Days 77-84: Pretty PEI, redemptive New Brunswick, and magnificent Montreal

(after the August delay, here's the second last of two posts)

Day 77 (July 13): 380km down (14,600km overall)
Having barely caught the 2am ferry from Port-aux-Basques, Nfld, we cruised through the night, arriving in Cape Breton by mid-morning.

After three weeks in Newfoundland, the Nova Scotian contrast was stark-- tourist signs everywhere, gift shops, and more-- while still harshly beautiful, it didn't have the cozy feel of Newfoundland, where people truly did invite us into their homes and lives.

Driving south, we stopped back in Baddeck, returning to our fine bakery from a month back, for porridge bread and Cape Breton oatcakes, then continued along, through New Glasgow and onto Caribou where we caught the 'Confederation' ferry-- enjoying the fiddling family band and COWS ambience-- across to PEI, our tenth and final province.

While said to be Canada's most densely populated province (surely a comment on the vastness of Canada), it seemed that PEI was field after rolling fertile field-- alternating leafy potato stems and glowing wheat-- tumbling into the Atlantic, where fishing boats worked their fields of seafood.

We reached Charlottetown by mid-afternoon, the touristy and artsy symbolic birthplace of confederation, wandering around the main art gallery, onto the Province House-- where the fathers of confederation met and then posed (http://www.pc.gc.ca/lhn-nhs/pe/provincehouse/images/nac_c733.JPG), and where the tiny PEI legislature sits-- and finally through 'Founder's Hall', a new interactive exhibit on Canada's history from 1864 until now, before enjoying the requisite PEI fries, and cruising up through the sunset into PEI National Park, where we camped for the night.

Day 78 (July 14): 510km down (15,110km overall)
After wandering along the gorgeous beaches of northern PEI (the only spot I regretted having a cast-- since bodysurfing would've been oh-so-fun) and hiking along to an underwhelming hotspring (tiny bubbles coming out of the ground-- it was Theresa's first), we stopped in at an eccentric art gallery and restaurant called 'The Dunes' (where I enjoyed the best seafood chowder I've ever had), before cruising across to Cavendish, where L.M. Montgomery conceived the character of Anne of Green Gables (and whose farm -- a national park-- draws thousands of Japanese tourists annually... apparently it's a curriculum book and lil' Anne is heavily idolized).

Along PEI's beautiful rolling hills we drove (undoubtably, one of the finest provinces to drive), and onto the Confederation bridge (but not before attempting to dress up at Anne herself-- one of the main tourist draws of the island-- and buying (then returning) some 'PEI potato chips', which, dressed up in a fancy bag, were just plain old 'Humpty Dumpty' chips ), and onto our (to that point) least favourite maritime province, New Brunswick.

Driving along route 955, a quiet country road diversion, we drove through a wicked mixture of sunshine and rain, highlighted by heavenly scenes . It seemed that New Brunswick was trying to redeem itself to us skeptics (on the way east, the combined highlight/lowlight of the province was the dud Magnetic Hill)-- with the Hopewell rocks and boats on the ocean floor of Bay of Fundy National Park, seemed that NB, while not NS or Nfld, wasn't too shabby.

As dusk settled over us, we past a pulled over canary yellow sports car-- and a man waving wildly telling us to watch for moose (his partner's newly finished car had just been t-boned)-- driving into the night through a thunder storm and onto Fredericton, the political and cultural capital of New Brunswick (and what happened to be the home of our journalist buddy John, of Toronto road trip fame).

After landing at his place and enjoying NB's Moosehead, we wandered over to the local microbrewery 'The Tap Room' and to the local pizza joint (where, like the rest of the maritimes, sliced pizza was ridiculously expensive at over $3/slice), before settling down at John's for the night.

Day 79 (July 15): 590km down (15,700km overall)
With John as a guide, we caught the sights and sounds of Sunday in Fredericton-- the farmer's market (where we caught up with Max and Heather, of Toronto road trip fame, and enjoyed savory samosas), through barracks-cum-shops, along the distinctive waterfront of the Saint John river (which feeds into the Bay of Fundy, at Saint John-- Fredericton's blue collar industrial counterpart), through an anarchist bookstore, and back to John's... before hitting the road north to Quebec, a trip highlighted by a thrilling thunderstorm, unlike anything we get out on the west coast (which enticed me to set up my tripod and (attempt to) take photos of the lightening, until the storm clouds were directly overhead and my camera mysteriously stopped working-- a sure omen).

Reaching Quebec city by 1am, I cooked up some pasta at Laval University (an appropriate bookend, as Theresa pointed out-- we'd started out with Sashah six weeks earlier there), we caught up on postcards (me scrawling illegibly with my cast), before heading back to the Trooper-- which I parked in what seemed to be a hidden spot behind two garbage bins.

Day 80 (July 16): 300km down (16,000km overall)
Startled awake by Theresa at 6am, she pointed out the security guards approaching from the rear. In my daze (awoken from a distracting dream), I talked my way out of our squating situation (... in french... "we ate only a few hours ago, and I was about to drive her to the airport"), and we fled to the safe haven of a legal parking spot for an hour of sleep, before beginning the purge of the Trooper (though the girls had done their best, it was pretty dirty-- though a broken carwash meant we left with a soapy car)... and then racing off to Trois Rivieres to pick up the photos that Costco had given to the wrong people two months earlier (and attempt-- futilly-- to get a hard copy of the article I had written for Le Nouvelliste), and on to Montreal's Trudeau airport from where Theresa flew off to Edmonton.

With that, the crew of three was down to the one. I cruised through Montreal, past a Lebanese protest that jammed up Blvd Rene Levesque, and towards east St. Catherine's, where Marco , a good friend from high school, was living for the summer (though not before finishing off that car wash-- in an automated drive through with a dryer so powerful that it shattered my side mirror-- the attendant kindly offered scotch tape).

We met up with some of his francophone friends, and talked through the night about politics and the like-- me picking up all that slang that I'd missed back in TR.

Days 81-84 (July 17-20): Relaxing 'round Montreal (550km down)
Though I had planned to spend just a day in Montreal, the Emerg doc at McGill's Victoria Hospital insisted that I stick around three to see the plastics clinic for my thumb. But really, could there be a better place in Canada to be stuck for a few days-- Montreal in the summer.

Ah, it was grand. Though I had missed the Jazz fest, I caught lots of street performances at the Just for Laughs fest (which at night consumed several St. Catherine blocks, giving way to acrobatic circus performances a la Cirque du Soleil, and random comedy and musical acts. Lots of highlights in those few days... I hiked to the cross at the top of Mount Royal-- taking in the fine downtown panorama, strolled through McGill's finest buildings, took in a Montreal thunderstorm (and the next night, a fireworks show along the St. Lawrence), picked up an all access museums pass-- taking in some of Montreal's cultural/historic/artistic hightlights (notably the Holocaust Memorial Centre, featuring countless artifacts-- Montreal has the third most survivors of any city in the world), had my thumb examined (the two week post-operative followup) to great acclaim, met an Inuit couple asking for money who wrote their names and mine on my cast in Inuit, discovered Montreal's cheapest smoked meat sandwich (under $2 for a demi-loaf from a french bakery and meat from the deli) and its best-- Schwartz's, and stocked up on twelve of the best piping hot bagels of my short life at St. Viateur's (sorry Siegel's), which fuelled me on my trek north beyond Montreal.

