Canada; Newfoundland; Back to Port aux Basques.

Day 19
Miles so far= 1232

Back to Port aux Basques.

I did a couple of laps around the camp-ground roads just to see how I managed, not well would be a fair assessment I think. However the tracks were bumpy and rough so if I could manage them then perhaps the roads would be easier. I packed and loaded up the 'bike and left my little 'dell' only to be faced by a grazing moose, I'm not sure who was most startled or surprised, but she turned and disappeared into the bushes. Riding gingerly along gravel tracks I made my way to the Ranger Station where once more I thanked them for their help. Without that help who knows what sort of mess I would have been in? Then out of the main gate and turn left, past the scene of my accident and the open road beckoned.

The roads in northern Newfoundland are virtually empty. I see another vehicle about once every ten minutes, and a lorry about once every half hour, if that. As a nursery back into the world of motorcycles it is ideal and it wasn't long before I became comfortable with my dead arm, although I wasn't looking forward to crossing the bridges with metal gratings for a road. I guessed that they allow the snow to fall through in the winter but in the summer the metal becomes polished and slippery, you can see the polished sheen glistening in the sunlight from way off. Some have steel sheets as an apron leading onto the gratings, you just grit your teeth and keep as straight and level as you can, I hate them more than gravel. I knew I was about a mile from one of these bridges when I saw two motorcycles coming towards me. As we approached I automatically raised my left hand slightly in brief salute. A small gesture, but a big mistake. The slipstream caught my hand and with no muscle control in my arm, it was left dangling and flapping at my side like a wet fish. Now this was a big, big problem. I needed that hand on the handlebars so I could pull in the clutch lever to change gear. The BMWf650 has almost linear gear ratios. This has many advantages but it also means that you have to be in the correct gear for the speed you are going. In top gear, which I was in, the engine kicks and bucks like fury at under 35mph, causing the 'bike to lurch and sway uncontrollably. So how was I going to stop? Switching off the engine was no good because it would still be connected to the gearbox and result in the same 'bucking bronco' scenario. And I was approaching the slippery bridge fast. Maybe I could do what the early racing 'bikers did before synchro' gearboxes were available on motorbikes, that is juggle the throttle so the engine was matching exactly the speed of the gearbox. Neither driving it nor slowing it down. In that 'sweet spot' where there is no pressure either way on the gear wheels in the gearbox, you can change gear without using the clutch, it works in cars too. I just needed to find that 'sweet spot', and I was approaching the slippery bridge fast. I slowed as much as I dared, about 40mph, and then decided on an alternative solution. I swung my whole torso round violently and as my arm dragged across the petrol tank I grabbed at my map case which was strapped onto it. Then, spider like I used my fingers to walk up the tank and across the handlebars. Negotiating the wing mirrors proved difficult and I lost my grip and was back where I started, and I was approaching the slippery bridge fast. I tried again, and with the bridge now in sight finally got my hand in place, pulled in the clutch and dropped down a couple of gears. Oh how I whooped as I crossed that bridge, elated with my success and not worrying at all about how slippery or not it was. This killed my ghost about this type of bridge; and ferry ramps too I might add; but I vowed that any approaching motorbikes would just have to put up with a quick double flash of the lights, or the continental greeting of sticking your leg out.

I passed by Flowers Cove where I had spent a night in the B&B a week before. I passed St Barbe where I originally planned to catch the ferry to Blanc Sablon in Quebec. Unfortunately the road south comes to a stop about 20miles along that shoreline, otherwise I would have crossed there, if the road was paved, which it probably would not have been even if there was one. At last I arrived at Green Bay where I had camped before in the 'perfect camp-ground'. Unfortunately that spot was taken this time so I camped a little further up. With my wounded arm I had no intention of going through the whole rigmarole of putting up my tent, and since the weather was fine, I just threw the fly-sheet across the picnic table like a giant table cloth, pegged the edges down and decided that I could sleep under the table just fine. After cooking my dinner on my little multi-fuel stove, I didn't fancy trawling the rocky beach for flotsam, I went to check the bike over to see how my repairs were standing up to the rigours of my days riding. Everything looked exactly how it was that morning before I set out, so I felt pleased with my one armed effort. As I stood to return to the table/tent, I noticed a man who, out for an evening constitutional, had noticed my 'bike parked on the little driveway leading to my tent site. I had not wanted to drive it all the way onto my plot as it would be more difficult to manage in a small, tight space on grass.

“It's a BMWf650”, I called out, “not imported into Canada as far as I know.”

“It looks like a fine 'bike,” he called back.

