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Somehow, in a dream perhaps, the idea of circumnavigating the Rock in a sea kayak came to me years ago. I put it on my list of things I'd like to do before I die, and there it sat, quietly marking time. I was in the Air Force, on Active Duty, so there was no way I was going to get the 3-4 months off that would be needed to sea kayak around Newfoundland. But as my separation date appeared on the horizon, the idea was resurrected, and it moved from my mind's holding area to the forefront of my thoughts. The planning stage, that delicious anticipation of adventure, had begun. I went out and bought a map of Nfld, and emailed the Canadian Government for their chart catalog and price listings. I haven't been back to Newfoundland since 1985, when I was a student at Memorial University, and I don't even know how many people I would still know there... but it's a place that has always held a major fascination for me, and I've been away too long.
This journal is a record of the events that led up to the expedition, as well as a periodic update while the trip is underway. Check it every now and then... hopefully there'll be something new.
I got a response back from Jim Price, owner of Eastern Edge Outfitters in St. John’s. He told me that the trip has been done at least twice in recent times, once by an Andy Fleck in the mid ‘80’s, and again by an unidentified kayaker last year. I am going to contact some folks in the UK and see if I can dig up any more info on Mr. Fleck. It appears that I can’t be the first to do the trip, but then again, I don't mind being next.
The speed and agility of the internet never ceases to amaze me. Through a complex web of emails, shooting across the Atlantic and back a few times, I was able to get a hold of Andy Fleck... lots of good info, and he sounds like a pretty nice guy and a really good resource to draw from in the future. He did indeed paddle around the island fifteen years ago, and took 74 days to make the voyage. I will keep in touch.
It sounds like, although it has been done before, it hasn’t been done a lot, and it has never been documented. I am very excited to not only make the trip, but to be able to bring the experience to others, through articles and slide presentations, when I return.
I have also decided that, since I am committed to doing this expedition regardless, I should look into the idea of doing it to benefit a charity. My first choice would be a literacy organization. As the author of one book, with another on the way, it has occurred to me that, in the absence of people who are able to read, I wouldn't sell a whole lot of books. But even more than that, without the ability to read, there are so many of the world's wonders that are kept hidden, locked away and inaccessible. Literacy is being able to read, that is true, but it is so much more than that. Real literacy is being able to unlock the wonders of the world, and I'd like to play some small part in making that happen for someone. I'm going to start looking into it.
I’m on a plane (as is so often the case these days), but I’ve just finished reading Farley Mowat’s "The Boat Who Wouldn’t Float," and just reading about the south coast of Newfoundland, and seeing the names of places I recognize (and those that are still a mystery to me), has got me fired up to go. Burgeo, Grand Bank and Argentia. Spanish Room, Rushoon and Angels Cove. There is a great poetry to these names, and I can't wait to see the places.
I’ve got plans for a sail design that I think I’ll incorporate into the boat soon, and get some practice with it before I go. I've never sailed a kayak before, although I've done a fair amount of canoe sailing, but I think it might be a good option to have at my disposal on the expedition. Also coming up is a four-day trip with Jon and Devin, two fellow guides, to the Washington coast in the middle of May. We're planning to go from Neah Bay, at the extreme northwest corner of the Olympic Peninsula, to Ruby Beach, about 60 miles down the coast. This paddle along the last roadless coastline in the United States should give me additional experience in rough water, as well as with tricky surf landings and launches with a loaded boat. It is difficult to get the rough-water training I'm going to need in the protected confines of Puget Sound, and getting out to the coast, or at least the San Juan Islands, is going to be a training emphasis item for me until I go.
After several phone conversations and missed connections, I had a real good meeting today with Johanna Vosburgh, the Executive Director of Literacy Outreach. We discussed the practicalities of the Around the Rock expedition being done as a benefit, and the overall results were very positive. Some work needs to be done with publicity materials, but mostly, we all just need to make the effort to get the word out about the expedition, and give people the opportunity to be a part of it by pledging their contributions to Literacy Outreach. I'm excited to be involved in helping children create a better future for themselves... I figure others will be too.
Literacy Outreach has a 12-week after school program that works specifically with schoolchildren on a daily basis. It costs a little more than $50,000 to put on the "Horizons" program, so I've decided to use that figure to set my fundraising goal. If I can raise $25,000 on the "Around the Rock" expedition, it would be enough to fund half of a complete program. I know that it's not a huge amount of money, as charitable donations go, but it seems like a lot of money to me. I better get busy.
I did a training paddle today across the Straits of Juan de Fuca, the channel that separates Washington's Olympic Peninsula from Vancouver Island. There are several spots in Newfoundland where I'm going to have to cross the mouths of bays, and some of these open water crossings are going to be pretty substantial. (The longest one that I'm planning on is going to be about 13.5 nautical miles, but there may be ones that are longer.) To get ready for these long crossings, I've decided to start training in similar conditions, and because of the vigorous currents and fickle weather, the Straits are a perfect training area. Where I crossed today, it was only a little more than ten nautical miles wide, but a good portion of the way over was done in thick fog. Fog is likely to be a common reality in Newfoundland as well, so it was reassuring to see that my calculations were pretty accurate, as I made my way over using dead reckoning. I ate lunch in a deserted cove, watching a pair of river otter as they swam through the calm water and disappeared into their den, and then I headed back across to my starting point near the mouth of the Elwha River. The fog had burned off and the day had turned sunny, but the wind increased too, forcing me to make constant minor course changes. I made it back fairly easily, and with a new confidence. There will be more of these paddles in the months to come.
Because there are a large number of nautical charts required to navigate around the entire coast of Newfoundland, and because these charts are prohibitively expensive, I’m going to try to photocopy and enlarge a regular map of Nfld, and use it for my planning map. It might not be exactly what I had in mind in one sense, but it may even be better than charts in some other ways. I'll be able to write notes along the edge of the map as I'm planning, which I can refer to as I'm underway. It will give me enough information as I'm paddling to get the broad picture of my surroundings, but not so much as to replace the thrill of discovery. Finally, one map will take the place of about 20 charts, saving not only money, but also space. I think it's going to turn out to be a good decision, but I hope I'll still feel that way next summer.