Days 62-76: Broken car, broken thumb... and a fabulous St. John's theatre fest!

Day 62 (June 28): 300km down (13,015km overall)
Sleeping in until 10am after our late night crab feast and my full day on the boat, we had a fine pancake breakfast to kick off the day, before saying adieu to our cozy campsite and fine hosts Coreine and Glenn, and hitting the road.

With reservations for O'Brians Whale and Puffin tours (recommended and cheap!) in Bay Bulls, just south of St. John's, we had a lot of ground to cover by 3:30pm. So we motored along the #1, making fine time... until, and this was the first time so far (I'd been refining the distances on the trip odometer with each tank-- a risky science), we ran out of gas.

In hindsight, this was the start of our bad car luck-- the dependable Trooper was starting to let us down (yeah, yeah, I know, I let it run out of gas). Fortunately a very kind ship captain, Ed, offered to drive me 20 minutes to the nearest gas station in Bellevue (and then all the way back! Only in Newfoundland...). Ed, surely in his sixties, told me about his son, a millworker working-- along with 30,000 young Newfoundlanders-- in Fort McMurray, Alberta (to put that number in context, there are roughly 550,000 Newfoundlanders living on the island). As we drove (he drove-- it was the first time I had been in a moving car that I wasn't driving in a few months), commentators on the radio station discussed the death of rural Newfoundland-- an oft-discussed commentary put in perspective by my time in Trinity Bight and on the fishing boat the day before.

Once the Trooper was back running, we drove off into the distance, hoping that we could somehow make it to Bay Bulls in time. As it became increasingly apparent that we wouldn't, we stopped and called O'Brians-- they were kindly accomodating, and said that we could hop aboard the 5:30pm trip. So, we did just that.

The 2.5 hour tour was great-- breaching humpbacks (feasting off capelin) , and a trip out to the Witless Bay Ecological Reserve (the most densely populated puffin residence in the world). Yep, accompanied by a tour guide singing Newfoundland folk songs, it was grand.

From there, we drove north up the Avalon peninsula towards St. John's and Cape Spear. As we approached the Cape-- the easternmost point in North America-- the Trooper, well, died. It figures that it would take us all the way from the west coast to the east coast, and leave us stranded as far away from home as possible. As I shifted gears, something audibly dropped down, and suddenly my wheels were completely disengaged. I hopped out, ran back to see if anything had fallen out, looked under the hood at the engine and under the car at the transmission. Starting it back up, I shifted into four-wheel drive, causing it to lurch forward. Though it was shaky and wouldn't go much over 60km/h, it was enough to get us into St. John's and to a mechanic.

And there was no way a little car trouble would get in the way of enjoying Wednesday night on George Street. We met up with Devon, my roommate from Trois Rivieres, and he showed us around St. John's-- what, at first glance, was one of the prettiest port towns I'd ever seen, complete with rows and rows of colourful houses leading down to Water St, with a busy harbour framed by two hills (one of which is Signal Hill). But I guess you might expect some charm from "North America's oldest city."

Before too long, we were on George St-- a one block, pedestrian only (after 6), stretch of 36 pubs and clubs, making in the densest area of pubs/clubs in North America. First stop was Trapper John's, the place to get screeched in-- a ceremony for people from off the island, who are required to take a shot of Newfoundland screech (a Jamaican rum that some say strips paint off cars... though it wasn't half bad-- http://www.newfoundlandlabrador.com/history/screech.asp) and follow it up with kissing a cod (or a puffin's arse, as we did), before repeating some chant about a 'long jib' and 'cock' that I kept screwing up.

From there, we stopped in at Jungle Jim's, mentionable only for the intensity of their hot wings-- which require a waivor to consume. Devon and I ate them (so damn painful), and, while Devon was better at withstanding the heat, partway through the pound, he touched his eye, giving me the upper hand as he tried to control the swelling.

That night we stayed at Leslie's-- one of Theresa's Trois Rivieres classmates-- place, just north of St. John's in Portugal Cove (that waterfall is just down by the water in PC). She, and her family, were kind enough to let us stay for the following four nights as we explored St. Johns and tried to fix the car. (her boyfriend, interesting enough, is one of the top rowers in Newfoundland-- despite being only 5'8", he was on the Newfoundland crew that was third at the Canada games a year ago)

Day 62-75 (June 29 to July 11): Stranded in St. John's (0km down)
So I could draw out our prolonged St. John's visit in all its gory details, but instead I'll detail some overarching themes and anecdotes-- like the broken car and thumb, cruising around lovely St. John's, Canada Day, and the Magnetic North theatre fest-- with some photos thrown in inbetween.

St. John's is a gorgeous little port town (a population less than 200,000-- about the size of Langley, BC), with a harbour hemmed in by two hills-- one being famous Signal Hill that we climbed to the top of (a key historical point, whether for the world wars, or being the site from which the first transatlantic telegram was sent)

We explored around St. John's, going to 'The Rooms' , an extraordinary new museum-cum-gallery that featured an exhibition on one of Newfoundland's best artists (though there are no shortage of them, and St. John's especially has a vibrant arts scene), Christopher Pratt, as well as a satirical exhibit that only Douglas Coupland could pull off, and a '40-part Monet' where fourty speakers were placed in a room, each replacing the voice of a singer-- it was thrilling to stand inbetween all fourty, and then to walk up and focus on individual voices.

Other highlights include... finding out that my article had been published in Le Nouvelliste in Trois Rivieres, making me a full fledged bilingual journalist http://www.cyberpresse.ca/article/20060628/CPOPINIONS/606280633/5285/CPOPINIONS ... getting out to Cape Spear Lighthouse, the eastern-most point in North America (and realizing that it was 5500km to Vancouver and only 3300km to London-- why not keep going?), and randomly running into people from Langley, BC there... exploring the Royal St. John's boathouse where North America's first rowing regatta (and Canada's first formal athletic competition) was held in 1816 (and where many of the boats are still fixed-seat and weigh upwards of 700lbs)... celebrating Canada Day in front of the Confederation Buildings (typical cheesy fair: free flags, stickers, cake, milk, and tattoos-- the latter of which I skillfully pasted on my cast)-- and the surprise of hearing Newfoundlanders sing their anthem louder than our Canadian one (though in their defense, it was also the 90th anniversary of the Battle of the Somme-- Newfoundland's 'Memorial Day'-- marking the battle in which 800 Newfoundlanders gave their lives, more than any other province)... witnessing an extraordinary local event-- the arrival of Capelin, which draws hundreds of families out to beaches to try their luck at netting the oily fish... strolling through construction along the St. John's waterfront to discover that they're putting in sewage treatment (to replace the direct 'into the harbour' method that, like Victoria, has lasted far too long)... celebrating Theresa's big 19th birthday in style-- catching a play, heading downtown for some of St. John's finest ice cream at Moo Moo's, relaxing by the waterfront, and grabbing a beer and bite on George Street (where Theresa was now officially legal)... getting a tour of the National Research Council Institute for Ocean Technology, where they have the largest ice tank in the world and several other tanks over 200m in length, all for testing ocean craft (I'd show you pictures, but then they-- specifically the Norwey America's Cup sailing team-- would have to kill me)... and then, to top it off, there was Magnetic North, Canada's premier theatre festival, where we saw over 9 shows-- all of which (excluding 'The Black Rider', which especially for Sashah and I, was two hours of intense pain) were extraordinary (and by that, I mean better than pretty much anything I've seen in Vancouver)-- highlights from that included the amazing Newfoundland comic Johnny Harris (the next Rick Mercer, I say) and brushing shoulders with our breathtaking GG Michaëlle Jean outside of the LSPU Hall (pictured here, where most of the shows were held-- the green-white-pink flag in the background is the Newfoundland 'Independence' flag... the only pink striped flag in the world!).

