live outside the Province - forced or lured by higher paying jobs elsewhere. In each community there are many houses that are sadly empty, save for one or two weeks a year, when owners come back to visit family and friends.
The residents of Fogo Island may have rejected Joey Smallwoods call to burn their boats and resettle to the mainland in the 1950's, but since then the ever shrinking fishery has proved a more sinister and effective force in depleting the population of the Outport communities.
So the challenge now is how to create sustainable rural economic transformation?
How to create an outport economy that pays a living, competitive wage, allowing people to continue to live here, and encouraging others to move back?
That is the challenge the Shorefast Foundation has been created to meet.
Nicole's Cafe is part of the answer, as are the new farming and bakery initiatives, the professional Theatre production, and The Great Punt Race to There and Back.
The Punt race is a ten mile race, across open ocean, to Change Islands and back, for significant prize money. Last year, the first year, there were ten punts competing. This year there were twenty-one punts in the race, built by ten different builders, each with a crew of two, and it's a hard row too.
All the punts must be built on Fogo Island or Change Islands, and crewed by residents, the objective being to stimulate local boat building, and revive interest in the heritage of the wooden boat.
Every fisherman used to own a punt - most would build their own - and cod jigging with a one or two man crew was the way almost everyone made a living. Now the sight of twenty-one punts all moored on a collar in the harbour is a spectacle not seen for decades and it attracts a lot of attention.
Even the Lieutenant Governor, John C. Crosbie - the Queen's Representative - chose to attend this Punt Race rather than the Regatta in St. Johns this year. Despite dodgy weather the Race was a success, as well as a lot of work, and it's another step forward in establishing the new reputation of Fogo Island as the place to go for an unforgettable geotourism experience.
The play, Fighting Fire With Snow, is also a wonderful success. Performed outdoors by local people, in several different communities, the story explores the Resettlement issues of the 1960's and provokes a lot of discussion. Every performance receives a standing ovation.
By mid August the blueberries are ripe for picking, and seem to be in abundance everywhere, but the weather is fickle - changing from sunshine to torrential rain several times a day.
Karen has been back for a couple of weeks now, and the astute reader will have noticed there's been no talk of us driving home any time soon.
In fact it looks like we'll be volunteering here through the winter. The experience and opportunity is just too tempting to pass up.
And there will be moose meat to eat.

Staying on, on Fogo Island

2008-07-03T11:49:00.000-07:00

The wedding of Amanda to Jason went off very well.
After the actual service, there is a vehicle parade around town, horns honking wildly. Along the roadside small groups of men gather at intervals, firing off their grandfathers powder muskets in celebration. These old guns are often over five feet long, and the booming report bounces around the bay.
Pete, father of the bride, is undoubtably the most dashing man in town this day - in a tuxedo suit, raising the long barrel into the sky and firing a sonic boom salute.
We have decorated a Stage for their honeymoon night.
A Stage is a building traditionally used to land codfish, from the skiffs, and split them, ready for salting.
The Stage we have transformed is one Zita had rebuilt where her fathers' used to be, so it's only fragrance is of fresh wood and saltwater.
As the evening darkness draws on, the party is just beginning. At around midnight it's low tide so Karen and I heat up some large flat beach rocks and then lug them over the seaweed strewn rocks out to the Stage where they will warm the bed. We've decorated the Stage with voluminous fabrics hung over the bed - which is adorned with a beautiful quilt - cloths and rugs on the floor, armchairs, candles, Champagne, chocolates and on and on.
If the sun shines in the morning, throwing open the big front doors will reveal a vista across the bay and out to sea. We devised a series of coloured signalling flags for the morning - yellow for 'send coffee', orange for 'breakfast', and blue for 'rescue us'.
It's past three before the designated rower is called upon to row the couple out to the Stage for their nuptials.
Poached lobster and bacon for breakfast.

This morning, mid June, there were bergy bits in the tickle.
Small chunks of melting iceberg, over 10,000 years old, about as big as a punt, bobbing about in the narrow channel.
A thin fog hesitantly hovers on the hillsides. The sea is still and grey.
Fogo Island is about 21 miles long, by 14 miles wide, with a population of about 2300 people, spread between ten fishing communities.
We cruise around it in our own gleaming iceberg.
Where the thin soil has accumulated, gardens are being planted, the caribou kept at bay by rustic stick fences.
It's the kind of place where people don't lock their doors, and you're welcome to drop in for tea, even if they aren't home.

