Michael Swanwick's Blog, page 187

Amelia Earhart Triumphant

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When you're planning to be the first woman to cross the Atlantic Ocean solo, you want to simplify the task as much as you honestly can.  So Amelia Earhart chose the easternmost part of North America -- Newfoundland -- to begin her flight.  From an aerodrome above Harbour Grace, she flew into history.

It's only human to fixate on the mystery of her tragic death.  But, really, this is what we should remember her for -- a very real and difficult accomplishment.

Above:  The Amelia Earhart monument in Harbour Grace.  Below:  The strip from which she (and other pioneers of aviation) took off, now maintained by the Canadian government as a national monument.



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The Giant Squid of Dildo

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Summer weather varies from year to year in Newfoundland.  Several people told us that last year they had no summer, and one shopkeeper said that at this time a year ago he went around wearing gloves.  But the weather on this trip has been perfect.  When I step outside in the morning I'm stopped dead by the clean smell of the air, and then by the warm feel of it on my face.  It doesn't hurt that to a city kid's ears, Brigus is astonishingly quiet:  No planes flying by overhead and only rarely does one hear a car go by.  If you were here with me now, you'd be casting a speculative eye on the houses that are up for sale.

Yesterday we went to Heart's Content to see where the Transatlantic cables come out of the ocean and the building there (now preserved as a museum) where the message traffic was handled.  (Photo of me clutching one of the cables below.)

We also went to see the Giant Squid of Dildo, a some-expenses-spared replica of the giant squid that washed up nearby.  The story is that some men were out in a small boat collecting firewood when drift ice forced them to put ashore on an inconvenient strand and walk home.  The next day they went back to recover the firewood and found a forty-foot squid had washed up there.

Sometimes reality comes up with a story that you could make up.

That's me with the squid up above.

And because you all have dirty minds . . .

No, the town isn't named after you-know-what.  It's named after nearby Dildo Island.  And Dildo Island isn't named after that either.  It's named after the Basque fishing port of Dildo in Spain.  As for the Spanish fishing port . . . well, who knows what the Basques think?  They keep their own counsel.




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Of Puffins and Whale Snot

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My experience of whale watch cruises in New Jersey is that they take you out, show you some dolphins, fail to find any whales, and then give you a coupon for half off the next cruise to make up for your disappointment.

So it wa a refreshing change of pace to sign onto Gatherall's Puffin & Whale Watch in Bay Bulls.  They took us out, found a minke whale, then took us further out and found several humpbacks feeding.  They seemed to find our presence interesting, for they came over to check us out.  One passed directly under  the boat.  Another -- and this has got to be the highlight of the trip for me -- spouted right next to the boat.  It was so close that when I looked down I saw a rainbow and when I looked up the mist passed over my face.

No man with whale snot on his glasses can be entirely unhappy.

Then a quick swing around Gull Island which has thousands upon thousands of nesting puffins and murres.  So another lifetime desire -- to see a puffin -- checked off on the list.

Do you gather that I'm happy?  I'm very happy.  When we stopped for lunch, we saw more whales. Nobody can say that Newfoundland is ungenerous in her bounty.

And . . .

I'm back to adventuring in a few minutes, so there's no time to relate all our adventures.  Suffice it to say:  Many.   I'll post again tomorrow.

Above;  Mostly I didn't take pictures.  I was enjoying the experience too much to bother.  But on the way out I did snap the above.  There's an entire humpback whale under that fin.

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Beer and Cape Spear

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Human beings are the only creatures on Earth who would go out of their way to stand on the easternmost tip of land in North America.  Which might sound dismissive on the face of it, but we're also the same species that created the Quidi Vidi (pronounced "kiddy viddy") brewery, which turns out the only beer in the world made from glacier water.

I visited both spots yesterday which, as you've probably guessed, means that I was in St. Johns, Newfoundland.

And now I'm off to look for puffins!  Will I find them?  Stay tuned tomorrow

Above:  The lighthouse at Cape Spear, the northernmost etc. etc.

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Going Native

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As you can see, I've adopted the local garb and am thinking seriously about going into commerce.