And then there were those other details, my thumb and the trooper. Good thing I'm all about new experiences (not to mention challenges).

June 30 was probably my low point of the odyssey-- when I found out that the Trooper was broken indefinitely and would cost me a small fortune to fix, and, more depressingly, when x-rays at the Health Sciences Centre (the main hospital in St. John's, attached to the Memorial University med school, where I would spend no less than 50 hours in the next few weeks) revealed that my thumb, which had been in a cast since June 1, had healed crooked and that many of the broken bone fragments were healed out of place, and that this would likely mean long term loss of full mobility, and that the surgeon said that since I had already waited 4 weeks, it could wait another few (and so wasn't an 'emergency'... despite that the more time that passed, the more fused incorrectly it would become). So, days, lots of waiting, lots of arguing, support from my medical family (including my dad speaking with the surgeon) and more, later, and I was in the Operating Room for a cozy three hours under the knife to fix the messy situation that was my thumb (I swear that I would rather have snapped my arms/legs in half). The grand news is that the surgeon did an extraordinary job and after a few months of rehab, it should be good as new (aside from some joyful arthritis to come in later life).

With that aside by July 4, there was only the car keeping us around. And boy, it did its best to do just that. The day I found out the sore news about the thumb, Bruce, our friendly mechanic at A+ Auto said that we needed to order a rear side axle (and that since there were no used ones on the island-- everything corrides quickly!-- it would come from the mainland). So we did on June 30, forced to stick around for the long weekend (Charlottetown for Canada Day had been in our sights). Once that part arrived on July 4, he discovered that it was for an American Izuzu Trooper (not a Japanese one-- the difference is over 3 cm). And so we placed an order from Japan, only to discover on July 6 that there were no side axles in Japan (Izuzu, bought out by GM, had since gone out of business-- they would have to produce a part, which would take 2 weeks). With this, Sashah had to fly out (her family was cruising through Europe for the following two weeks), while Theresa and I fought through the mess of the Trooper. Though no used Japanese 1993 Trooper side axle showed up on the computers anywhere in the world, Bruce was able to track down the rear end of a Trooper at a scrapyard in Quebec. The people at the scrapyard, however, refused to fly it overnight (and said they'd put it on a truck, which would mean it would get there in seven days, on July 13). So, I got on the phone with them and pleaded. They agreed, though I had to arrange Purolator Overnight courrier, so I did. The next day, Friday July 7, I call Bruce expecting him to have the part replaced and the Trooper ready to go... except that it seems that Purolator hadn't delivered it yet. So, I got on the phone with them, and had every 'Tracking Specialist' searching for the part, through warehouses, planes, and trucks... well, seems that Purolator lost our part, the only one of its kind in the world. So, I bitched and complained, and got our hostel paid for until they found it (we were staying at the lovely Hospital hostel, which at $42 per night was half the price of the cheapest motel in town... and pretty comfortable with a fine location next to Memorial University, despite the countless people that approached Theresa sharing their tragic stories-- there were people who'd been living there for 5 months and receiving treatment).

And the waiting continued...

Day 76 (July 12): 950km down (14,220km overall) On the Road Again!
This was it. I had a hunch we were getting off the island today.

I called Bruce mid-afternoon, and eureka-- the part had arrived! It had been lost on a direct truck from Quebec to St. John's, despite the package clearly said 'AIR'-- needless to say, no invoice came with it.

And so, triumphant with our newfound luck, we parted ways with Bruce, who throughout had been a class act, driving us where we needed to go and being an all around good guy, and he gave Theresa an 'A+ Auto' t-shirt for her birthday (so we can ready the market from his move west). After a parting photo, we were on the road!

Through the night we drove, arriving in Port-aux-Basques in time for the 2am ferry.

Ah Newfoundland. It was sad, even after 3 weeks, to see her go. My favourite province, without a doubt-- it was a province, as Theresa put it, where people invite you into their lives, rather than create a new 'tourist world' for you. There was something so genuine about that beautiful rock, and I can't wait to get back.

Days 52-61: Up the NS east coast to Halifax, around capricious Cape Breton, and onto the Rock...

(after some 'delays'-- which will be detailed in the next update-- here's the biggest post yet!)

Day 52 (June 18): 145km down (10,500km overall)
After a cozy second night at the Bond family cottage in Nova Scotia's Chester Basin-- and after the delicious Sunday Bond family lunch-- we hit the road north with our sights set on Halifax.

At this point, each of us had been told by our families that we had to see Peggy's Cove-- it seems that's the one Nova Scotia tourist destination that everyone know-- so we drove the scenic trail along the coast, coming to the stunningly simple Swiss Air memorial (itself, a decent tourist draw, with a steady stream of people along the gravel path, including several decked out in 9-11 NY Firefighter paraphenalia-- mourning begets mourning, I suppose) several minutes before Peggy's Cove.

It was soon obvious, even from a distance, why Peggy's Cove (and in particular its lighthouse) is the most photographed spot in Canada. With a mere population of 60, the adorable fishing-cum-arts village is outfitted with a narrow road that winds through it, up to a big parking lot that wisely charged nothing. We wandered through an impressive ocean-inspired art gallery featuring some local artists, past the typical tourist shops, ice cream shoppes, red 'schoolhouse' and down to the warf.

From there, we drove on for twenty minutes to Halifax-- the biggest Canadian metropolis east of Quebec city-- and what was, at first, a challenge to navigate (especially with our measly Canada-wide map book city 'maps', which consist of a couple main streets, then a couple random ones thrown in just to confuse you).

Arriving early in the evening, we strolled Pt. Pleasant Park, which is the Halifax equivalent of Vancouver's Stanley--though not nearly as nice-- and then drove a quick jaunt down to the city waterfront, which, again, though not as 'nice'-- industry across the inlet in Dartmouth is ever-present-- is reminiscent of parts of False Creek.

Besides tourist shops and the market, naval cruisers and the Maritime museum flanked the waterfront boardwalk, along with a fancy sailboat (owned, I found out later, by the owner of Tim Hortons Canada-- a fact that tempted us to showcase our cross-Canada Timmy Ho photo collection) and, even Theodore Tug, my beloved CBC cartoon character-- turns out it was filmed on a set in the Maritime museum.