Talking of which, Karen is now home for July. But only for July. So give her a call.
We have decided to stay in Newfoundland as long as possible, which means one of us had to return home for July to take care of business. Then we will both spend August here, and return home in September, probably via Sooze's birthday bash at the incredible City Museum in St. Louis, Missouri.
Here on Fogo Island there are many formative arts & crafts projects we can help move forwards, and the daughter of a friend is about to open a Cafe - the first ever here in Joe Batt's Arm - so there is much we can assist with.
We have decided to offer our help, in any way we can, in a 'summer of service'.

Julie, friend and fabulous ceramicist, from Guemes Island, Washington State, and just down the road from us at home, is also here for the summer and beyond. She is working on creating the planets' largest codfish mural in a tile mosaic.

On a sunny day the rocky coastline, with its red and white buildings, looks like the most beautiful place on earth.
Newfoundland is such a wildly rugged, and beautiful place, and the people are so welcoming.
About every three days, there is a day when the light is so amazing everywhere you look, that it can take all day
just to cross the Island.

Yesterday was the Student Punt Launch - a punt built by students mentored by a Master Boat Builder, which went very well. The weather was bright and squinty, but windy, and there was a good crowd down at the old longliner shipyard site in Shoal Bay for the races.

Lobster season is over now, but the limited, personal fishery, for cod, is about to start.
People are awaiting, with great anticipation and relief, the arrival of several good days in a row. It was a difficult and long winter with many terrible storms that lasted for days. Now the newly planted vegetables need a drier, sunny, period.

I've listed below a few websites that will give you a broader picture of Fogo Island, and the summer ahead.
Or just get on a plane and come on out here!

www.fogoislandregatta.com

www.fogoisland.net

www.shorefast.org

Wedding photos

2008-07-03T10:31:00.002-07:00

Pics of Fogo Is, Change Is.

2008-06-09T17:54:00.001-07:00

Fogo Island Vortex

2008-06-09T06:06:00.000-07:00

Where has the time gone?
This place, Fogo Island, Newfoundland, is entrancing us once again. Thrust out into the Atlantic, this island of sharp rock, with its defiant red fishing stages and enduring Outport communities, is a hard place for us to leave.
The coastline is one that Slartibartfast of Magrathea would have been proud of - never a straight line or even a gentle curve to it. Instead it abruptly juts out or cuts in with great gusto, the ancient fissured rocks refusing to be smoothed by the ocean.
The ferry docks at Man O'War cove, near Stag Harbour, several times a day, unless the winter ice is too thick even for the accompanying ice-breaker vessel. Even today, in early June, there are plenty of giant icebergs drifting by in the cold Labrador Current. It took a couple of days for a string of Arctic saltwater pack ice to pass south, visible as a starkly white crusty line on the horizon. It was about thirty miles long, ten miles across, and a very destructive force against fishing nets and lobster traps.
A road links the ten scattered fishing communities with Joe Batt's Arm, a u-shaped inlet, just past Shoal Bay and Barr'd Islands. Protestants faced Catholics across the choppy water. In the winter houses were moved across the ice, and floated around during the summer. The family land was rarely sold.
The bold red fishing stages lean out over the water, supported on a sturdy 'cage' of logs, filled with big rocks for ballast to resist the storms. Thick 'strouters' splay down into the water, deep enough for returning fisherman to tie up to. From here fish would be forked up into the stage to be cleaned and split.
One sunny afternoon we walk the Lions Den trail, passing along well worn coastal pathways, through the site of dismantled communities like Lions Den, our dogs racing ahead across flaming heathers to plunge into a snowbank, or splash through a cold beaver-made pond.
We had an afternoon picnic with many friends made on the trip to Battle Harbour, Labrador last year - which turned into an overnight stay - on Shoal Bay - where the Long-liner shipyard used to be. Now there's a beaten concrete boat-ramp, hidden behind encroaching alders and scrub, its presence overpowered by the impassive rocks, the buildings long since moved or dismantled. The view is stunning.
A hot alder fire on the red granite rocks roasts fresh crab in the afternoon; icebergs glisten offshore in the lengthening sunlight; friends and family tell stories of a hard winter passed; at dusk the chill wind dances around our fire, chasing sparks over the rocks.
As night falls, gulls nest noisily on the rocky outcrops, and the night sky comes alive, sparkling in the darkness.
Around the bay the sparse lights of the communiites of Shoal Bay and Barr'd Islands define the horizon.
Another night is spent at Sandy Cove, the surf hypnotically rolling onto the white sand. A stream flows through the peaty bogs and rocky ponds laden with trout, to the surf, crispy curly brown seaweed crunching underfoot at the pebbly high tide line.
For the last few days we've been grappling with the reality that now we have to leave if we are to meet our plan.
But a friend reminded us that if you follow the plan, you are only following what you used to want to do.
So we stayed for a crab and lobster feast at Nicole and Dave's - more lobster on one table than ever before was witnessed - and before that, delicious meals at Pete and Margarets' of roast seal flipper and moose, sauteed Wrinkles, a baked moose luncheon, salt codfish stew, salt-beef and split pea casserole, and on and on.
Abandoning ourselves to the swirling Decker family vortex, with a cup of tea and a slice of partridgeberry pie, we helplessly watch time pass by, as things get done around us.
Their daughter Amanda is getting married next weekend, and it takes us a couple of days to decorate a stage for their honeymoon suite. It's the stage Zita had rebuilt where her fathers' used to be. Curiously and beautifully it sits on a rock only accessible by foot at low tide.
Now gentle but firm Decker Vortex pressure is being applied to persuade us to stay until after the wedding on the 14th. Several 'departure' days leave without us.
Surely we could stay just a few more days here. We want to be persuaded.

