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 Dwight
Peck's personal Web site
Newfoundland
is still there (2006)
The
island that became part of Canada about the time that I was watching Captain Midnight
on a 10-inch B+W TV screen and sending in my cereal boxtops for the code ring.
You
may not find this tangibly rewarding unless you're included here, so this is a
good time for casual and random browsers to turn back before they get too caught
up in the sweep and majesty of the proceedings and can't let go.
The
Gros Morne National Park: Western Brook Pond (i.e., the "fjord") 
That's
the glacially-carved fjord-like thing we're off to see today. The Long Range Mountains
run north-south along the centre of the Gros Morne National Park at more or less
800m altitude, and as we learnt yesterday, glaciers
15,000 years ago carved out several of these downward tracks to the sea. When
the glaciers melted off, the terrain, relieved of their weight, duly rose, leaving
three kilometres of peat-boggy flats and little ridges between the fjord and the
coastline. That's
a boggy flat and little ridge right in front of us now.
The
boggiest parts get their own boardwalks and little bridges over the creeks. Staff
get to ride on little vehicles, we tourists march along behind them.
Coming
over the last little ridge, we can see the Western Brook Pond and the plateaux
above. The climb to the top would be modest, with a good path -- the same elevation-gain
as jogging up from Leysin village to the top of the Tour d'Aï (the work of
53 minutes in the old days) -- but there aren't many paths here (and the old days
are gone), and it looks like getting up and back in the same day would take some
planning, and some bushwhacking. There are a few recognized multi-day treks along
the top, however, and we hope that (when we're not carrying a portable broken-foot
cast in our luggage) we will be back for at least one of them.
Our
tour boat, brought in by helicopter some years ago. 
Passengers
gather to await the 1 p.m. sailing, all of whom have walked the trail across the
peaty bogs to the dock, including members of a bicycling rally group who were
riding northward at a leisurely pace from Deer Lake to the Viking attractions
at L'Anse aux Meadows at the far north of the peninsula, over something like ten
days.
Cyclists
and civilians await the call to the boats. These mountains are, by the way, part
of the Appalachians (as are the Great Smokies, which one of us - but not the other
of us - once crossed in the middle of the night to get married underage in Asheville,
N.C.), the very northern end of the range, in fact.
We're
on board our tour boat, and we're so excited. The Western Brook Pond! ("Pond"
is Newfoundlandish for "really big lake" as well as for "pond".)
38 Canadian dollars apiece is a small price to pay for "billion year old
cliffs" (I thought they said "15,000 years"). (Alas, no senior
discounts.) (But Kristin paid anyway.)
Our
boat heads out. Not
that boat, that's the other one. One holds 70 and
the other 90, with English-speaking guides on both of them and the French-speaking
guide choosing between them.
Leaving
the open lake and heading into the "fjord". The boat trip takes 2.5
hours and it's worth the time. It goes out three times a day in July and August,
weather permitting, and booking ahead is a smart move. In June, only one trip
a day, at 1 p.m. (that's us).
Kristin
viewing the sights and planning dinner. 
From
time to time the boats vary the proceedings by pulling in close to the shore to
look up at a particularly good waterfall or ancient winter caribou path down through
one set of cliffs, across the icy lake, and up the other side; to point out rock
formations on the cliffs to which "old-timers" have given evocative,
folksy names; and to get a closer look when someone with binoculars shouts out
"There's an eagle"!
At
one point, the very nice guide pointed to a rock formation on the cliff that the
"old-timers" referred to "The Tin Man" (from Oz), and when
everyone looked perplexed, he brought round a photocopied photograph of the cliff
with the "Tin Man" face outlined upon it. I commented at the time that
"Thank god, at least it's not called 'The Old Man of the Mountain'".
That's
the end of the lake, 16 kilometres out, and the starting off point for hikers
bound for the heights at the end of the valley. Our boat is turning round now
and going back. So are we.
Several
eagles seen along the shore already, and everyone is vigilant for still more of
them. 
As
we cruised back out of the fjord, the guide pointed upwards and said that "for
those who might not have been able to pick out 'The Tin Man' on the rock face,
be consoled, because here we can see 'The Old Man of the Mountain'! See, there's
the nose, the chin", etc. Well,
it wasn't much less evident than Queen Victoria at Boscastle, Cornwall, and the
Sleeping Charles de Gaulle. (The best Old
Man of the Mountain, the one above Franconia Notch in New Hampshire, alas!
died on 3 May 2003.)
Thrilled
tourists make for the bathrooms and set out for the parking lot on the highway.
Kristin's just anxious to get off for a good supplementary hike in the mud.
Kristin
hiking in the mud. 
Ah,
timely! Now all we need to make the day complete is a Moose Sighting. 
Around
the southern end of the lake part of Western Brook Pond, late in the day. 
Down
at the shoreline, we can hear in the distance the dinner gong sounding afar off
in Cow Head. "HURRY
UP PLEASE IT'S TIME" -- Eliot, 1922. 
Another
Snowshoe Rabbit precedes us as we bolt for the Shallow Bay lounge and diningroom
for a pick-me-up! And tomorrow, a last day of hikes in the region as we pack up
and promise to come back again.
From
National
Parks of Canada 
 Feedback
and suggestions are welcome if positive, resented if negative, Dwight Peck at
 .
All rights reserved, all wrongs avenged. Posted 14 August 2006, revised 25 January
2008.
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