Spring in Newfoundland

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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. 

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. 

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

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.

A False Start

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.