“From your side, yes,” I replied, but from my side it looks like Frankenstein 's monster, come and see.” I invited, always ready for a chat with people sympathetic to 'bikers.

He came over and viewed the damage and the repairs that I had made while I told him the tale of my misadventure. He held out his hand to shake mine, but unusually used his left hand.

“Take it and squeeze it as hard as you can,” he instructed.

I did so thinking that maybe he had suffered a similar injury.

“Can you do this?” he said, touching each fingertip to the tip of his thumb.

“Yes,” I replied showing him, “my arm is dead from shoulder to wrist, my fingers work fine but I need to put them in place with my right hand first.”

“Almost certainly you will get most if not all the movement back, maybe a small stiffness at the full extensions, I'm a chiropractor and so should know. What you are suffering from is temporary compression damage to the nerve fibres when they probably got trapped between your neck vertebrae as you hit the rocks. How you didn’t break your neck is a miracle.”

I grinned and said “You are not the first doctor to tell me that I'm lucky not to have broken my neck, but the others didn't seem to know about the mechanics of it.”

“That doesn't surprise me, after all they would not be specialists at St. Anthony's, but I've seen a similar condition before.' he grinned reassuringly. “Good luck,” he called over his shoulder as he left me wondering how long it would take me to get back to normal following this woodland consultation. What a brilliant coincidence he was passing by. One of many coincidences on my trip, or was it 'synchronicity' at work?

Day 19
Miles so far= 1367

 

I was up at first light, being keen to get started and back to civilisation following last nights good news about my injury. Before long I was again heading south towards the ferry port of Port aux Basques. I passed both Deer Lake and Stephenville without stopping as I wanted to catch the evening ferry. Twenty miles further on and I had to switch over to 'reserve' and wished I had at least stopped for petrol. I knew there were various small ports dotted along the coast to my right, and coming upon a road that went in that direction and was paved, I turned off in the hope of finding a garage. About half a mile on and the tarmac ended so I faced gravel. “Forward or back?” I mused, “Oh well now I'll see how I can manage the gravel.” I thought as I moved off towards Robinsons. There were houses dotted about here and there beyond the hedgerows and I reached a tee junction. Left didn't look promising for some reason, and right had a signpost pointing that way for the school. Maybe that was where the centre of the community was, it was too spread out to be called a village. Yes! A small garage with two pumps. Unusually it was 'serve yourself', everywhere else, even the most remote places, either the owner or a college kid would be there to serve you. I put the bike on the stand and began filling. Like I said it was very hot, but while you are moving you don't notice. While I was stopped the sweat started pouring off me. Along the gravel road I saw a young man on his motorbike wearing shorts and a tee shirt. Riding pillion was a girl in a bikini. I shuddered at the thought of them falling off on the gravel and the painful abrasions they would suffer as a consequence. No helmets or shoes even, must be locals then, and done it a thousand times. My thoughts were interrupted when a blue sports car drew up with a pretty young lady at the wheel. At her side was a ruddy faced man in his mid to late twenties sporting a thick thatch of shoulder length blond hair, who leapt out and began to fill the car with petrol.

“Nice 'bike,” he called over the clattering whir of the pumps. “Would you like a cold beer or juice? We're just in the next house along.”

I said that I would and followed them about 100yds up the road where we sat on the porch drinking, me with my orange juice, him, his younger brother and two cousins clutching their cans of cold beer. The young lady disappeared into the dark interior of the house. We were next to a small warehouse and wharf, alongside which an ore ship lay berthed.

“What do they ship from here?” I asked.

“No one knows,” he replied, “the truck drivers don't talk to you either. Curious thing is that they dump the piles of ore, it's like a dark brownish purple sand, in the warehouses while it is waiting to be loaded on the ships, because it mustn’t get wet. We think the Newfoundland government has sold a whole mountain somewhere, but no ones talking. I'm only back for 'homecoming week', otherwise I'd maybe try and find out.”

Time was getting on so I had to make a move if I was going to catch the evening ferry. I said my farewells and left to search for Highway 1 and the route to the ferry port.

Approaching the ferry port gates I reflected on my time in Newfoundland, on the one hand I did have that bone jarring accident that left my 'bike scarred and me with the full use of only one arm, but on the other hand I had met some smashing people and seen some lovely places. Although I was now on a different route to that which I planned, all told I think I came out the better for my visit here, if my arm was going to go back to normal that is.