I just got the t-shirts back today from the printer and they look really good. Although the raising of money for Literacy Outreach is going well (there's a long way to go to reach my $25,000 goal, but it's going well), I have not had any way of raising money to cover my costs. The biggest single expense for me will be the gas it takes to get to St. John's and back. It's a distance of more than 11,000 miles, and it's going to take about $1000 to do the drive. The t-shirts will, hopefully, help to offset some of that cost. (If you're interested in ordering a t-shirt, click here.)
I spoke with Shelley Furrer yesterday on the phone. Shelley, of Werner Paddles up in Sultan, Washington, has already been very helpful and encouraging in her support of the trip, and I am going up to the Werner factory for a tour next week, something I have been looking forward to for some time. I have been heartened by the support not only of Werner, but of all the other fine companies that have given generously to help make this expedition a reality. I am looking forward to getting out there and using their gear, putting everything through its paces, and seeing how it all performs.
I don't know if it's the fact that Christmas is so close and there's so much to be done, or that the weather has turned colder, or just that it seems as though I'm constantly working at making a living, but I haven't gotten out on the water nearly enough lately. I know that my trip is going to require me to have paid my dues in preparation... the waters of Newfoundland will never be confused with those of Fiji, or even Puget Sound.
I have seen the photographs in the travel brochures, the ones that show kayaks gliding across water so translucent that the sea bottom is clearly visible and the boat appears to float mystically on a cushion of ether. But something inside me, something no doubt ignorant and marinated in uninformed prejudice, screams at me that this scene is not right. I see kayaks as inventions of the cold countries, where water and wave were things to be guarded against and feared, rather than benevolent theme park style attractions. I am drawn to the less civilized coasts, partly for the challenge they represent, but also because they give me a sense of kayaking heritage. I like to think that, by going to Newfoundland next year, I will be bringing my trusted kayak home.
But I'm going to be thumped by the conditions if I don't get out there and put in the training miles.
Some news to report on the literacy front: the organization Literacy Outreach, has shut their doors. Actually, the staff of Literacy Outreach has been recruited to another charitable organization, the From the Heart Foundation, which funds a wide variety of non-profits. Literacy Outreach was a very small and underfunded organization, and like many small non-profits, it reached a point where it no longer had the finances it needed to function, and was forced to shut down.
In some ways, the fact that Literacy Outreach is gone, is a source of great disappointment for me. For one thing, it's going to take some getting used to for me to explain to others about the primary purpose of the expedition. For another, it's just a little sad to know that good people, with good intentions and good plans, are not enough to sustain good results. The programs that Literacy Outreach was able to put in place did show positive outputs, and I, for one, feel a sense of loss now that those programs have ended. I can only imagine the loss that the individual children and teachers are experiencing.
There are some positive things to take from this though, some "Christmas presents," if you will. First, rather than eroding my desire to assist in child literacy programs, the loss of this organization has only made me more committed to ensuring that another worthy non-profit does not meet the same fate. I am involved, and I'm going to stay that way. Secondly, like I mentioned earlier, Joannah, Laura and Sarah, the dedicated staff at Literacy Outreach, have all moved over to the From the Heart Foundation. Using their new positions, the work on the expedition is going forward. Within the next few weeks, I expect to be meeting with other child literacy organizations that receive a portion of their funding from the Foundation, and together we will focus on directing the proceeds from the expedition to a new literacy destination.
I met yesterday with Cindy Teixeira and Ann Wilke from Roy Elementary School. Roy is a small town in a mostly rural area a few miles to the southeast of Tacoma. Cindy and Ann are in the process of trying to set up a comprehensive reading program for their students, and we were put in touch with each other by Sarah Graham, who is one of the women that went over to the "From the Heart" Foundation from Literacy Outreach.
The curriculum that Cindy and Ann are hoping to implement at Roy Elementary is the Accelerated Reading Program, a system whereby students read books, track their accomplishments by computer, and receive incentives based on their reading progress. "It's entirely possible," Ann says, "that using this program, a student could raise their reading ability a full grade level in just a couple months." The start-up costs of this system are considerable, and like most schools, Roy Elementary does not have the money to get the program up and running.
The "Around the Rock" Expedition has already raised enough to purchase the initial courseware and start training the teachers in how to use it. Getting the Accelerated Reading Program in place at Roy Elementary is a goal that fully satisfies the expedition's goal of improving child literacy, and I am excited to be a part of this process. It hit me the other day that, even though going on this trip is a personal goal of mine that I am looking forward to for personal reasons, because I am doing it, a child will learn to read. That is a powerful motivational thought.
I haven't been doing much kayaking the last couple weeks... I just got back from Bend, Oregon, where I was doing a Wilderness First Responder course. It's something I've been putting off for a long time and I'm glad I've finally gotten it taken care of. I figured it would be good to be a little more medically knowledgeable before I leave for the summer.
Speaking of which, the time is getting closer! I am doing a few slide shows in the next few weeks to try to bring the pledge totals up, and I am very hopeful that it will happen. Feb. 26th at 3pm I'll be at the Border's in Tacoma; Mar. 7th at 7pm I'll be at Border's in Tukwila; and on Mar. 9th, I'm going to be at Roy Elementary for "Literacy Night." I'm doing a school assembly in the afternoon for the kids, and then in the evening, the ir parents will be there. It should be a great time and I am really looking forward to it. So things are coming together, and soon all I'll have to do is paddle. I'm looking forward to that.
Well, this round of slide shows and presentations is over... along with the interviews and articles. Bob Mottram wrote a great piece on the expedition in the Feb. 16 edition of the Tacoma News-Tribune, and the media side of the journey took off after that. There was a large layout in the Northwest Airlifter last week, and in April, "Around the Rock" will be featured in Seattle's Sports Etc. as well as in the Newfoundland magazine, The Downhomer. I did a radio interview a few weeks back on KJR sports radio in Seattle with "The Groz" (Dave Grosby), and just finished doing a TV interview for the Tacoma newsmagazine show "Around Here." That's a lot of talking!