Getting hungry-- the girls, it seems, are oddly used to eating around 6pm (me, usually 10)-- we set out to find a supermarket. That mission failed. Being Sunday in Nova Scotia meant that everything non-touristy/fast-foody was closed... including all supermarkets. But, in our quest, we stumbled upon a corner store in some random neighbourhood.

As Sashah and I walked in (Theresa was sleeping in the back seat), we noticed the sign posted on the door: "Please remove your ski mask before entering." Huh, we thought, before the door buzzed in front of us, unlocking the door. Talking to the clerk-- who never steps outside the store-- it was a helluva rough part of town (someone was shot dead at the Subway down the block a few weeks back, she told us), which surprised both Sashah and I (neither of whom had been buzzed into a convenience store, even in Vancouver/Surrey's sketchiest parts). As we were getting ice and some canned soup, there was a loud bang-- a customer inside opened the door and swore into the distance, before closing it and laughing off what had happened. Seems that someone had thrown a rock at the window. Usual daily fare, they said. Back at the car, Theresa had awoken to the yelling and 'chill' in the air-- and was eager for us to get out of there. So we took off, back along Water St. to the safe seclusion of the touristy waterfront, where we parked in the corner of some random parking lot overlooking the harbour.

We grabbed a quick bite, and the girls went back to the car to sleep (yes, random parking-spot-cum-campsites continued to be a theme of the road trip) as I did dad's day (son) duties and strolled the waterfront until 3am chatting with an interesting-- and chatty-- harbour security guard, who shared countless stories of what he'd seen in over 20 years of patrolling the waterfront (and confided names of 'stars' who docked there-- even Tom Selleck was in port with his yacht a week back, he said). As I wandered off, he asked if we were the ones sleeping in the car in the parking lot, kindly offering "I'll be sure to watch out for you guys tonight."

Day 53 (June 19): 0km down, Hanging around Halifax
Although the parking lot was empty as I dozed off, I eerily awoke at 8am to see cars surrounding us. Despite that, it was a fine spot-- here's a photo of our window view (really, what campsite offers this?)-- and best of all, it was one of those spots where you pay when you enter (so the attendant kindly let us drive through).

We drove off for our weekly Costco stop-- film development, trail mix, and the like-- before strolling up to the impressive Citadel, complete with stationary British guards and the like (it was under British control from 1759 through to 1907) . I split with the girls for a few hours-- the freedom of roaming solo can be good in new cities-- wandering some of downtown's poorer areas (and noting a '2-for-1 Panhandler Breakfast special', which seems a fine idea), into the Halifax Oxfam office (another theme of this roadtrip-- it was at here that I joyously discovered they were planning a regional youth conference for July, an idea that I had been pushing nationally since the Food Security Symposium I coordinated last summer), and onto the impressive Maritime Museum-- where a kind student told me the story of the 1917 Halifax Explosion-- the biggest accidental explosion in history, with 1700 killed instantly (the devil's stars aligned-- two ships collided under the perfect conditions, one empty (sitting high in the water) and the other full of explosives and jet fuel-- http://museum.gov.ns.ca/mma/AtoZ/HalExpl.html). The explosion wiped out entire neighbourhoods and whole extended families.

'Round mid-afternoon, I met up with the girls and Jeanette-- one of my rez friends from Trois Rivieres, who lives across the harbour in Dartmouth-- and we wandered over for the famed 'Alexander Keith's Brewery Tour', which certainly did not disappoint. The tour was a step back in time to 1820 when the fine man first crafted his India Pale Ale-- complete with rooms, guides, and singing all from the time period. They really take their history seriously (www.keiths.ca). Of course there was beer too-- and geez, it just tastes better out of a barrel. Not only was the tour amazing, but it was successful in making Keith's converts out of Theresa and I.

From there, Jeanette took us up to 'The Black Market', an ethnic (women's) shop (I should've figured that shopping would be a natural conclusion to strolling downtown with three women). The girls bought dresses, jewelry, and more... before we drove off, across the toll-bridge (I ain't never seen such a thing-- you just throw a couple quarters in and keep driving!) into Dartmouth back to Jeanette's place.

Her family treated us to a fine steak dinner and kindly offered us the place to stay for the night-- which included a big screen TV, optimal for watching the Oilers lose game seven of the Stanley Cup finals.



Day 54 (June 20): 530km down (11,040km overall)
Feasting on Jeanette's dad's marvellous blueberry pancakes, I mapped out the next leg of our trip: North to Cape Breton Island, around the Cabot Trail through Cape Breton Highlands Park, and onto Sydney from where we'd be catching the ferry to Newfoundland.

We left around 10am, driving up the scenic coastline through the fog and past several touristy fishing ports (complete with chintzy 'Catch of the Day' photo-ops!), stopping for mussels at a mussel farm ($1 per pound! plus free ice! plus an interesting conversation with the farming lady, about, y'know, the challenge of farming mussels and the joys of driving Canada-- she'd done it twice), turning up to drive across the province from east to west coast (the fastest route to Cape Breton). Along the way, we passed the Trailor Boys film set-- which really, aside from a white sign and gate, could have been any trailor park-- and through Antigonish, a very cute river town slightly reminiscent of Yarmouth-- and the home of St. Francis Xavier University (if I haven't mentioned it yet, Nova Scotia has countless university towns). From there it was west coast driving all the way-- with the odd Tim Hortons stop-- before driving across the bridge (and past a freighter registered in Monrovia-- a great tourist destination, if you haven't yet been there) and onto Cape Breton Island (stopping, of course, for the mandatory photo op-- with truck flying by in the background, hurtling rocks at our backs).

After a quick stop at the Cape Breton tourist centre-- highlighted by a Haida Gwaii totem pole strangely displayed in front (a gift from BC, apparently)-- we were off driving up the coast, on our way to the esteemed Cabot Trail, past geography whose sandswept cliffs, winding roads, and beautiful vistas were reminiscent of driving along the Oregon coast.

Random stops along the way included a whiskey distillery (whose Mexican mafia-esque entranceway was slightly haunting), where, in a wild act poor judgement, I turned the spout of the barrel in the giftstore, with whiskey pouring all over my hand (a tasty sample for as we hurried out), a stop at beautiful l'Eglise St. Pierre (where Mother Theresa scolded me for playing the church organ as she prayed), a stop at some random trailor on the side of the Cabot Trail where a man had eerily set up hundreds of scarecrows (there was a story... but really it's just some eccentric guy), and of course, a stop at some random person's house in Cheticamp, whose grass served well as a tripod platform for my sunset photos.

By Cheticamp, we were nearly three quarters of the way up Cape Breton, and just on the outskirts of Cape Breton Highlands Park, so we decided to stop there for the night.

Scouting out possible locations, I decided our best decision was to drive uninhabited ile de Cheticamp (much of Cape Breton, especially around Cheticamp, is Acadien)-- we did, past the typically sterile gravel campsites, and up over some bumpy terrain to a spectacular grassy bluff looking out over the Gulf of St. Lawrence.