Fogo Island & Change Island pics

2008-05-30T14:39:00.000-07:00

Don, and on to Fogo Island

2008-05-30T14:38:00.000-07:00

As our resolve to leave Cape Enrage and press on towards Hopewell Rocks hardens, we pass a weatherworn sign offering 'free camping'. Our heads swivel immediately to take in the, level and empty and free, field looking out onto a stunning salt water marsh full of beavers, ducks, geese and dozens of birds we could only guess at, settling in for the evening.
By now several seconds have passed and we have whizzed past the field. But it doesn't take us long to find a place to turn around.
Don's a fine chap who likes to share the view. As the light fades, the birdcalls are replaced by a wonderful and deafening chorus of frogs.
It's a captivating place to camp, and we struggle to leave by 9.00am. It's a good job low tide in Fundy Bay is soo looow — there will still be plenty to see at Hopewell Rocks.
And they are spectacular. Tall pillars of red sandstone, capped with trees, have become isolated from the cliffs by the powerful erosive tides. Their bases are covered with Bladderwrack kelp, and, narrowing with height, they again swell out above the high tide line.
Leaving Nouveau Brunswick we race on to Nova Scotia, hatching a plan en route to accelerate our arrival on Fogo Island, Newfoundland. We decide to drive across the north coast of Nova Scotia, straight to Sydney, to catch the ferry to Channel Port aux Basques, Newfoundland. It's a six hour crossing, then a seven hour drive to Farewell, then an hours ferry ride to Fogo Island.
We'll save the southern coast of Nova Scotia, and the Cape Breton Highlands for the return trip.
Highway 5 along the north coast is a beautiful ride, past inviting sandy beaches and big sturdy Victorian farmhouses.
The dogs frolic in a beachside park in Seafoam, and at the Dino Bar in Tatamagouche we enjoy some of the best scallops and fried fish we've ever had.
There is a midnight ferry to Newfoundland which sounds like perfect timing. We try to make a reservation online, scalping wireless service from an unsuspecting subscriber, but it's only possible to reserve online for the following day. So we try phoning, and after ten minutes of holding realize that we've now been stymied by technology for half an hour, and have to keep moving if we are to make the ferry. Keeping an eye out, but not literally, for Moose we press on, and arrive at the ferry ticket booth with only forty minutes to spare.
Unfortunately for us the afternoon ferry had limped in with only two of its four engines functioning, so there were now two ferries worth of cars and trucks waiting for a departure. We had no reservation and so were consigned to 'loser line number nine', along with some other unfortunates. Our outlook was not good — it was very unlikely we would get on the next ferry, whenever that was to leave, and would have to remain in line until the replacement ferry was in service for a 7pm departure the next evening. And the toilets in the terminal building have broken too.
What a lot of driving for not a lot of benefit we moan to ourselves. We put up the curtains, put in earplugs to drown out the drone of the idling trucks, and finally drift off to sleep.
At 2.30am we are awakened by a determined banging on the side of the van, the tone of which suggested it may have been going on for some time. We are confused and delighted to hear the ferry will be leaving with us on it, but only if we hurry up and drive onto it.
What a stroke of luck after all.
Lucky line number nine.
Above the vehicle decks we join the many other travelers wandering around bleary-eyed, clutching pillows as if they were life jackets.
Everybody seems to hate the Lief Erricson ferry, but we are happy to be on board, even if the small child behind us screams and writhes all night, which he does, with great effectiveness. Back in go the ear plugs.