Along with all of that, today was Literacy Day at Roy Elementary. I went out there this afternoon and did an assembly for the whole student body (a slide presentation for 350-plus), and then this evening, a lot of their parents came out to find out more about the trip. It was a great time, and I think everybody enjoyed themselves. I especially liked getting to interact with the kids, watching their expressions when I told them how far away Newfoundland is, or when the slide of the orca came on the screen. Their capacity for wonder is infectuous... it's a shame that, as adults, we get jaded. I would like to do my part to reverse that trend.
I'm leaving for California in a few days... going to do a shakedown trip to the Channel Islands, just to make sure that I have everything I need for the expedition, and in the right quantities. I know there's more that needs to be done, and there are still more items that I need to get, but for the most part, I think I've got all my ducks in a row. The Channel Islands trip should just help me get the final pieces in order. Besides, I think if I waited until everything was absolutely, positively ready, I'd never go.
I haven't started any kind of official countdown as yet, but there's a little voice I can hear in the back of my head that's telling me there aren't too many more days left to go. I've been packing some of my resupply buckets, buying a few last minute essentials, getting the car in shape before the big cross-country haul... things like that. I've also been learning a few new computer tricks that will hopefully make my en route updates go a little easier. It's not too far off now.
And yes, I am excited.
Well, the time to leave is just around the corner now. As you might imagine, I’m trying to get all the things together that I’ll be taking with me, while at the same time I’m paying the bills for the summer, getting the car serviced, and generally putting my life in order so that things can run as smoothly as possible while I’m gone. That’s a pretty tall order, especially considering that things hardly ever run all that smoothly while I’m here.
I just got back from Southern California again (the second time in three weeks), where I was a guest on "Adventure Highway." This Outdoor Life Network show is hosted by Tom Holm, and features a variety of adventure sports such as parasailing and mountain biking. My job was to take the host sea kayaking and kayak surfing, and we shot out at Anacapa Island as well as a surfing beach near Port Hueneme. I learned a lot, had a great time, and now that it’s done, I have nothing else to do but "Around the Rock."
This will be my last update before I get on the road. Have a great summer everybody!
I don't know if it's just that driving across the continent is such a daunting task or what, but I think it helps me to break up long trips into separate segments, helps me deal with the overwhelming reality that is 5500 miles.
I'm in a great little town, Alexandria Bay, in upstate New York, taking a day off from driving after putting almost 3000 miles on the odometer in the last four days. (I'm very surprised that I didn't have driving dreams last night.) For those of you who know her, I'm staying at Glenda Luttrell's house, playing with her kids, eating her food, etc. It's great to see her and the family again, as well as it being a welcome respite from the freeway.
I left Tacoma on the 12th, and travelled through Washington, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, South Dakota, Iowa, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania and New York to get here. Other than killing a lot of bugs on the way (my windshield and the front of the car are hideous with insect bodies), I didn't have anything too terrible happen. Gas is a little cheaper in the Midwest than back in Washington, but every trip to the pump has still been pretty painful.
The plan is, as of right now, that I am going to leave here tomorrow for Maine and Atlantic Canada. I don't know how far I'll get, but the bulk of the road miles are behind me now, and the rest should pass quickly.
I think another reason to take a stop at this point has to do with coming to terms with the journey itself. It's hard for me to visualize an epic like this one from the comfort of home... there almost needs to be an interim place, a way-station in between here and there, in order to allow the magnitude of what is happening to sink in. I guess that's where I am now.
I got into St. John's yesterday, after spending the three previous days out in Bonavista. Finally, after all that driving, the end of the road. I am certainly looking forward to not driving for the next few months.
I left New York and entered into Canada pretty fast, travelling through Ontario, Quebec, New Brunswick and Nova Scotia in about 24 hours. I caught the ferry in North Sydney, Nova Scotia, and made landfall in Port aux Basques, Newfoundland, about 9pm on the 20th. Within about a half-hour of getting into the province, the rain had begun to fall and the wind had picked up to what must have been gale force. I thought I was going to be blown off the road at several different points, and I was quickly becoming pessimistic about the coming months of paddling.
The next day wasn't much better, but I drove to Rocky Harbour to drop off a couple of re-supply buckets, then on to Baie Verte, to meet with Coretta Stacey, a reporter with the Nor'wester. She did a quick interview, I left a couple re-supply buckets with her as well, and then pushed on to Bonavista, where I planned on spending the long weekend at the home of my good friend Jeff Cuff.
It was a great weekend, reconnecting with old friends, and I was able to get a couple kayaking sessions in as well. The weather had improved to the point that it felt practically tropical, very little wind and broad sunshine, and I paddled out of the Bonavista Harbor and up to the point, a 10-mile round-trip. I passed several icebergs, one that was very close and probably grounded, and was buzzed by a lone Minke whale that was travelling along the rocky shoreline.
When I arrived in St. John's, I went down to the Quidi Vidi Gut, which is where I am planning to leave from on Saturday morning. I put in and paddled out to open water, just to see what the conditions were like. I passed another small berg at the entrance to the harbor, but the swells were small and regular, the wind light and gentle. I can't wait.
I'm staying with friends here in St. John's until I leave. Jonathan Pearce and his wife Robyn have been very generous in opening up their home to me. I'll be leaving the car, along with the other kayak, in their garage for the summer... a most welcome situation.
I guess I always knew it would be like this. The last-minute running around, frantic errands at all hours, less total hours in the day. Tomorrow morning begins the actual paddling, and although I am definitely ready to go, it's beginning to seem like there's always one last thing to be done before that can happen.
This week in St. John's has been a good one, with a lot of reconnecting with old friends and final arrangements being made. I went out last night with a group of local kayakers who gave me all kinds of great information, stuff I'd never get anywhere else, about the places that I am likely to be this summer.
