Although I lived in Newfoundland for two years, I never made it across the Straits of Belle Isle to Labrador. As Labrador is vast, and vastly larger than the island, I couldn't really claim to know the province properly till I had. So it was with eagerness and anticipation that I signed up to assist my former office mate, Rich, on his fieldtrip to The Big Land.
The Northern Peninsula and the west coast of Newfoundland would also feature, but it was Labrador first, so I will blog about Labrador first. And first I had to get there.
 |
| Say 'LLO to Labrador |
Having caught the train from York to London on a Friday afternoon, I spent night one of my expedition in Feltham, near Hounslow. Although conveniently close to Heathrow Airport, Feltham is not an especially salubrious area, and I worried about being accosted as I dragged my luggage around some fairly rough-looking parts of town, trying to find my accommodation. When I eventually located the hotel, it wasn't the bail hostel I feared it might be, but the only praise I can really offer is to say that it was inexpensive.
I slept ok, though, and made it to the airport the next morning with loads of time to spare. My voyage across the Atlantic was equally uneventful, partly because the in-flight entertainment wasn't working, but then I landed in St John's to find that the weather was atrocious. Cold, windy and pouring with rain, it was rather more autumnual than Augustan, but at least it shattered any rose-tinted spectacles I had. And anyway, it wasn't the weather I was going back for, but the chance to catch up with friends, and to see some new places. And rather than a dodgy internet dosshouse, I got to stay in the comfort of James and Pinar's spare room on Gower Street.
The following morning, having stocked up on provisions, Rich and I drove across the province, trying to get as far as we could before nightfall. As a proponent of the Go West movement, I was delighted to have one of my arguments verified, as 10'C and rainy in St John's became 21'C and sunny in Deer Lake.
We made it into Gros Morne before nightfall, but the first two campsites we tried were full. The third - Green Point - was not, but then we discovered that our tent was non-functional. The piece that all the poles lock into was missing, so we had no structural integrity. It was now dark, too, so we tied things up as best we could and bedded down for the night in a rather odd-looking (and decidedly non-waterproof) royal blue and canary-coloured contraption.
Hoping it doesn't rain, I sang a facetious version of Yellow Submarine to myself:
This small tent is the best you've ever seen,
The best you've ever seen,
The best you've ever seen.
 |
| Yellow Submarine, Green Point. |
Amazingly, the weather remained dry overnight, and we awoke in good time, unsoaked and relatively well-slept. Heading straight to the hardware store in Rocky Harbour, we managed to buy a few things that will enable us to erect the tent properly, not least Duck Tape, and then we hit the road again.
At 12.30 pm we pulled into St Barbe, for the Monday afternoon ferry to Labrador. We'd arrived three hours in advance in order to make sure we could get a ticket, but we walked in to find it interminable in the terminal. There was no-one staffing the ticket office, and no information available anywhere. After sitting in the waiting room for an hour, wondering what to do, whilst numerous other potential customers joined the (extremely vaguely ordered) queue, we finally watched two ladies materialize from their lunch break, and, after struggling to unlock the office door, set themselves up. They then informed those of us foolish enough to enquire about booking a place on the boat that they "can't sell any tickets till the propane arrives."
We wondered if a lucky few were going to be given jet packs and propelled across the straits, but disappointingly it turned out that this was the Monday 'Dangerous Goods' crossing. I'd hoped this meant they were transporting tigers, but it's nothing more exciting than some canisters of fuel. Eventually we were allocated a spot, and when we boarded we found the ferry was pretty much empty, suggesting that this was not going to be a dangerous week in Labrador.
 |
| A first glimpse of Labrador, and the coastal Cambrian sections we were there to inspect |
At Blanc Sablon, which is actually in Quebec but appears to be regarded as Labrador for the sake of proximity, we read that the island next to the port is L'Isle Aux Perroquets, which seemed implausible. Not as implausible, I thought, as the fact I actually saw parakeets in Feltham on the first evening of my journey, till a translation revealed that 'perroquet' is the French word for puffin.
As happy campers, our two options in the region were the Northern Light RV Park in L'Anse au Clair and the Pinware River Provincial Park. The former is much nearer to the ferry terminal, and in the middle of the coastal rock sections we wanted to inspect, but upon arriving there we discovered that the camp site was a gravel car park. Even if I had a roll mat, I wouldn't have wanted to stay there, but the fact I didn't meant the idea of pitching a tent straight onto a surface of rock fragments was a definite no-go.
We moved onto Pinware, then, where the provincial park site was much, much nicer. It is sited on a sandy spit sticking out into the river, and is a strip of woodland with beaches on either side. We sign up for a week, and after a chat with Martin, one of the park keepers, head off to choose the best place to pitch.
Pinware derives its name from "pied noir", apparently, but [fly] noir would be more appropriate, as there are scores of the blighters. As we set up the tent, we hope that the evening breeze doesn't die down, and having done so successfully, and then whistled up some dinner, we are pleased to find that there are not too many flies around come nightfall.
Sitting outside under the tarp, with our little fire going nicely, and a nice cold beer, all is well with the world, and we are contemplating retiring for the night, when up pulls Martin in his park warden's van.
"It's probably not going to be a problem," he says, as he marches towards us looking serious, "but I thought I should come over and warn you that we have a male black bear in the area, and the campsite is included in his territory."
Abruptly, our plans of a cosy night's sleep in the properly constructed tent begin to unravel around our ears. But it's ok, Martin will reassure us.
No, he won't. He decides instead to inform us that the bear weighs four hundred pounds, can run at about 50 miles an hour, and is not afraid of humans. It is particularly fond of fish, but can smell any kind of edible titbit, so we must make sure there is nothing foody and edible for him to get interested in. Lucky we didn't just unpack all our provisions and leave them on the campsite table, then.
 |
| A black bear carries off a tasty morsel (photo by Alan Vernon) |
Oh, and our site is the worst spot to be camping in, Martin declares, as the bear likes to use one of the old trails, which just happens to pass about two feet from the end of our tent, behind the thin row of trees. Martin wouldn't camp here, oh no, sir, and he's lived here more than 30 years. In fact, he tells us he wouldn't go around without a rifle. He certainly wouldn't walk alone from the shower block back to the tents as some stupid campers are doing.
I am one of those stupid campers. I walked the route obliviously and solitarily just a few minutes earlier.
And having released all this terrifying information to clang around inside our brains, Martin walks back to his vehicle and jumps back in, with an ominous-sounding promise that he'll be patrolling the site throughout the night, and that we should be fine.
After hurriedly packing away everything we think might be of interest to a bear, we retreat inside the car and contemplate our options. I am genuinely fearful, and decide there is only one option. I will sleep in the car. It might be an over-reaction, and I know that nothing is almost certain to happen, but there's no way I'll sleep easy if I stay in the tent. I may as well sleep uncomfortably but securely in the back of the truck.
After a bit of thought, Rich decides he will do likewise, so we begin rearranging things again, and clear the back so that we can lay the back seats down flat. Agitated, unnerved and rather cramped, we close the car boot from the inside and try to settle down.
It will be a long night...
0 comments:
Post a Comment