We have a bizarre chat with a trucker about the different techniques for driving over a bear, versus a moose. And how each feels.
He tells us to watch for trucks coming past the historical McDougal's Wreck House, about forty kilometers up the highway. And to hope that we see lots. McDougal lived in a very windy place, and used to hoist a flag to warn trains in times of extreme wind danger.
Several trains were, literally, blown off the their tracks. The same winds now lift up the rear axels of the 'Big Rigs' — what a scary thought.
It feels great to be in Newfoundland again. The air is fresh, and the light bright like white salt against the blue sea. Darker, ochre freshwater ponds writhe with trout, and beaver dams. Rocks burst out of the land like boils.
We plan to catch the last ferry to Fogo Island, seven hours away. Our luck continues - as we arrive at the Farewell dock, the ferry is loading - five minutes later and we would have missed the boat. It was an earlier ferry, not on our, outdated, schedule. If we had dallied longer at the scenic outlook, or stopped just one more time to snap a picture, we could have photographed its' wake.
Instead we are the star attraction — a giant white iceberg on wheels backing onto the ferry.
All the other cars face us; we are the screen at a floating drive-in movie. At about nine and a half feet tall, even the cars at the back can watch us reversing on.
All three dogs have their noses pressed up against the rear windows for the exercise — presenting a daunting, and sebum smeared, show of solidarity, as the chest freezer on wheels, (thank you Dave F) quietly beeped its way up the ramp onto the prow of the ferry vessel. (If you recall I smothered the reversing beeper with reassuringly quiet spray foam)
Because of our ferry-catching luck, we arrive two days earlier than expected. Just how fabulous is that?
The sun is shining brightly and the brimstone rocks are warming up slowly.
Stark white patches of ice speckle the crouching juniper and red heather covered hillsides.
Vast pointy icebergs are visible, five miles or more offshore, drifting fast in the current.
Vivid green algae endures for centuries on a hard cold, wind-sculpted rock.
So we've been here several days now, and our departure date from Fogo Island moves further away with every day.
Nova Scotia just can't compete with this. It's so great to reconnect with friends here.
We amble daily around the island, exploring, visiting, walking trails, and turning heads with the height of the Sprinter.
Today we explored Change Islands, the sunshine saturating the deep red colors of the weathered Stages, and reflecting brightly off the white churches.
Returning home we back onto the ferry with confidence this time, casually snacking on some cold Quebec poutine, bouncing over the ramp, yelling at the Canines, and spinning the wheel with abandon. Yes, why not - take a good look at us! We are here for a while.
Roast Moose for dinner, cocktails clinking with pure iceberg ice, and the best company in the world keep us up till the early hours roll around.

Bay of Fundy photos

2008-05-30T13:09:00.002-07:00

Lakes, Nackawick, Fundy photos

2008-05-30T11:39:00.000-07:00

More photos - Great Lakes

2008-05-30T09:12:00.000-07:00

Big Lakes and Deep Woods

2008-05-28T14:12:00.001-07:00

We sleep well, and then continue eastward, skirting the edge of Lake Superior, 600' above sea level.
In Wawa we slowly cruise by homes and businesses, prowling for unguarded wireless internet access, to send/receive e-mails and update the blog.
After Sault Saint Marie, or Soo as it's locally known, the highway offers views of Lake Huron, 579' above sea level. The locks at Soo control the flow between these vast lakes. This last sentence may give you the impression that we actually saw the locks, but, rotten tourists that we are, there was no time to stop for that attraction. We are now focused on the Maritime Provinces, and keen to get back to the ocean's edge.