The weather here at the moment can best be described as "in flux." A fair amount of rain, not much sun at all, and long periods of calm, punctuated by bursts of strong wind. I have a feeling that I'm probaly going to be doing a lot of morning paddling throughout the expedition, since the winds tend to be more of a factor later in the day.
I did the required test-loading of the boat yesterday (always a sobering experience), and I've got the payload trimmed down now to the point that it should all fit comfortably. Tight, but it'll fit.
I leave tomorrow from the Quidi Vidi gut here in St. John's. I'm trying really hard to stick to an 8am departure time... we'll see how that pans out. I expect there to be a veritable cast of thousands to see me off; I've done interviews with all of the local news outlets, and most of them sound like they'll be there. Add to that the friends that are sure to make an appearance, and I think it might be a bit crowded down there. But I suppose that's as it should be, and I'm glad for the encouragement and good wishes.
I left St. John's more or less as planned, more or less on schedule. The day was sunny and fresh, with only a slight breeze and a small swell. I had a great paddling partner for the first day, Stu Gillies, from St. John's, and with the wind and the swell at our backs, we covered the first few miles into Flatrock quickly. After lunch and a stretch at Flatrock, we continued on to Pouch Cove for the night. Stu went back to town, and I stayed with Di Dabinett, who graciously opened up her home (and kitchen) to me.
I got an early start yesterday, up at 5:15 and on the water by 6:45. The wind was blowing harder than the day before and the seas were higher too, but I was so caught up in the beauty of the rugged coastline that I almost didn't notice. When I got to Cape St. Francis, my original plan was to continue along the coastline into Conception Bay, probably stopping for the night in Portugal Cove or St. Phillips. But as I rounded the point, and the wind and the seas still pushed at my back, I decided to alter course. I would cut across the head of the bay to the other side, a distance of about 16 miles. I made good time at first, but then the fog settled in on me and it became impossible to judge speed or distance. I paddled on, with only my compass for a reference, while puffins and gulls flew in and out of the mist, and my mind played tricks with me about the
direction I should be going. (Always trust your compass!)
I made landfall in about 4 hours, a little farther down the west side of Conception Bay than I had planned, because the swells and the wind had changed a bit en route, and I hadn't adjusted my course accordingly. Still, after stopping for the night in the little community of Western Bay, I felt I'd had a good day.
Today I woke up at 5am and listened to the weather forecast. It didn't take me long to decide that I was taking a rest day. "Gale force winds, rain, drizzle, and fog. Temperature, 4 degrees." It's supposed to get better tomorrow, and I expect I'll be underway again soon.
I did try to get out of Western Bay on the 30th of May, but I'd only gone about two miles into a strong northerly gale when I realized that this wasn't going to go as planned. I was bracing more than paddling, and the wind-whipped waves tore up all semblance of any paddling rhythm I might have had. I was making progress, but not much, and when the paddle was almost torn from my hands by the wind for the fiftieth time, I decided to return to Western Bay.
I spent the night at the home of Bruce and Rindy Homer, and while I was there, I got the opportunity to go to Cabot Academy, where Rindy is a teacher, and speak to the students about the expedition. What a great bunch of kids! I got asked all kinds of questions, from "Have you seen any sharks," to "How do you go pee when you're out in the middle of the bay?" (Hopefully I answered well.)
The next morning was thick with fog, but without a breath of wind. I lost no time in getting going, dead reckoning my way through the soup to Bay de Verde, where I stopped for lunch. After lunch, the wind came up, blew the fog away, and swept me the eight or nine miles through the Baccalieu Tickle and around into Trinity Bay.
Once around the point, the wind was body-slamming me again, and I couldn't get any further than Daniel's Cove, where I pitched my tent and fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. I fought my way into Old Perlican yesterday, the wind still howling enough that I chose to call it a day after a scant four miles.
I'm planning on leaving early tomorrow morning (before the birds are even stirring), and doing the 21-mile crossing over to Trinity, on the western shore of the bay. There are at least three icebergs out there that I can see from here, and I hope to get a little closer to one tomorrow. So, if the weather holds out and the wind cooperates, I should be on the other side, looking this way by this time tomorrow.
Today feels like Summer. The sky is clean, pure blue and the breeze is warm. Of course, there's a storm due in tomorrow; this is Newfoundland, after all.
I was able to cross Trinity Bay, from Old Perlican to Trinity, in about six hours. The weather held out most of the way across, but the last two hours were done in a cold, stinging rain. I stayed the night in Trinity East, and left the next morning for Catalina.
On the paddle from Trinity to Catalina, I got four seasons worth of weather in seven hours. When I left, the sun was shining. Then the wind picked up, turning to a strong tailwind that had me struggling to keep from sliding sideways down the swells. (Although it's pretty easy to understand why wind in the face is not great for kayaking, I think I'd rather have no wind at all than a tailwind. I spent so much time with bracing and rudder strokes, I couldn't get any kind of paddling rhythm going. I would have gone faster, and had a better time too, if conditions had just been calm). Anyway, about an hour south of Catalina, the rain started to fall, the sky blackened, and then, horror of horrors, I saw a lightning bolt come crackling down not more than a few miles to the west. I was about a half-mile out to sea at the time, and I made a sharp turn toward shore and paddled as fast as I could. I ducked into the shelter of some skerries just off Melrose, and waited out the storm there among the rock towers. Then it hailed.
Oh well, the bottom line is, I got into Catalina safe and sound, and the next day I made it into Bonavista. I'm taking a few rest days here, sorting through gear and doing some maintenence on the boat. I'm looking forward to the next phase of the trip, now that I'm off of the Avalon Peninsula and about to enter the maze of islands in Bonavista and Notre Dame Bays.
Last year, there were only about two hundred icebergs that filed past the coast of Newfoundland all summer long. This year is a different story. The Coast Guard is tracking over one thousand icebergs right now, and it feels as if I've already passed most of them. (I know that's not true, but they sure are everywhere.)
It's only a little past noon, and already I'm stopped for the day. The wind turned fierce an hour or two ago, and I decided to call it quits early. Tomorrow looks iffy too, although Sunday is rumored to be bringing some calmer weather along with it.