Yesterday was a long, mad dash from the Northern Peninsula to Brigus in southeastern Newfoundland near St. Johns.  We did take a ten-minute detour off the road at one point and were rewarded by seeing a bald eagle sitting on a rock in the water.  But mostly we covered ground.  Today we recover.  Tomorrow, it's back to the usual antics.

Brigus is a charming place, very old, home to sealing ship captains and Arctic explorer Bob Bartlett, who kept polar bears here on Molly's Island.  One attraction that's not mentioned in the tour books because it's not open to the public is Rockwell Kent's studio.  I was told that he was quiet friendly.  Then there was a pause and my informant said, "Well, every other year he came here and acted like he didn't know anybody.  But all the other times he was very outgoing, always in your house."

This part of the world appears to be thronged with things to see and experience.  I keep reminding myself that winter here lasts anywhere from ten to eighteen months.  Otherwise, I'd be pricing houses.

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The Last Important Writer is Dead

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"As I make my way, gracefully I hope, toward the door marked Exit. . ."  Thus began Gore Vidal's last memoir, Point to Point Navigation .  I listened to it on disc while making a repeated 300-mile car trek between Philadelphia and Pittsburgh, and the fact that Vidal himself narrated it added immeasurably to the experience.  The Old Trickster set out to charm the pants off his readers and auditors and settle a few old scores along the way and he succeeded admirably on both counts.

In one of Vidal's many interviews, he remarked that he "used to be an important writer" and the overmatched interviewer hastened to assure him that he was still important.  But Vidal said No, there was once a position of Important Writer, someone whose opinion would be routinely solicited on any matter of national import, but that position didn't exist any more.

That was quintessential Gore Vidal.  He set you up to defend conventional wisdom and then hit you with something so unexpected, so new to your experience, that you had to stop and think about it before responding.  Even then, after you'd made up your mind as to where you stood on what he'd just said, you were far from sure you were right.

He made you uncertain.  He made you think.

My conservative friends would say that he was a radical leftie, and maybe they're right.  Certainly, he made a hash of William F. Buckley during the 1968 Democratic Primary in Chicago.  But I think he was radical Something Else.  Most liberals don't view Abraham Lincoln as the worst American president ever and Teddy Roosevelt, creator of the National Parks system as an unmitigated disaster.

Whatever he was, Gore Vidal is now gone.  He was a born troublemaker, and he did his job with zest.  God (in Whom he did not believe) bless him. 

And what can I say but . . .

Yikes!  A Canadian-language-literate friend points out that a term I used for Newfoundlanders, which I'd heard used respectfully and with affection, is one of those words which are acceptable if you are one but otherwise emphatically not. 

So I've excised it from my blog.  All the people I've met here have been good folks and I wouldn't want to insult them for all the world.  My sincerest apologies if I have.

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Hat Trick Wednesday!

.So today I was standing by the French bread oven in Port au Choix when Gail said, "I hear something snorting in the woods."  At which cue, the branches shook and out strolled a moose.




We backed away carefully, because she was only a short and savage charge away.  And then more trees trembled and there her calf.




Followed shortly thereafter by a second calf which we never got a clear snapshot of.  But who could complain an this point?

So, feeling pretty good, we started toward an archaeological site named Philip's Garden.  But partway there, we had to stop for a while to view the whales sporting in the distance.  Here's a shot of the fearless whale viewers:




After which, because today is a travel day, we hopped into the car and made our way down the coast.  At Torrent River, we stopped in the Salmon Interpretation Center, where we viewed the fish ladder through a window.  Here's Marianne:




Then we went down to the river below the falls, where Rob said jokingly, "This would be a good time for a salmon to leap out of the water."  Which one promptly did.  Twice.

That's a threefer.  I hope your day was equally happy and every bit as joyous asours

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Another Thronged Day

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There's too much in Newfoundland for me to see more than a fraction of it, and what I'm seeing is so involving that I haven't the time to tell you more than a fraction of that.  But Tuesday's highlights included:

Taking a reluctant leave of Dot and Madge, the cooks at Viking Village B&B.