Tonight, we opt for an RV park, and find a spot at The Big Oak RV Park, just feet away from the shores of Lake Nipissing. A cold stiff breeze slaps the agitated waters against the rocky shore, and the dogs are delighted to plunge into the choppy waters. The chill wind has the benefit of deterring the hard-biting Blackfly, which like the tempting tourists, have just arrived. If you keep moving they lag behind, but on stopping, soon catch up, silently swarming around exposed soft flesh. This place has rules, posted everywhere — campers are obviously a troublesome lot. The last rule concerns lanterns — if you must use them, the limit is fifteen.
In the morning the wind has softened, and having broken as many rules as possible, we move on to Ottawa, clean and refreshed.

We spend the evening with Zita, enjoying the sensation of not moving. Most happily, she has thought to offer giant steaks of beef and fish for dinner, which her brother Alan prepares deliciously on the barbeque. We were concerned about where to park our land-yacht in town but Zita has persuaded the concierge of the apartment building to allow us to park in the loading zone.
Taking a stroll with our pack of dogs along the river opposite the Parliament buildings, we are enveloped in the fragrance of lilacs. They cover the hillsides in a dense profusion of purples and white. Tulips, daffodils and cherry trees are in full bloom - it's Spring all over again for us.
Afterwards, the dogs settle down in the van, tortured by the tempting fragrances coming from the nearby restaurants.
Dave arrives later and we follow him across the border into Quebec Province. We would never have found his place in the dark, even with Mapquest's help. Nestled between the rocky hills and a small lake, at the end of Horace Cross, it's a beautiful spot.
After a morning occupied with coffee, laundry, smoked fish, toast and talking, we take a drive with Dave to see the area.
The promisingly sweet-sounding Gatinau Parc is just a stones throw away, and full of trails for winter skiing or summer hiking. But there's no cake available yet.
Nearby Wakefield is a hip town where we enjoy some live tunes in the evening.

Here the forests are freshly alive with many shades of delicate, dappled green. If it were Fall we would be 'leaf-peeping' at the flame coloured foliage.
The birdsong is unfamiliar, and even the frogs sound different from those at home. In the dimples of the massive granite Canadian Shield, thousands of lakes offer habitat for beavers and moose aplenty.

Dashing onwards from Dave's bucolic lakeside home, we miss a turn, and enjoy a pleasant detour through rural Quebec villages, seeking directions from some soggy golfers, and a Cabana de Sucre. These 'sugar shacks' are at their busiest in the Spring, when the maple syrup sap is flowing, and they send us on our way with little maple leaf-shaped treats of sugar, waving and calling Bon Chance!

The Province de Quebec has invented yet more creative roadside symbols to describe the attractions available locally. Many of them we puzzled over unsuccessfully, so they must be peculiarly French-Canadian activities. They take the French language very seriously, and even the supposedly helpful signs, presumably directed at visiting Americans, explaining the mph vs kph speeds, were perplexingly solely in French.

We travel northeast, along the St. Lawrence seaway, past attractive farming villages dominated by tall spired churches. The RV parks are now VR Parcs, and every town seems to be named after a Saint. Saint-Jerome-LaChute (terrible accident involving some rapids), Saint-Louis-de-Ha!-Ha! (patron saint of bad jokes), Sainte-Emilie-de-L'Energie (consumed in a fireball), Saint Narcisse (something to do with a mirror), and my favourite, Saint-Marmite (parton saint of savoury spreads).

From Riviere-du-Loup, just south of Trios-Pistoles, we leave the excitingly named towns on the St Lawrence seaway and head towards Nouveau Brunswick.
At the visitor center, we spot a picture of some interesting beach rocks and decide we have to find a route taking us there.
They are Hopewell Rocks, happily just past Fundy National Park - next on our list to visit tomorrow.