I had a good day yesterday from Bonavista to Salvage, probably one of the nicest kayaking days I've had anywhere... certainly the best one of the trip so far. I didn't see much wildlife until I got into Bonavista Bay. Just in the last two days I've seen several Minke whales, porpoises and the biggest pod of seals I think I've ever seen. In a couple weeks, when the caplin are running (caplin are a small fish that school in massive numbers, much like grunion), that's when I'll start to see the Humpbacks. At least that's what everybody tells me.
I am an amenomaniac.
I brought along a few books to read on the trip. Sometimes, in the evenings, after the dinner's been cooked and eaten, but before the sun has gone down, there's some time for a good book. I started the trip reading "Endurance," the incredible story of the Shackleton Antarctic expedition. (This book was recommended to me by someone who said that if the going on this expedition got tough for me, I should just think about how hard the men of Endurance had it, and quit complaining).
I finished the book last week, but there are a few lines in there, from the diary of Reginald James, the ship's physician, that captured how I was feeling, so I wrote them down: "We also suffer from 'amenomania' (literally wind-madness)... one is morbidly anxious about the wind direction and gibbers continually about it... I long for a place where the direction of the wind does not matter a Tinker's cuss."
Well Reg, the last two days have been heaven, but I had to go through some trials to get here. I left Salvage and got to St. Brendan's, where I was weather-bound for a couple days while gales blew non-stop over northern Bonavista Bay. When I finally did leave, it wasn't because the wind had stopped, but merely softened a bit, to a mere twenty knots. I faced into it for the rugged crossing to Greenspond, and pushed my way up through the tickle to Badger's Quay, making landfall just before dark.
The next day (yesterday), dawned cold but calm. I got on the water quickly, and made it around Cape Freels and into Lumsden early in the afternoon. I set up camp overlooking the beautiful sandy expanse of Lumsden beach, and slept like a baby.
This morning there was a hint of rain in the air, although the sunrise was spectacular, and most importantly, hardly a breath of wind. I lost no time in breaking down camp and getting underway. With the conditions as they were, I made the twenty-some miles into Musgrave Harbour in good time, hitting the beach at about 2pm. I was going to continue on to Carmanville, since the weather was so pleasant, but the hospitality and generosity of the residents here made me stay. Literally. I had landed on the shore next to City Hall, and the Mayor came out to greet me, and offered me dinner and a room in the local hotel. There was no way I was going to refuse. I continue to be amazed and grateful for the people I have met... I don't think these things can happen anywhere else.
So it's a good night. The boat repairs that I made in Bonavista are holding up nicely and my gear is performing well. (Thanks Dagger, Werner, Ortlieb, Harmony, etc.) I should be leaving here tomorrow, and the weather is only supposed to be getting better. Perhaps the cure for my amenomania is in sight.
I guess I'm paying for the last four days of good weather. I woke up this morning, on an isolated little beach on the Reach Run, to a steady rain. The skies were oppressive, mottled gray clouds hanging low and the opposite shoreline obscured by the mist. By the time I got the boat packed and got going, pretty much everything was wet. Reminds me of Washington!
I've covered some decent distance the past few days though, and I'm sitting in Twillingate now, about to reward myself with a day off tomorrow. There are a few chores I need to get done and I could just use a break.
The paddling up here has been teriffic. Bald eagles all over the place today, and the winding passages between the many small islands give the place an otherworldly quality in the drizzle. Isolated rocks and islets drift in and out of view like dreams floating on the steely water.
I've been asked what I think about while I'm out there paddling for hours at a time. That's a good question, but sort of a hard one to answer. I think the best way to explain it is to compare it to that time just after going to bed, but before falling asleep. After I've been paddling for about ten minutes, the repetitive motion becomes automatic, and my mind starts to wander, no longer needed by my body. Just like thoughts scurry into and out of the mind during that pre-sleep time, random snippets and ideas are running through my mind almost constantly. No real deep thoughts, no real organization, just thought soup. Still, if I stir it just right, something interesting comes to the surface every now and then.
Since I left Twillingate, the weather has been perfect. Well, almost. The wind is nowhere near as wicked as it was during the first two weeks of the trip, and the sun has been beautiful. I actually paddled for a few days in shorts and a shirt, something that I didn't plan on doing very often.
My first stop was Exploits Island, a picturesque fishing community in eastern Notre Dame Bay that was basically finished as a town after resettlement happened in the 1960's. It has acheived a sort of renaissance though, as a summer haven for prior residents, who come over from Lewisporte and other towns during the warmer season. I spent the afternoon poking around, looking at some of the old abandoned homes and walking through the overgrown cemetery. One headstone in particular caught my eye. Laying down in the knee-high grass, it bore the names of five children from the same family, all of whom died within three weeks of one another back in 1878. An entire generation gone in less than a month. Netta Budgell, a sweet older woman that I met there on the island told me that the children all died from Diphtheria, which was not an uncommon occurrence in those days. It was a very sobering experience, looking at the grief that was documented there in stone, thinking about all the things we take for granted now.
From Exploits, I pushed on to Leading Tickles West, camped there at a convenient seaside park, and left the next morning for Little Bay Islands. Coming into this perfect harbor has to be one of the highlights of the trip so far. The people have been nothing but generous, the scenery is stunningly postcard-beautiful, and it is proving to be very hard to leave. I'm going to go in a little bit to talk to the students (all 19 of them), at the little school here, and after that, it's time to move on toward La Scie, where I hope to be tomorrow night. There's a rumor, however, that this weather might not hold out that long, so we'll see if the plan hangs together.
It's been a good three days since the last time I wrote. I left Little Bay Islands and headed across to an abandoned community called Indian Burying Place. I killed a few hours there, walking down among the old decaying buildings and wharves, trying to picture what the place must have looked like back when it had several hundred inhabitants.
I spent the night in Snooks Arm, then went around Cape St. John to La Scie, in conditions that alternated between dense fog and bitter wind. By the time I got to La Scie I was beat and ready to call it a day. Then the rain started.