It was about 4pm when I stopped at the gates and told the lady at the booth that, no I didn't have a ticket but intended to buy one. She told me that the ticket office was closed and there would be no more sailings today because the port was closed due to industrial action. That floored me. I knew there was a terminal building there and asked if I could go there to get a meal, she pointed out a road running parallel to the dock road told me to follow it to just beyond the trees where I would find the terminal building. I did as she directed and after parking the bike walked into the chaos that awaited there. After getting a coffee and a bun, I walked around the building, on the grass that surrounded it and found a seat to sit on and enjoy them in the late afternoon sun. A lorry drivers mate joined me and gave me the whole picture. Apparently some of the men at North Sydney in Nova Scotia were on strike for better pay. Someone over there then said a bomb had been planted in the dockyard. This meant that the ferry in port there couldn't sail, and the one on it's way over from Newfoundland was not allowed to dock until the 'all clear' was given. Even so, that meant both boats were in Nova Scotia and it would be a while before they could sail. He and his driver had been waiting since that morning for their trailer with its container. He told me that in order to save money the goods vehicles sent only the trailers over, to be met by a tractor unit this side, and a Provincial Statute required all vehicles over a certain length to have both a driver and an assistant. He was pretty sure it was just a ploy to get the employment rate up, and as a retired driver had plenty of contacts to land such jobs. He told me he usually hooked up the trailers at the port while the drivers went for a coffee, meal and pee. He ate while they drove and then slept most of the way back to St. Johns, Newfoundland’s capital city, Newfoundland’s only city. Today was different though and he reckoned that it would be tomorrow morning before we would see a ship. After finishing his coffee and cigarette he strolled off toward the lorry park, and I wandered back to my bike. As I reached the car park I saw one of the smaller Harley Davidson motorcycles emerge from the terminus road, as I had done. The rider had his feet stuck out in the laid back 'Easy Rider' position that those style of 'bikes have, but behind him was a huge mountain of luggage that made my mouth drop open. Up until that moment I had never seen such a load carried on a motorbike in the flesh. It has a completely different effect on you than that of seeing it in a picture. I don't often use this word, but it was awesome.

Day 20
Miles so far= 1661

Next; Murray and Angel.

Sorry no pictures, my laptop is playing up

 

 

Viking Trail; Newfoundland; Prelude to disaster

Episode 16
Miles so far = 1122

After a good nights sleep, I awoke and threw back the curtains to reveal a bright, new, clean and fresh day, as well as the sight of my motorbike on its side in the driveway. That must have been the crash I half heard as I was dropping off to sleep last night. Well it was now in a state of stable equilibrium and any damage was already done, so shower, dressed and breakfast; then I would sort it all out.

 

After I had gone to bed last night another family had arrived. They were expected, but delayed due to a fault with the ferry from Labrador. They had come from Goose Bay, where they lived, to visit with family in St. John’s. I told them I was planning to go to Goose Bay using the same route they had to get here. They advised me to take the ferry from St. Paul's all the way because the road was being graded. What this means is lorry loads of gravel are dumped on the road and it is levelled out and lightly compacted. The obvious reason they do this is to fill the pot holes and ruts, but it is not the main reason. Most of Labrador is tundra, fen and bogs. The only way they can keep the roads viable is if the land under them is frozen solid, the gravel acts like a thermal blanket and keeps the subsurface frozen. For me, they said, 400 miles of loose gravel was going to be one heck of a challenge. Add in the moose and bears and it could turn out to be an exciting trip. I swallowed hard, laughed and went to see what damage had happened to the ‘bike. Thinking to myself, 'Yeah, and that's only the first leg!'

 

The planned route through Labrador, three legs riding and two ferries.

 

When I had parked the bike I had put it quite close to the edge of the gravel driveway, during the night the rain had undermined the gravel and one of the motorcycle stand legs had sunk in to it enough so that a chance gust of wind had done the rest.

 

Once more on the road I was looking forward to seeing with my own eyes the remains of the Viking Settlement at Le Anse aux Meadows. A myth from the old Norse Legends, no one had really believed that the Norsemen had reached America 500 years before Christopher Columbus, until this settlement had been unearthed and hundreds of iron nails, tar, pitch and the remains of a ship repairing harbour complex had been found here. The road crossed  from the west coast to the east across bleak moorland before coming to forests with the odd meadow and field. There were several moose hinds with their calves at various points along the way, but the only bull moose I saw was about a hundred yards away, and there was a deep ravine running alongside the road between he and I. I expect that these ravines; too big, deep and rocky to be called ditches or culverts; were to take away the melt water from the snow drifts that were ploughed away from the road itself in the winter.