As we would discover the following morning, this was our most spectacular random-campsite yet. That night, we (Sashah and I) feasted on mussels and salmon pasta, taking in the overhead shooting stars and comets, lightning in the distance, and cruise ship that passed ten miles off in the horizon.

Day 55 (June 21): 175km down (11,215km overall)
Despite the clear skies when we went to bed, we awoke to wind and rain pelting our tent-- Theresa was lucky enough to get the side that soaked up all the water-- and hurridly scurried off to wash our dishes at the campsite a few kilometres away.

From there, we drove back through Cheticamp, passing a Katimavik crew along the way, and stopping at an artisan bakery, adjacent to an Acadian art gallery. I wandered into the art gallery, noting the newspaper clippings of former GG Adrienne Clarkson's visit there on the wall, and chatting with the guy working there (who was playing the fiddle later that night at a Legion community event he invited me to). Impressed by the painted wood carvings, he pointed me towards the group gathered around William Roach, the main gallery artist (one of Cape Breton's best), who was showing off his fiddle chair (three legs).

I picked up a loaf of french bread from the bakery-- it was their first day open-- and talked to the baker, a middle aged woman who's first comment that I was a "Bright face and curious mind" caught me off-guard and kicked off a ranging discussion from environmental issues (before her 15 years in Cheticamp, she'd lived in Montreal and California... she applauded David Suzuki's often 'doom and gloom' message: "If he doesn't say it, nobody will listen") to local health ("People eat so unhealthy here-- so much fat-- and they wonder why we've had so much cancer recently").

We hit the road from there, driving through spectacular Cape Breton Highlands National park and along the winding coastline, stopping for a couple hours to hike past injured birds and spellbound snakes into a quaint waterfall (where, despite my shirt-wrapped cast, I was the only one to have a 'shower').

Continuing on through the park, stopping occasionally to look out over the open ocean for spouting Minke whales or for the passing moose, we stopped in Pleasant Bay.

Now, I had seen several documentaries on CBC about this Buddhist sect that had moved from New York up to Cape Breton in the '70s, and a lady at the Nova Scotia tourism centre had mentioned it when we first arrived. I'd also read a recent article in the Globe about a royal Nova Scotia wedding ceremony with the sect's spiritual leader. So, pulling off the Cabot Trail, I asked a couple guys on the side of the road-- who'd yelled at us (jokingly, I think) as we first drove by-- about it. Obviously we weren't the first, and they directed us down a dirt road that seemed to continue into oblivion, before coming to the welcome sign for 'Gampo Abbey monastery' (www.gampoabbey.org). We wandered in-- they had complimentary 'walking tour' maps-- past a barbecuing monk who warned us not to approach the main house (it was that time of the day, I suppose), and onto the main attraction, the Stupa-- a holy symbol surrounded by phrases of enlightenment-- it was, all and all, a very spiritual place, no doubt (I'd describe more, but the aforementioned website does a fine job).

From there, we cruised onward to and down the east coast of Cape Breton-- whose milder geography contrasted with the west coast-- with a brief diversion into another waterfall, and out past Cape Breton Highlands park to Cape Smokey Provincial Park, a pull off from the Cabot Trail, where we camped and cooked that night-- taking in a violent thunder storm hundreds of miles off on Newfoundland and enjoying the clear starry night.

Day 56 (June 22): 230km down (11,450km overall)
Up early, I ran the long Cape Smokey trail through swamps, past pheasants and countless spectacular vistas, before getting back to the car to plan the next leg of our journey: The Rock (aka Newfoundland). Once Sashah wrapped up yoga, we had a team photo and were off, back on the road.

Driving south, we stopped in at an outstanding family-run iron-sculpture/photography studio (definitely check out www.ironart.ca, especially Carol's painted b&w photos), and I chatted for a while with Gordon (like me, he'd spent lots of time on Vancouver Island's west coast).

We drove on to the International Gaelic college, a relatively boring stop (aside from Sashah's fudge purchase)-- though the destination if you ever want to learn Gaelic (I hear it's almost as useful as mandarin in certain circles these days), getting back on the Trans Canada (for the first time in nearly a week) for a quick jaunt down to Baddeck-- hometown of Alexander Graham Bell. We spent a few hours in the museum there-- itself, nothing special, though it detailed the life of one of history's most prodigious inventors (and humanitarians-- he worked extensively with the deaf (his wife-- who managed all their finances-- was), he did groundbreaking work with hydrofoils, kites and planes (all of which were tested in Baddeck bay), then there was the communication stuff (telegraph, telephone-- the patent of which bankrolled his later inventive flourishes)-- and cruised to the town bakery where we enjoyed a delicious loaf of oat bread with provolone.

Leaving mid-afternoon, we drove back north to Sydney-- the 'capital' of Cape Breton, and hub of its (primarily mining) economic activity-- it was a pretty ugly town, with little non-industrial waterfront, so we checked out of there pretty quick, driving up to the town of Glace Bay-- drawn by the 'National Historic Site' labelled on the map. Turns out this 'Marconi' National Historic Site wasn't much-- just a building and a couple signposts detailing some guy's transmission of the telegraph from there to Newfoundland's Signal Hill (itself pretty cool-- from where the first transatlantic telegram was sent).

Determined that Glace Bay would not be a letdown, I drove in search of the perfect spot to set up my stove for dinner (and, where we could refill on water and clean our dishes-- we ended up knocking on a few random doors). A precarious climb down over crumbling-red-rock-cliff later and we've got a perfect perch, right down on the rocks, staring into the open Atlantic.

It was a fine meal, as usual (I am, after all, an outstanding chef), highlighted by sharing pasta with four of Glace Bay's finest-- some rough teens who were hanging out throwing rocks at the cliff and watching it crumble (ah, small town entertainment!), between asking me if I smoked up.

All was grand until we returned to the car and started to drive off, when Sashah realized that her purse was missing. A lot of searching-- and a 30 minute race to catch the Newfoundland ferry in North Sydney (hey-- we were delayed-- not one of my west coast habits!)-- later, and the bottom line is that her purse was stolen (the window was open and it was on the dash-- so not a far stretch). There were several groups who'd wandered down to where we were eating, including those teens-- but I'd like to think it wasn't them. Still, aside from her cell phone and a few cards, there fortunately wasn't too much lost-- given that all our stuff was in the car, it could've been a lot worse.

We caught the ferry and were treated to a cozy six hour voyage. Though you could rent a room, we went econo and slept on the chairs (still, there were free movies, wireless and showers!) through the overnight cruise to Port-aux-Basques, Nfld.


Day 57 (June 23): 400km down (11,850km overall)
After dunking my head into the shower and out the window to see the approaching rock, it was clear that Newfoundland really is a whole different world-- the Nova Scotian sun had given way to a thick newfie fog, with fishing communities scattered amongst the dwarf trees lining the rock islands (much of Newfoundland-- besides the main island-- consists of islands and peninsulas).

While the girls were still groggy, I was exuberant to drive off the ferry onto the island-- having met so many Newfoundlanders in Trois Rivieres and read so much about the province-- I was finally there! The one place that so many people leave out of their cross-Canada trips.