It wasn't sunny today either, but the paddling conditions were excellent. All the way from La Scie here to Fleur de Lys in one seven-hour shot across the bay. I'll be taking a rest day tomorrow, going to see the soapstone artifacts at the Dorset eskimo quarry and taking care of some chores and maintenance, before heading across White Bay to the Northern Peninsula.
When I got into the harbor here, the first vehicle I saw had a pair of kayaks on the roof. What a sight! The driver of the truck, Neil Lewis, came down to the waters edge for a chat, and took me up the road to get a cheeseburger... a welcome event after the long paddle. I'm camped for the next two nights on a tiny island, connected to the rest of the town by a short wooden bridge. There are a couple of fire pits and picnic tables, and a perfectly level spot for the tent. Population: one.
I left Fleur de Lys on Sunday, and did the long crossing of White Bay in a strong breeze that turned the water choppy and made holding a good course a little difficult. Ten hours later, I had gone about thirty miles and was more than ready to get out of the boat, so I set up camp on a small gravel beach about eight miles up the coast from Great Harbour Deep. The next day, I went another thirty miles or so, past Englee and just short of Conche, in good weather.
That was it for the decent conditions though. The next day I only made it to Conche, a distance of about eight miles, before I called it quits. Beating into a twenty-knot northerly and steep seas convinced me that my time would be better spent in the tent, resting up for the next day. Which is what I did.
Yesterday, the weather was still pretty grim... fog, rain and more wind, but at least the breeze was coming from somewhere behind me this time. I set out without a clear destination in mind, but with the goal of simply getting as far as I could.
I ended up making it here to St. Anthony, after an eleven-hour, forty-mile day that was truly grueling. The last fourteen miles, including the long crossing of Hare Bay, were done in a strong tailwind that raised the seas significantly and forced me to be ever ready to brace. At one point, I did a strong low brace to my left as a wave overtook me, then a full high brace to my right as it passed underneath my hull. In between, I was completely underwater as the top three or four feet of the swell engulfed me. After this dousing, I only had about ten more miles to go. The lighthouse at St. Anthony was a welcome sight.
I'm taking a couple days off here, just to see the sights, and then starting down the west coast.
I left St. Anthony a day later than I had planned because of inclement weather, but the following three days were not too bad. What wind there was (and there wasn't much), was at my back, the fog lifted fairly regularly, and the rain seemed mostly to come at night. I was able to get from St. Anthony to L'Anse aux Meadows on Sunday, and actually continued on that evening to Cape Onion before I called it a day.
L'Anse aux Meadows is quite a place. The landfall for Norse explorer Leif Eriksen a thousand years ago, the actual archeological zone is a designated UN World Heritage site. A replica of a Viking longhouse, staffed with interpreters who play their roles as Vikings quite convincingly, is the main attraction, and the Visitor Center provides some amazing information about the lives of the first Europeans to set foot on the New World. (Cabot? Columbus? Five Hundred years late!)
From Cape Onion, I rounded the top of the island and started my trip south and west, a course I'll be following for some time to come now. When the clouds lifted, I could see the hills of Labrador across the Straits, with pockets of last winter's snow still hiding in the hollows, gleaming brightly against the dark background. When the fog was in close, and just keeping the shoreline in sight was a full-time job, I could hear the unmistakable booming breaths of the humpback whales further out in the deeper water.
Yesterday brought with it some of the best weather so far... glassy-calm water, and a small but steady breeze directly behind me. I pushed from just north of Big Brook all the way down here to Flower's Cove, 38 miles, without too much effort, it seemed. (Although I notice my back is a little sore today, so I must have given it some effort, anyway.)
I had to know that weather couldn't last long, and it didn't. I woke up today to the hardest rain I've had yet, and radio promises of gale force winds once again. I think the hardest thing to accept is that, when I was on the east coast, just starting out, the weather here was pretty decent and the storms seemed to all be in my area. Now that I'm here, St. John's is having sun and temperatures in the 70's, and all the atmospheric disturbances seem to be happening right over my head. It probably isn't really that way, but it does feel like the clouds are following me around. Hopefully I'll shake them soon.
Finally in Port aux Choix, although getting here was a battle. Once more the wind has proven to be a stout foe, and I'm feeling the cumulative fatigue that it has piled on. It's been a series of starts and stops since Flower's Cove... start in a breeze, stop in a gale. I spent a day off in Bird Cove a couple days back, and then put out on the water yesterday, for what would be possibly the most trying day of the trip so far. (It just keeps going, doesn't it?)
The wind was fairly light when I started yesterday morning at 7:30, but that wouldn't last long. The first couple hours were easy enough to convince me that crossing a portion of the huge, concave St. John Bay would be a good idea. I could save at least four, maybe five, miles by cutting across rather than following the coastline, and the wind was light and at my back, so it seemed an innocuous enough decision at the time.
But times do change. By the time I had gotten two or three miles out into the open water, the wind had built to a strong noreaster, and even though the fetch in the bay wasn't more than three miles, the wave heights were over my head. The bursts of wind that buffeted me continually were impossible to anticipate, and the result was that I was doing little more than bracing and ruddering for the entire eleven-mile crossing. Every two minutes or so, I would have to execute a bracing stroke that, if I didn't do it correctly and quickly enough, would have made me a swimmer immediately. Every two minutes, I'd say, for three hours. (I found out later that the wind had been a steady twenty-eight knots, with gusts that topped forty.)
I had planned to get to Port aux Choix last evening, but by the time I reached the far shore of the bay, the rain was lashing my face, and the wind had completely drained me of energy. I pulled into the deserted little community of Barr'd Harbour, thankful to be able to land anywhere. I ducked into the fishing stage at the end of the wharf to get out of the wind and to eat some lunch, the first chance I had to get a snack or a drink since Feroule Point, fourteen miles earlier. While I stood in the stage, watching the waves grow in size just outside the small harbour entrance, I came to the realization that my day was done, and that I was staying there for the night. There wasn't anyone from whom to ask permission, but I set up camp inside the small building, still within earshot of the howling wind, but blessedly out of its reach.