We drive through the Acadian forests of Red Spruce, Maples, Birches and Balsam Fir, away from the farmland, the air fresh and sweet with pine scents. In Nackawic, the worlds' largest axe is confirmation we have transitioned from farming to forestry.
In the Bay of Fundy, the Caledonia Highlands meet the Labrador current in the highest tides of the world, reaching over fifty feet.
The red sandstone forms long pink beaches, which we all take great delight in walking on.
Now we've reached the Atlantic ocean - after some 5500 miles.
Low tide tonight, and tomorrow morning, is at about 9.00 o'clock, and the plan is to drive on from Fundy National Park tonight so we can walk on the seabed tomorrow morning at Hopewell Rocks. The extreme tides have eroded the sandstone cliffs into bizarre pillars, with a mushroom cap of trees above the high tide line.
First however, we detour to see the lighthouse at the evocatively named Cape Enrage. Then we are compelled to drive slowly through the beautiful salt-water marsh, stretching several miles inland, along the small roads, and slowly past sturdy weathered houses and buckling old barns. Dusk is now gathering and we have thirty kilometers to travel before camping for the night. We imagine our two choices are paying a fee at a 'Vehicule Recreational Parc', or finding a free spot on a muddy lane.

Bur our plans are foiled by Don.

more photos

2008-05-19T08:15:00.001-07:00

photos

2008-05-19T08:00:00.001-07:00

Praries and forests

2008-05-19T07:51:00.000-07:00

There's not a cloud in the piercing blue skies when we awake at 6.00am, but plenty of ice on the ground.
The dogs enjoy scampering in the snow banks as we enjoy a warming cup of tea.
Then we descend from Lake Louise and rejoin the highway to Banff, where we eschew the tourist shopping and choose to reprovision ourselves, starting with a bacon ommelett.
As we take a stroll to see the Hoodoos - towers of rock along the scree slopes above the river - the sun is hot on our faces, but the air is crisp and cool. Beneath us the wide Bow river valley winds back up to the glacial icefields.
Construction of this spectacular 230 km stretch of road was started in 1931, and it opened in 1940. It passes 32 glaciers, and traverses terrain from the meadowy Montane valley floor (1500m) around Jasper, through the spruce and fir forests in the Sub-alpine zone, and up to the treeless Alpine zone, above 2200m.
What a ride.
As Julie Hodder requested there are some close-up pictures posted of some of the roadside bears we saw.
After leaving the mountains of Banff we turn east towards Calgary, then south to Fort McLeod, across the now gently undulating grasslands. The terrain is dry, and the never ceasing wind rustles the stubble of last year's brittle crop stalks in the fields.
We visit another Unesco World Heritage site at Head Smashed In Buffalo Jump. It's just what it sounds like - what's the word for that? - a remarkable location significant to the Plains Indians for over 9000 years.
It's now a hot afternoon in a mostly flat place although the constant wind has a chill bite to it. Before we left I packed the walls and ceiling of the van with 2 inch thick many-styrened foam, and it really helps to keep both the heat in at night, and keep it out during the day. The dogs are all very relaxed, and the interior comfortable when we return from the cliffs.
Now we are racing across the Praries of Saskatchewan, where the sheer giant size of the farm equipment talks of vast bean and grain farms. Tall grain silos punctuate the horizons. Did I mention the relentless, and powerful, wind that buffets us all day?
Eastern Manitoba brings more rocky contour lines, sturdy forests, chill lakes and beautiful old weathered barns.
Manitoba wins the award for "Most creative and comprehensive interpretive roadside symbols". There are symbols for skiing, snow-mobiling, bungee jumping, bow hunting, lemonade stands, pie-slices ahead, fishing hooks, swing sets, and so many more. Some communities offered so many of these 'symbolized' services and attractions that there was a huge board at the edge of town, covered in symbols like the Periodic Table. To memorize and interpret the welcome board was a test of creative memory.
We race past Winnipeg, having no time to visit the tantilizingly sounding 'Golden Boy' statue in the Capitol Biulding, and plunge into the woodlands of Northern Ontario.
At a Gas Bar we meet a Mennonite farmer, also filling up, who had visited fellow Mennonite farmers in Ritzville, Eastern Washington. We compared winds. Here, this year, the winds were lasting longer than usual, and although they were robbing the fields of soil, the recently planted crops would be safe, one inch down.
He also recommended Halifax to us, particularly 'Phil's Boutique' where there are nice people without tattoos or earrings, and there is fruit and veg available from around the world apparently.
The searching wind follows us, and combined with the energetically bouncy highway, makes for a vigorous ride.
Morning storms lurk in our rear view mirror, whipping up soil in obscuring brown clouds and hurling it against the van.
We again pass bear, moose, and occasional stubborn patches of ice, clinging to fast-growing waterfalls.
The pleasantly winding highway cuts through rocky hills covered with dense forests of pine and starkly contrasting white-barked aspen and alder, or, curves around dark ponds and wetland swamps formed by beavers. A full half of the Provinces Highway & Transportation budget is spent on putting up hundreds of highway signs warning against moose-vehicle impact. There are so many signs the moose are getting tangled up in them. The catchy warning phrase is 'Moose on the Loose' and features a cartoon picture of the drivers view of the impending collision with this towering swamp roaming beast.
There are so many lakes, held in this rocky landscape, some brinkling in the sunlight, some still and brooding in the shadow of the forests or a sudden granite outcrop.
There's little traffic on the smooth road, and barely any evidence of human habitation for miles and miles. The forests, rolling rocky heaps and lakes seen to go on for ever.
Sudden unmarked roads peel off into the seemingly limitless wilderness, and occasional unexpected signs talk of bear hunting lodges, fishing resorts, community pig roastings on Thursdays, and 'hard ice cream, at last'.
For the last couple of nights, at dusk, when we are tired of watching for moose (of which we have seen a modest total of one) and ready to set up camp for the night, we have turned up one of these lucky-dip gravel and dirt roads. Unsignposted to an unmarked destination, through a clearing in the forest, and past the weathered wooden signs, offering in peeling blue paint, guided bear hunting trips and an authentic lodge in 13 kilometres.
We find a quiet, level, turnout on these infrequently travelled tendrils of the road network through the forests, and settle in.
This involves making tea, or straight to cocktails if it's later than civilized time, and burning up some canine energy chasing tennis balls on the fringes of the bear, elk, moose, caribou, wolverine and mountain lion laden forests. We are careful to listen, look, and make noise before venturing out into the darkness.
Tonight as we made camp it began to snow with the afternoon rain. This is a colder place than further west, where buds were bursting green on the trees already. Here the rocky soils allow stands of thin bare birch, and stocky pines.