We stopped in at the tourist centre to ask about Gros Morne National Park (which, after seeing it in the Province's '100 Things to do in Canada before you die' article, I knew I had to see), icebergs, and of course, for the lyrics to "I's the B'y"-- the famous Newfoundland folk song that I had been singing (ok, trying to sing) since Quebec. Well, the guide sort of brushed my request aside (perhaps not knowing the words is a source of shame for Newfoundlanders???), though there's nothing that the intellectual titans at Wikipedia don't know: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/I%27s_The_B%27y

Cruising on past Port-aux-Basques, we saw moose in passing fields (first introduced in 1901, there are now something like 120,000 moose in Newfoundland-- most locals don't drive at night or in the fog, and for good reason-- if you take the legs out with your car, that's 1800lbs coming through your windshield), and incredible mountain plateaus with fog rushing down valleys like waterfalls-- watching the sun rise over these crests was one of the most spectacular sights of the odyssey so far.

It was a long jog-- like most distances in Newfoundland (no road is straight, they bend, climb, and twist)-- to Corner Brook, Newfoundland's second biggest city, and what was really, a sad, industrial town (though one whose mill supplies newspaper to much of the world). But Newfoundlanders are nothing if not a people of pride, and the mention of whole malls without tenants to some hikers I met a few days later brought forth a defence of their town, naming some of the highlights, including the Wal-Mart (which, on the opposite side of town, has been a boon to the local economy, they said), Memorial University satellite campus (which we checked out), and hospital.

After a, well, terrible meal of Fish n' Brewis (a salted cod mash-- in its defence, it was only $2.99, and at least I got to try something new) at Sobey's (a supermarket chain that I have grown to despise-- bad meals, bad produce, bad ice cream, and bad plastic bags), we departed east for Deer Lake, driving past "The best ski mountain east of the Rockies" (a title Montreal's Tremblant would surely contest) along the Trans Canada just past Corner Brook (there's only one other ski mountain in Newfoundland, so this one's popular... I can only imagine the beauty of Newfoundland in the winter-- The Shipping News probably does it some justice).

From Deer Lake on the Trans Canada, we cut off onto the Viking Trail-- the route that takes people all the way north to the Labrador ferry and L'Anse aux Meadows (where Vikings first arrived over 1000 years ago). We went as far as Gros Morne National park (a UNESCO World Heritage Site), which the Trail winds through, then cut off and headed down to the southern part of the park at Trout River, a quaint fishing town, renowned for the Tablelands geological formation (a distinct red rock ocean bottom from when the African and North American continental plates collided).

While I had grand plans of an overnight solo expedition, my idea was soon crushed as we talked to a woman and her extremely precocious nine year old daughter (who was content to challenge everything her mom said with reason)-- both agreed that 'we would have some weather tonight' (in Newfoundland, a prognosis of 'weather' means bad weather), and that it would be crazy to hike off into the wilderness (they recalled a foreigner a week before who'd walked off a cliff on one of the trails). Point taken.

So we drove over to the Trout River government campsite, and I strolled over to talk to the park ranger at the hut (pictured in the background) and get a park map. Well, right away I could tell that this guy was a bit of a character-- he had the thickest Newfoundland accent I had come upon and it was his first day on the job. Not only that, but he had locked his keys in his hut. So, I offered to help him break in-- I grabbed my hatchet, and we pried the window open, before the 53 year-old grandfather pulled himself through, landing on the floor... then opening the door and offering me in.

With a park map and firewood in hand, we decided to stick around there that night, feasting on flame-cooked grilled cheese, chili, and smores. The park ranger-- 'Abbott', his friends called him-- wandered over, and we talked into the night about Newfoundland. As Theresa noted, he was the type who'd lived a dozen lives-- and recalled countless stories around the campfire-- as a firefighter, fisherman, hunter, and local.

Day 58 (June 24): 83km down (11,930km overall)
Ah, sleeping in. One of life's great pleasures.

We did, until around 11:30am-- had to catch up from the previous night feigning sleep on the ferry-- before eating some oatmeal, chatting with some PEIers (the first I'd encountered so far!), and packing up for the big day.

Driving back to the park 'Discovery Centre', we explored some of the centre's extraordinary exhibits-- on the world class geology, wildlife, and more (there was even an extensive Climate Change exhibit-- with gas cans comparing fuel economy-- we discovered that the Trooper uses 1/3 the gas of the typical RV... but alas twice as much as a hybrid sedan). It was certainly the best park interpretive centre I'd ever seen. From the Discovery Centre parking lot, we hiked the two hour 'Lookout Trail', which I'd been told was the best 'bang for your buck' for a view... well, I suppose thick fog is part of the experience-- even without the view, it was certainly beautiful at the 300m summit.

Leaving the parking lot, we drove to another section of the gros park, to the base of Gros Morne Mountain. It was deemed the hardest hike in the park, and so, naturally it was a must. The girls weren't up for it-- Sashah, who had packed for partying in Quebec (the roadtrip was a surprise), had little resembling hiking footwear-- so I set out for my overnight expedition around 6:30pm that evening. There was a 'primitive campsite' partway along the 16km hike that I planned to reach that night-- it was situated such that my 'summit' up the actual mountain would be the following day, once, I hoped, the fog had cleared (if it was foggy, there was no way I was going to the top of that mountain with its tundra geography and steep cliffs). No matter what, I had food and clothing for a week (though I told the girls I'd be back by noon).

It was a spectacular hike up through the fog along the rough trail which, from the looks of it, was used far more by moose than man (fresh scat and tracks greeted you every few feet). Along the way, I passed squirrels, spiders, Newfoundland beaver (and a dam), and even spotted a large moose lounging in the grass at the foot of the mountain (can you?).

I was at the beautiful campsite by 9, located (from what I could tell through the ghostly fog) right between two mountains-- one of which I would summit the following day.

Day 59 (June 25): 591km down (12,520km overall)
Aside from distant footsteps of moose prancing through the dawn hours, it was a terrific sleep in my cozy bivy tent. And I awoke to clear blue skies, revealing the sheer beauty of the mountains I was nestled between, and the valley down which I could see to the ocean. After an energy rich breakfast, I packed up and set out for the summit.

Hiking up the side of the mountain, I climbed from one ecosystem into another, gradually entering tundra (as I had read at the Discovery Centre, Gros Morne Mountain was only place in North America so far south to find the ecosystem-- characterized by arctic hare and ptarmigan). The view kept getting more spectacular the higher I climbed.

Along the way I saw a fox (pictured) scampering around the alpine zone-- jumping and running in circles, it soon started to roll down the hill playfully-- as well as a ptarmigan (pictured), who was eager to get out of my way (much as I tried to avoid it).

Finally, by 9:45am I reached the summit-- sure, at a mere 806m, it wasn't Everest, but still a nice feat to be able to stand atop western Newfoundland-- before continuing on down a steep descent (with rocks giving ways as I went-- very unkind to my ankles and knees, all of which twisted like rubber bones on the way down). The view down this other side wasn't bad either-- the orange mountains of rubble in the distance are the Tablelands I mentioned earlier.