I was awakened at 5:30 this morning by two fishermen who were stopping by to pick up their oilskins before heading out. To see their complete lack of surprise at my being there, you would have thought that this was not the first time a wayward kayaker had been blown into their stage. "Good day, b'ye. Sleep well?" We exchanged the usual pleasantries: I thanked them for the use of their facilities; they commented that they had seen me on CBC. Before they left, they told me that there had been a fisherman that was overdue from the previous days storm, a fact of life, but something that I thought about all the way into Port aux Choix. (I found out later from another old waterman that his overturned aluminum boat had been found, but that his body was still missing. He had been pulling up his nets off the coast of St. John Island, not more than five miles away from where I had been the day before, perhaps closer. "It was a killer storm, b'ye," said the old man at the dock when I got in. "We lost a good man yesterday." I unpacked my boat on the harbour beach in Port aux Choix, feeling at once thankful, sad and lucky.)
The wind today has gotten worse, and the gale warning has been extended for the next two days. I keep telling myself that this can't last, that the wind has to abate at some point, if not to calm conditions, then at least to something where I can make progress. It's getting harder to believe though.
"Take the bitter with the sweet," is an admonition I've heard a few times before. Well, it's been pretty bitter for a while now, but the last three days have been all sweetness, and I was more than ready for them. It's about time, is all I can say.
The scenery from Port aux Choix all the way down here to Rocky Harbour has been magnificent. The high misty steeps of Gros Morne, the constantly changing, undulating coastline with its secret coves and quiet harbors, everything so perfectly in its place. (When the breeze is at your back, I guess everything just looks better.)
After I'm done writing, I get to go over to Fisherman's Landing and claim my resupply buckets that I left here before I started, way back in May. I'm looking forward most of all to some of the clothes that I left in them; I've really been going through the stuff I have. The food is going to be good too. Then it's back on the water again tomorrow, hopefully down to Bay of Islands. The forecast (as of this morning anyway), was for some more days of decent weather. Bring it on!
Although the scenery has been impressive just about everywhere I've been since I started this trip, the past three days have been the most amazing. Crossing the mouth of Bonne Bay, from Rocky Harbour to the southern section of Gros Morne National Park, the sheer cliffs and glacier-scoured fjords dominate the view. Paddling next to these vertical rocky walls brings a sense of perspective that is missing elsewhere. I felt like a miniature, a toy kayaker, in the bosom of this monumental landscape.
All along the coast, in the tiny inlets and coves, were clean, sandy beaches with small collections of fishing shacks huddled here and there above the high-water mark. Most were empty, but I did pass a few that were occupied, their seasonal residents enjoying panoramic ocean and mountain views that would cost hundreds of dollars in any hotel. My campsites were secluded, quiet, and the best I've had so far. It didn't hurt that the weather was perfect. Clear, sunny days, and sparkling nights, with hardly a breath of wind. After the dismal weather that I'd been hit with on first six weeks of this expedition, I felt like maybe I deserved it.
Or maybe not. Here in Port au Port, where I arrived yesterday evening, the wind is back to its gale force finest. The forecast is calling for thunderstorms throughout the night and tomorrow, with winds increasing in the morning. I have a feeling that I may be here for a day or two more than I'd planned. I do have some fine accomodations though. I met a teenager named Matthew at the gas station where I'd gone for a soda, and he said that I was welcome to stay at a party shack that he and a few friends had built down on the beach. It's a 9'x13' shanty, constructed out of drift boards and scavenged materials, and the entire front wall consists of a big bay window that looks out on the northeast Gulf. "Built it in three days, b'ye," Matthew's friend Marvin said proudly. "She's sturdy too. Ye won't be gettin' wet in here tonight." I dare say he's right too. It ain't beautiful, but it looks good to me.
When the weather is decent, the miles just fly. Oh, but when it's not...
I left Stephenville heading into a moderate breeze that turned into a gale in about five hours, to the point that I had to call an early end to the day after only seventeen miles. I camped on a dirt pile near Flat Bay West, and ended up staying there an extra day because of more of the same unfavorable wind.
When I got up the following day, there was still a steady breeze coming from the southwest, but it was not nearly as bad as it had been, and I couldn't stay where I was any longer. I paddled into the wind all day (except for an extended lunchtime layover in St. Davids), and ultimately made it to Ship Cove, where I pitched the tent for the night.
Ever since I'd been planning this expedition, I'd been viewing the next thirty miles as the "crux move" of the route (to use a climbing expression). I had been told by everyone who knew the area that there were no good beaches along the southwestern Gulf side of the island, and that the next place I would be able to get out of the boat wouldn't come until I made it past Cape Anguille, at the little town of Codroy. For two years I'd been steeling myself for the long haul that this was going to be, more than thirty miles of uninterrupted paddling, with no chances to come ashore.
There have been plenty of occasions in the past two months where something I thought would be easy turned out to be harder than I'd planned; it's nice to know that things can work the other way too. The day I left Ship Cove was one of the best days I've ever had on the water anywhere. Flat calm, barely a breath of wind, and perfect conditions. More importantly, since the tide was falling, I had my pick of excellent beaches where I could stop. I can see how, with the weather being anything other than what I had, things would be very different indeed, so I definitely count myself fortunate.
After sliding past countless waterfalls cascading over the cliffs and into the sea, after passing hundreds of seals hauled out on the rocky shoreline and bald eagles soaring serenely overhead, I passed Cape Anguille and turned the corner to the south coast of Newfoundland. And, since it had been such a good day and there was plenty of it left, I passed Codroy too, and continued on another eight miles before camping on another pristine and perfect beach.
Eventually, after a harrowing night in the Wreckhouse during a full-blown thunderstorm, and another big-mile day, I made it to Rose Blanche, the end of the road. I camped in a fisherman's stage in what has to be one of the prettiest little harbors in the world (although the residents here assure me that the places I am about to see in the next couple of weeks will be even better). The weather is good, at least for the moment, and hopes are high.