The stupendous Icefields Parkway

2008-05-16T19:30:00.000-07:00

Leaving Adina, Sheala and Jacque's hospitality, and fine river walks, in Squamish, we wind our way north into the mountains of the Lillooet Range. There really are bears right by the side of the highway. Having just recently emerged from their winter dens above the snowline, they are now descending in search of food.

The mountain roads are steep, bumpy, and beautiful, and thankfully the road surface is snow free. At Kamloops we cut north again up the Yellowhead Highway (that would be us white folk), and transition from the steep mountain passes to the broad shouldered ranching valleys.
Alluvial farmland and horse ranches are below us by the river-banks, and above us are jagged, snow-capped peaks. The road follows a modest plateau between the two zones.
This is our first days real driving, and we cover about three hundred miles, finally camping in a pinegrove, sipping cocktails as the half moon rose.
What a stunning drive.

In the morning we decide on a fast getaway - and make it away by 11.00am. Passing by the mountains in the shadow of Mt. Robson, 12,972', and highest point in the Canadian Rockies, we roll into Jasper at about 6.00pm, still gasping from the scenery. We face a choice between shoe shopping, dinner, visiting the Lodge, or a film, and so we decide to do all four, and then find a camping spot.
Using local knowledge gleaned from the helpful chap in the shoe store, we learned that there were no shoes for me, and that there was only one Mountie looking for riffraff like us this early in the season, so nudge, nudge etc, etc.
So after the lodge, some local beer, a movie, and a dog walk, we settled in the quiet "Outfitter Premises" area of town - across the railroad tracks - where the river rafters/ bike trip/ ice hiker offices and vehicle parking was - lots of white vans for us to blend into - and free!

Seven o'clock in the morning brings us fresh brewed coffee, and fresh elk droppings in the woods just feet from the van door.
We head off on a trail with the dogs, then head back into town for pastries, coffee and wireless internet access for the laptop- we are SO modern I can't believe it's so!
Today we drive the Icefields Parkway - down the backbone of the Continental Divide through the Rocky Mountains to Banff.
And it is really spectacular to behold. Black Bears munching flora (not Flora - she was taken by a Grizzly (Ursus Horribilis - it's even terrifyling in Latin)) by the side of the road, Bighorn Sheep perching on ledges, Elk meandering in the glacial river beds, and the sharp, pointy peaks all around us. Most lakes are still frozen, concealing their dramatic azure colour below the ice, but the rivers are swelling with ice melt and the waterfalls are roaring.