On the way down, I passed a few people-- mostly Newfoundlanders-- hiking to the base of the mountain, and met up with the girls back at the car (they had had a fine night, and Theresa had stumbled upon a huge moose). We hit the road and drove north along the Viking Trail to Western Brook Pond-- a spectacular valley shaped over millennia by glaciers migrating towards the ocean-- initially driving along the hiking trail (until I realized what it was), before backing out, and hiking into the lake.

Driving south back through the park, we stopped at the noted 'Lobster Head Cove' lighthouse and hiked down to the water, before driving up to the campsite, pleading to use their showers, then relaxing around there for the afternoon to plot the next moves on our Newfoundland trek.

We were on the Trans Canada by 4pm that Sunday afternoon, aiming to make some miles across central Newfoundland. We wanted to find a quaint Newfoundland fishing town-- I had my eyes set on Trinity (Newfoundlanders in Trois Rivieres had raved about it)-- and get settled down for a couple days (surely a large part of the Newfoundland charm). Through Springdale, Badger, and Grand Falls-Windsor we drove, and into Gander (which, at one point had one of the busiest airports in the world-- where every trans-Atlantic flight stopped to fuel up).

It was here in Gander that I had the second most tense moment of the odyssey (the first, of course, being Adham dropping the Calgary Flames flag out the window east of Thunder Bay). Partly because I was up a mountain for the weekend, I had forgotten about my Saturday Globe and Mail until that point. It was in Gander that I realized this. And so, I ran from supermarket to gas station to hotel (a fine tour of the town) for what seemed like forever-- at each stop, I was told they either didn't carry it or were sold out-- finally, I came to a hotel where I waited for 10 minutes for the clerk, before going into the manager's office and demanding my Globe. Well, lucky for me, she had a copy in her drawer. But geez, that was too close-- from now on, I'm buying it on Saturday, no matter what. (in case you're wondering why I need the Globe... I just do (have you read the Saturday Globe cover-to-cover? It's quite the thrilling experience)... besides, I was starting to get Sashah hooked on Globe Style).

We drove on into the sunset , through Terra Nova National Park, and on to the Bonavista Peninsula, which our Canada bible had described as "terrifyingly beautiful." Well, through the darkness it was hard to pick out the beauty, but it definitely had hints of terror (it was a creepy drive-- past funeral homes and butchers, with tailgating high-beaming pickups, apparently driving in circles (... and 15 minutes later they pass the same 'welcome' sign...)-- we ended up parking that night on a random road which ended at the water. As we made dinner, we heard footsteps along the beach getting closer-- which stopped when I yelled out. I cruelly talked up what it could be, until the girls insisted I stop.

Day 60 (June 26): 160km down (12,685km overall)
Waking up mid-morning, we enjoyed the view of our impromptu campsite, before driving off towards towards Trinity. Along the way we stopped at the 'Bonavista Tourist centre', a small trailor staffed by four eager middle-aged women who filled our arms with pamphlets-- and who confirmed that the little town of Trinity was the place to be.

Once there, we strolled through the quaint historic town (though it was meant to be uber touristy, the high season luckily wasn't for a couple more weeks), through the famed theatre (from which the below photo was taken), and into a cute artist studio/chalet which was run by a kind, thickly accented Dutch lady (whose daughter, incidentally, had just been accepted to Canada World Youth). This was, she told us, where Cate Blanchett had stayed while filming The Shipping News (the entire film-- a cinematographic masterpiece-- was shot in Trinity). Besides suggesting hikes in the area to do-- and places to explore along 'Trinity Bight' (a branch of the Bonavista Peninsula)-- she strongly recommended we stay at Trinity Cabins, going so far as to call over and ask how much it cost. At $10 for a campsite (and, as we would discover, $1 for ice cream) who could refuse?

We drove over to Trinity Cabins, and were greeted by an extraordinarily kind lady named Coreine, who along with her husband Glenn, had run the cabins/campground for over 20 years. As we booked our spot, I mentioned that I had been looking to get on a fishing boat somewhere in Newfoundland-- I fished off the west coast, and was keen to see what the other side was like. Coreine noted that there was little fishing in Trinity itself, but lots of fishing communities along Trinity Bight. Though the boats were out, she promised to call around later that evening.

So we drove off for the afternoon, up that terrifyingly beautiful coast through countless fishing communities (stopping in one, Melrose, to chat with a woman as she folded laundry, whose husband was off fishing in Labrador), and on to Bonavista (www.bonavista.net), where, many say, John Cabot landed on June 24, 1497, declaring 'Buon vista!' (Oh happy sight!).

We explored around 'The Dungeon'-- two tunnels carved into the rock (which Theresa joyfully climbed down into)-- on the outskirts of town, which itself was surrounded by some spectacular geography. From there, we drove out towards Cape Bonavista along a dirt road. Along the way, there was a random pack of horses, which placed against the harsh backdrop made for a fine photo-op.

As I was getting back into the Trooper after taking the photo, a bold horse approached my window, gradually sticking its entire (monstrous) head inside the Trooper, drooling on the steering wheel and my lap. The girls sure thought it was funny. So did I. Although that was an awfully powerful animal with its head virtually pinning me to my seat.

At that point another horse had approached the hood of the car, and glared inward. Yep, it was getting a bit spooky. This one approached Sashah's window, who, I discovered liked to watch from a distance, but wasn't a fan of the horse lap-dance. Meanwhile, ardent horse-lover Theresa in the back opened her window inviting Sashah's to switch windows-- it did, and began gnawing on the Trooper door (which meant it was time to go). Ah, and did Theresa ever enjoy the experience-- we all thought it was pretty funny-- until her bad horse allergy set in (and she collapsed in the back for a couple hours).

Out to Cape Bonavista we continued, stopping for the mandatory photo on-top-of Cabot's statue, and wandering over to the Bonavista lighthouse-- where we came upon a few more animals... pet goats (which, someone later told me, had speared someone who got to close once). Here's my effort:

We drove into the town of Bonavista itself-- stopping along the way at a diner (where I tried some deliciously greasy fried cod tongues)-- cruising past the docks, and stopping along the way to talk to crab fishermen (and try-- futilly-- to squeeze myself onto a boat the following day).

From there, we drove back along the coast, through Elliston (the 'cellar capital of the world'... really they just look like a lot of hobbit huts), which was renowned for its puffin viewing (and caught our attention for the vast number of abandonned places-- see photo-- on spectacular lots which, I was later told, could be had for less than $20,000). We wandered out onto a bluff and were immediately captivated by the adorable puffins-- which must be about the coolest provincial bird in Canada-- whose Harrier-jet landing and take-off skills were nothing short of amazing (photos to come once developed... in the next post).

We got back to Trinity Cabins around 9pm, and I hurried in to the office to ask Coreine for the news. Unfortunately she hadn't been able to get me on a boat-- there just weren't any going out the next day-- but, she consoled, there were some "wicked" hiking trails we could do. Her husband Glenn wasn't ready to give up-- he persistently called around the peninsula, and landed me a spot on Alonzo Bailey's boat "Aaron N' Marcela" (named, as I would find out, after Alonzo's kids) that his brother-in-law Rick was working the next day. The catch, they said, was that it was a long trip out to check the crab pots-- we'd be out from 5am to 8pm the following day. Well that suited me just fine.