Having lunch by the thrombolites of Flower Cove.

The Skin Boot Church.

Visiting maritime archaic Indian and paleoeskimo sites.

Bakeapple berry parfaits and figgy duff at the Anchor Cafe in Port au Choix.

And, most of all, chancing upon the Welcome Home Year games at Castors River.  We just missed the snowmobile races around the pond and since I had no idea those things could buzz across the surface of water, I was sorry to have missed it.  But we caught the cardboard dory race . . .  All boats made on-site from cardboard boxes, Styrofoam, light wood for bracing, and duct tape.  The ref waded out into the pond and the winner was to be the first person who rounded him and made it back to shore.

The referee shouted and the race was on!  Such a farrago of paddling, cheating, sinking, and boats folding in two you never saw in your life.  Everyone had a great time, the spectators included.  And I had a very pleasant conversation with a Newfie expat who now works in Ottawa but had returned to visit family and friends.  Lots of info on life thereabouts and what winters in Newfoundland are like -- aided by anecdotes from a friend in the public works service about digging out the roads with a front end loader.

Pretty much everybody here is somebody you'd like to be able to see once a week, buy a few drinks for, and then get to talking so you could listen.

And the trip has just begun.  I'll try to keep you informed.  But, as I said I can only convey a fraction of it.

Above:  At the tideline of L'Anse aux Meadows, tourists pile up rocks in imitation of Inuit territory markers.  This is one of the better ones.

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L'Anse aux Meadows

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Thorfinn Karlsefni, we are here!

The first thing you need to know about L'Anse aux Meadows is that it's not pronounced in the French manner.  Properly, it's Lance-a-Meadows.  Our guide, in fact, told us that when he was a boy, they pronounced it Lancy Meadows.

The second thing you need to know is that it's exhilarating to be here.  After the mandatory information center and a rather good orientation film, we were taken down to see the site of the first Viking settlement in North America and could see the reburied mounds that the children fifty years ago thought were Indian ruins.  Then we went to a reconstruction of several of the buildings, where an interpreter ably guided us through an understanding of what we were seeing.  Finally, rather than retrace our steps, Marianne and I and our friends Gail and Rob, took a long nature walk along the ocean and through the bog.  If this place weren't so far from the centers of population and so difficult to reach, it would be thronged with people.  As it is, only the determined and thoughtful make it all the way here.  So it's quiet and the folks you encounter are to a person likeable.

I should mention that Clayton Colbourne was the single best guide I've ever encountered.  He was modest, assured, humorous, had a great presentational style, and knew his subject inside-out.  Which is not entirely surprising, because he was living here at age eleven when the Viking remains were first discovered and later had a job excavating the site.  I've listened very carefully to a lot of extremely good guides in my time, and he was the most punctilious in indicating what was known, what "scientists believe," and what is speculated.

Which is all very useful to me because I hope to get a story out of this.

Much later, after various further wanderings and adventures, we all returned to Viking Village, our B&B, for a moose pot roast dinner.  Which cost us extra, of course  -- sixteen dollars per person.

I am convinced that if everybody knew what a good deal a visit here is, market forces would raise the price beyond what I could possibly afford.

Above:  Reconstruction of what they think was Leif Erickson's house. 

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I Have Achieved Newfoundland

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Hey, everybody:

I made it!  Marianne & I got on the plane 8 p.m. Friday, flew to Ontario, changed planes and flew to Halifax, changed planes again, and arrived in Deer Lake at 10 a.m. Saturday morning.  After a day spent exploring Gros Morne, we drove wildly up to the northernmost tip of Newfoundland and arrived at our B&B in L'Anse aux Meadows just in time to go out to dinner.

Then, driving through Quirpon (a glimpse of which you can see above), we saw a moose.  A real, wild moose.  This would not impress a Newfie, who consider moose to be a terrible nuisance.  But it was a pretty big deal for me.

I'm writing this post on Sunday night and just a moment ago, Marianne called me out on the back porch because the clouds had parted and the Milky Way was visible overhead.

Now I have postcards to write.  Please consider this to be my postcard to you.

Well, and hoping you are the same,
Michael