We were nervous taking this mountain route so early in the season, but are so glad we did. The first, and only, campsite in these National Parks just opened on May 09 so we are among the 'early-birds' for a change. After a drizzly start, we ended the day with glorious afternoon sunshine as we follow cold lively rivers along wide rounded rock strewn river beds. Now we think this is the best time to be here. Traffic is very light, and the roads bare. We cruise along at 45mph looking for the usual stuff - bears and elk, avalanches and glaciers - with no one in the rear view mirror, and were reminded of our time in magnificent New Zealand. Up and away from the road, steep snow covered scree slopes are populated with conifers just peaking their crowns above the snow. At this time of year, the ice, exposed rocks, and forested slopes contrast beautifully.

Our day ends at Lake Louise, rather than Banff.
As we suspected the lake was frozen over, but the ice was thin enough to warrant the 'Warning - Thin Ice" signs. The mountains around the lake are intimidating and protective, like the 'guest only' signs on the Fairmont hotel doors.
Rather than forage for a free space in the Industrial Area of Banff, we opt for a free space in a very sparsely visited car park above the Fairmont Chateau at Lake Louise. There are giant piles of snow to conceal our presence, and only a couple of empty tour buses for company. As the sun gleams on the peaks ringing the lake, we settle in with vodka tonics, and the calls of the mountain robins. It's also getting very cold.

Twenty years ago we share a memory of sleeping out in Africa on 3/8 inch thick foam pads. Now we are sleeping on a 7 inch mattress, with it's own memory foam.
Some things may have changed, but we are still looking for a free place to sleep by the side of the road. Good cocktails are the common thread.

2008-05-12T09:09:00.000-07:00

First of Many Stops

2008-05-12T08:42:00.000-07:00

We finally drive away from home at four thirty, just five days and one hour late.
It feels wonderful to have actually left the planning/working part behind.
First stop Bowen Island, with the upcoming mountains looming in the distance, to visit Shannon, Keith, Ben and Matilda.
We missed the full ferry by just one vehicle - even making it onto the ramp before they realized just how long we were. Backing off drew less attention since I silenced the 'backing-up beeper' with a can of spray foam.
It's always so good to see infrequently seen friends again, get a good walloping playing Halo, and wake up to the aroma of bacon.
Now we can just luxuriate in good company.
Realizing with delight we are the masters of our own minds we decide to spend another night here, and enjoy another terrific breakfast the following morning involving more bacon, followed by a walk on the beach.
The sun is gleaming on the mountains as we glide off on the afternoon ferry, heading for Squamish, and Adina, on the route to Whistler.
Now we are motoring - averaging about 50 miles a day! I think we might have to step up the pace a bit or it will be years before we arrive in Newfoundland.
The confluence of the Mamquam and Squamish rivers are right outside her door, and the mountains look close enough to touch. We take a wonderful walk on the the polished stones of the riverbeds with the dogs as the sun glows through the alder trees.
And what a great dinner - tapas, mojitos and lots of stories.
Tonight we will actually sleep in the Sprinter for the first time away from home!

A late start

2008-05-06T23:51:00.001-07:00

Well we were supposed to have left home a few days ago, but we're still here working like crazy to fill last minute orders.
The van is just about ready to go and we've been sleeping in it to make sure everything is in the right place. It certainly is nice waking up in the morning and strolling into the house to make a cup of tea.
I've built in an (almost) king size bed, dog kennel suite for two, sound system and mobile kitchen so it should be a comfortable ride. Being able to stand up inside the van makes a huge difference to van-camping in the Astro.
Tomorrow I'm buying tire chains so we can cope, albeit unwillingly, with a Canadian Spring. We are still pondering the wisdom of travelling across Canada this early in the season but are steaming ahead anyway.
The new plan is to leave Mount Vernon, Washington State, this Saturday (May 10), spend a couple of weeks driving to Newfoundland, enjoy some cocktails with 10,000 year old ice for three weeks, then drive home again across the northern US.