So after a fine meal of pasta and stove popped popcorn (not Jiffy-- the real kernels boiled in oil-- just that much better), I was off to bed.

Day 61 (June 27): 0km (Gone fishin')
Up to the beat of Theresa's cellphone playing Dancing Queen-- always a bad choice-- 4:15am didn't seem so bad with a full day on the boat ahead. It was like the good ol' days rowing in Port Moody or fishing in Ucluelet-- with the right motivation, I can always get out of bed.

I drove off along Trinity Bight to Old Bonaventure where Alonzo kept his boat. It was a beautiful 20 minute drive along the coast as the sun rose, and the little port of Old Bonaventure was spectacular ("Aaron N' Marcela" is the boat at the end of the pier).

I wandered out in my not-quite-fishing attire (goretex MEC biking pants, hiking boots, and a rain jacket), and met the crew-- Alonzo, Rick, and Kevin. We set off out of the harbour through the thick fog, cruising at 12 knots for about three hours out to where the crab pots were-- about 15 miles offshore.

As we motored out in the 34'11" beauty, Alonzo alternated between driving and preparing the afternoon chicken feast (cutting up the 'spuds and spicing the chicken, before throwing it in the cabin oven). His son Aaron, a quiet 18-year old who just graduated, woke up from the bunks, and Kevin, Rick, and Aaron set out to prepare bait lines for the traps (we would check, rebait, then put the 210 traps back down), which basically consisted of looping together some herring and cod on a piece of wire.

The conditions were perfect-- it was, in terms of the open ocean, flat calm. The joke was that I'd go back to the west coast and tell everyone how calm it was on the east coast (which really, is so rough that it can only be fished four months of the year).

As we arrived at the first of six sets of traps, the four person conveyor-belt set to work. Alanzo taking up the trap on the winch, Kevin popping it off the winch and emptying the trap, Aaron sorting the crab by size (and whether they were 'soft-shelled', which meant they had recently molted and thus weren't edible-- you could tell by ripping off a leg), and Rick reloading the traps. And wow, were they ever efficient. I later commented-- after 7 hours working straight-- how hard they worked, and Kevin replied that crab fishing was nothing, "You should see cod fishing."

Once through each set, we'd go back over the GPS marked spot and put the lines of 35 traps back down. This was where things could get a bit dangerous-- with each trap weighing 10 pounds, if you get caught on the rope along the way, you're going down, way down (Kevin, ever the jokester, would dance around the rope as it went down)-- which is why knives should always be within reach (you have to be fast in cutting the rope).

We talked a lot-- especially Alonzo, Kevin, and I-- on the way out and in, and while eating, about Newfoundland, the fishery (which, unless specified, means the cod fishery before the 1992 moratorium), politics, and more. And of course, there was a lot of joking-- nothing like fishing to turn grown men into giddy boys.

Alonzo, like so many other fishermen in rural Newfoundland, fishes snow crab, lobster, shrimp, seal (ah yes, and we had a good chat about Sir Paul's arrogant ignorance too), and just about anything else that DFO (Department of Fisheries and Oceans) hands out IQs (Individual Quotas) for. While everything else before 1992 had been supplementary, since the cod moratorium, it's been survival.

(the following is basically straight out of the fisherman's mouth... and is in vast contrast to what we hear on the west coast)

DFO and the fisherman's union are fishermen's worst enemies (the latter $250 annual membership is, like too many unions, unavoidable... the union unfairly distributes quotas making millionaires out of the few and paupers of the many). The former, DFO, is probably the most resented organization in Newfoundland (aside from PETA). Alonzo noted that, while rescue is always a priority, if a DFO boat was ever in trouble, few of the fishermen in rural Newfoundland would help.

It is mostly the sheer bad DFO science that Newfoundland fishermen can't stand-- how, for example, DFO can did a capture-recapture (a population-estimating method where ideally you catch a certain number of a species, tag them, allow them to reintegrate in the general population, and recapture a sample, estimating the total population from the proportion of taged) by capturing a sample from a bay, tagging and releasing, and then returning to the same bay the next day to recapture... and from that draw an estimate of the entire Newfoundland cod stock (which would obviously be a gross underestimate).

It all started in the 1980's when DFO was allowing massive overfishing of offshore cod stocks. Offshore numbers crashed in 1992 causing DFO to instate a full moratorium, even on inshore fisheries (where numbers were strong). Due in part to its neglect of offshore stocks earlier, DFO swung to the other side and since 1992 has held an 'extreme' view that cod numbers all over are extremely low, despite that fact that any fisherman could tell that there are lots of full inshore banks (some promising news is that DFO has announced small quotas for the first time, this year).

Besides, as Alonzo insisted, the cod stocks should be allowed to behave as the free market-- free of government idiocy and bad science. If so, the stocks would never be fished out (if the fishery was kept to Newfoundlanders) since the natural 'supply-and-demand' balance would dictate how many fisherman could fish the stock (and as stocks dwindled, only the best fishermen would survive on cod).

None of the politicians have a grasp of the issues, they all agreed, and because of it, rural Newfoundland is dying. Though they didn't dwell on it, both Kevin and Alonzo's families had fished those seas since the 1700s... and they were each the end of the line, none of their children would be continuing the tradition (so many young Newfoundlanders running off to Alberta-- 30,000 alone in Fort McMurray). As a microcosm for rural Newfoundland, there was something profoundly sad about that.

In any case, it was all very interesting and more than reason enough for me to do further research sometime next year in a Resource and Environmental Management class.

As we cruised back in past spectacular rock cliffs, soaring eagles, and spouting Minkes after the long and not-so-successful day (kept 1460 snow crab, though normally catch over four times as many-- many of the traps pulled up were 90% soft-shelled), Kevin and Alonzo talked about their kids. Kevin looked forward to taking his down to Disney World the following year-- a trip he'd been planning for years-- while Alonzo told me about his daughter Marcela, who was entering the International Baccaleureate program, that I had done, in St. Johns next year (only 1 school in all of Newfoundland offers it, compared to at least one school in each greater Vancouver school district), and her medical school ambitions.

She, along with much of the population from Trinity Bight, were down waiting at the docks as we came in. From grandkids to great grandparents, it was a tremendous show of community strength-- and for them, it was an everyday routine.

We loaded the snow crab onto scales-- Alonzo kindly giving me some for a dinner feast-- and Sashah and Theresa came down to the boat to see the spectacle and chat with 15 year old Marcela (who gushed at meeting older girls from out west). As I stepped off to leave, I took one last photo of the crew-- from left-to-right, Alonzo, Kevin, Aaron and Rick (with Alonzo's home in the background)-- before saying bye. The trip was certainly one of the highlights of the odyssey so far.

To top it off, we cruised back to Trinity Cabins (Coreine had given the girls a ride down to the hiking trails around Old Bonaventure earlier in the day), dropped off some snow crab for Coreine and Glenn (both of whom were eager to hear of the adventure), and then Sashah and I feasted on snow crab off our sketchy Whisperlite stove.

One fine day.