It's been a while since I've been able to get to a computer keyboard, and so much has happened that I'm not sure I can do it all justice with a single update. But I'll give it a shot.
On the 28th of July, I left Rose Blanche along with my ex-girlfriend, Mary. The weather was perfect, and has been pretty much every day since then, and we made great progress through the small offshore islands and hidden passages that make up the incredibly scenic southern shore. (This is the roadless part of the island, or one of them anyway, and the few communities that do exist on this stretch of coast are accessible only by boat. The exception to this is the town of Burgeo, which lies almost in the middle of this section).
We made it to La Poile the first day, and then on to Grand Bruit the next. The tiny hamlet of Grand Bruit nestles into a small, steep-sided harbor, its neat houses clinging to the rocks as if by magic. The name comes from the French "Big Noise," and refers to the waterfall that runs down the cliff in the center of town. The weather turned windy while we were here, but neither of us had any problem taking a couple days off in such a beautiful spot.
From Grand Bruit we headed east to Burgeo and then on to Grey River, where the "2000 Come Home Year" party was in full swing. It just happened that that day was my birthday too, so the fact that there were about 300 people (in a town of 125), joining my celebration seemed somehow fitting.
From Grey River, it was on to Cape la Hune, the former site of a Norwegian whaling station, and then on to Francois. The weather had turned to the fog that I had expected from this part of the coastline, and the tent fly was soaking wet each morning from the accumulated mist. Still, the scenery was fantastic. The deep fjords, deep-green stretching back into the high country, the countless bald eagles screaming as they coasted effortlessly through the curtains of suspended droplets... and what made it even more amazing was that we were often the only ones to witness the unearthly splendor of our surroundings. (One day, as we paddled across a section of open water, the huge dorsal fin of a basking shark broke the surface of the water between our boats. He was dozing just below the surface, and didn't even stir as both of our kayaks crossed just above him).
After Francois, a brief day of sunny weather brought our boats to Seal Cove and the glow back to our faces. But that must have been a scheduling error by the weather man, because the fog came back again the next day, with a vengeance. (Or, as you might hear it said around these parts, "Da fog is some tick, me son.") Still, we crept along the obscured rocky coast and across a couple more small bays here to Harbour Breton, and we're taking a rest day here today before starting across Fortune Bay tomorrow.
Oh yes... I almost forgot. As I'm sure the more attentive of you may have noticed, somewhere back there I referred to Mary as my "ex-girlfriend." On my birthday, that night at Grey River, I asked her to marry me, and for some reason she said yes. No date yet, but it was the best birthday present I could have hoped for.
A thousand apologies for the long silence since the last update. Getting online has not been easy, and the weather has been good enough for me to paddle many miles lately. (If I'm sitting in front of a computer, typing out another update, you can be pretty sure that the weather is not the best).
After Harbour Breton, Mary and I crossed Fortune Bay in one swoop, stopping briefly at Segona and Brunette Islands on the way. We made it into the town of Grand Bank that evening, and ended up staying there for a few days. The weather was not too good, and besides, we had a place to stay at the Beckley's, friends of my parents that have known me since I was very young. Since neither of us had ever been there, and since we had some time to kill, Mary and I took the ferry over to the little French island of Saint Pierre, just for the night. It was strange, leaving Newfoundland behind and going to a little town in France... at least, that's what it felt like.
We also had the chance to go to Marystown and stay with Aaron Jones, the owner of the Dock Point B and B. What a great spot! Aaron is a kayaker too, and it was good to talk to someone whose first reaction to my journey was not to question my sanity. This is also where Karl and Kelly, friends from St. John's, met us after shuttling the car over from Rose Blanche. (An amazing favor for which they will always have my gratitude).
Last week, Mary drove me back to Grand Bank and I resumed the trip where we'd left off. It felt a little strange to be out there solo again, but different in another way as well. I'd reached the point where I was not counting the miles that I'd already gone, but rather counting them down. I went through a lot of fog and a fair bit of wind as I rounded the tip of the Burin Peninsula and crossed Placentia Bay... some of the thickest fog I've seen all summer. I went through Burin, Port Elizabeth, and the eerily beautiful Presque Harbour on my way over to Placentia. From there, I followed the coastline south, bucking the wind down to St. Bride's, just to the north of Cape St. Mary's.
I had hoped to round the Cape this morning, but the wind and the swells are both raging, the residue from Hurricane Alberto, which is sitting just south of the Grand Banks. Hopefully the situation will improve later today and I'll be able to make a go of it then. If not, there's always tomorrow. I'd like to get back to St. John's this coming weekend, but the great unknown is the weather, same as it has been all summer long.
Time has flown since that last update. The miles have flown by too. I made it back to St. John's this afternoon, in rain and wind that provided a very fitting backdrop to the journey. I left from Tor's Cove this morning, and today was the first day in a month that I had to wear my pogies... it's starting to get cold again... must be time to wrap it up.
For all the anticipation that I had held for this day, for all that I had been looking forward to the journey being over, I still have very mixed feelings. I will miss this most beautiful of coasts greatly. After I got through the entrance to Quidi Vidi harbour, I took over thirty minutes to slowly paddle the two hundred yards to the boat launch... I just didn't want it all to end.
But it did, and I will need to take a little time to see how the experience has changed me. I know that I am a stronger paddler now, more confident, and I am excited about the opportunities that will be created for children's literacy here in Newfoundland and back in Washington... this entire summer has been the time of my life.
To those of you who sent me emails of support all summer long, to those who gave me a hand along the way, and to those who pledged donations to help in the fight against illiteracy, I offer my most sincere thanks. To my sponsors (Dagger, Werner, Ortlieb and Harmony), I can only say thanks for making the best gear on this watery planet, and I will of course recommend you to everyone who will listen. Having the best equipment and the most meaningful support mattered more than I can say. I could feel you out there and knowing that you were watching me made a real difference. I look forward to going home (I start driving on Tuesday), but leaving this great province will not come easily. Thanks to all.