 

There was a Provincial Park and Campsite at Pistolet Bay and I soon saw a sign on the roadside that pointed the way up a long gravel track to a neat wooden hut that was the Ranger Station. The Ranger and I exchanged a few happy words and he picked out a camping site for me. I went of to find it along a track that had also recently been graded and found it hard going as the front wheel kept sinking in and then skidding out of the loose gravel.

 By early afternoon I was all set up and so decided that I would go and see the Viking site this afternoon. The driveway out of my camp area was shrouded by low bushes, and riding out onto the main track I surprised a young female moose who was browsing along the roads edge. I'm not sure who was more surprised! Anyway she turned and ambled quickly off in that loosed limbed way they have.

 

The Viking site at L'Anse aux Meadows, ('The Goat Field' in English.) is spread over several acres of rocky moorland that is adjacent to the sea. The visitor centre and museum is approached by a long road that gives you plenty of time to think about this inhospitable location.

 

The Visitor Centre is set low so as not to intrude on the landscape.

 

The inside of the building is lined with the warm hues of pine cladding with exhibits of the many finds from this site, and a fine reconstruction of one of the boats found here. Apparently this was a 'repair yard' for boats that had made the gruelling journey from Norway to Vinland, as the Vikings called America.

 

The modern visitor centre and Museum

 

Outside is a footpath trail to follow that passes many of the salient sites of archaeological interest.

These shallow depressions are all that are left of houses, workshops and forges

 Pride of place is the reconstruction of the turf longhouse that was here.



Inside the longhouse museum staff explain how the Norsemen lived and worked.

 

 

It was all very fascinating and I heard one American Visitor exclaim, 'I'm a teacher and for the last forty years I've been teaching my pupils the wrong thing!' Rather disingenuously I thought to myself 'You should read a little less conservatively sister, I knew about Eric the Red and Vineland when I was a teenager.'

 

 

All together an excellent afternoon, now I looked forward to cooking dinner over an open fire in the nearly deserted campsite at Pistolet Bay. The rains from last night looked as though they may have been a little heavier at this northern tip of Newfoundland, as stones and gravel had been washed to the edge of the road. Coming around the last bend to the campsite, and concentrating on not missing the entrance, I wandered too close to the verge, highsided once, corrected; and was just congratulating myself when I highsided a second time and flew over the handlebars. I remember seeing the boulders in the roadside ravine coming towards me, there was a violent bang as my helmet hit and then blackness...........

 

I'm not the only one to 'highside', this racing motorcyclist did the same as me, but for a different reason.

 

photos courtesy of misc. Internet sites, explanation to follow in later blog.

 



Miles at end of day = 1232
Tomorrow : 'You will never ride a motorcycle again.'

Viking Trail; Newfoundland, Canada: Drizzle and homemade bread.

Episode 15
Miles so far 910

 

 

It's always disappointing to go to bed with a clear night sky above you and wake up to leaden skies and the threat of rain, but I did. By the time I got everything packed away the morning was nearly gone. However, I was in no hurry and was still getting used to where to stow everything to make it as compact as possible.

Riding north, the landscape gradually flattened out until the terrain was almost flat moorland on one side and rocky shoreline on the other. There were the dark watered lakes of Rocky Pond, Sandy Pond, Two Mile Pond and countless other smaller lakes and ponds. The small wooden houses of St.Paul's came and went, as did a particularly nasty bridge, all steel decking across it and very slippery in the light drizzle that started to fall. That horrible fine rain that covers your visor in a million droplets that just sit there, making it impossible to see. With the drizzle came a marked drop in temperature as well.

The Arches Provincial Park was a bit too close from where I stayed last night to warrant a serious look for a campsite so I carried on.

Daniels Harbour, Table Point, River of Ponds, Hawke's Bay and the port of St.Barbe were ticked off my map pocket mounted on the petrol tank in front of me. It was at St.Barbe that I hoped to catch the ferry to mainland Labrador in a few days time.

Deadmans Cove, Salmon Rock, Flowers Cove, Nameless Cove (good one that,) all passed by me and now I was searching for a cafe, hotel, B&B, anything for food and warmth. A cold mist descended and it was about 6.30, and only one B&B sign, and that was at Flowers cove some miles back. After another hour of nothing but wilderness and tiny fishing hamlets, I turned and headed back to Flowers Cove where I had seen the B&B sign. I followed several home made signposts into Flowers Cove and pulled up outside a nice looking modern wood and brick bungalow. After the usual mutual enquiries I had a warm bed for the night with an en-suite bathroom. It was now about 9 pm and any thoughts of dinner had long since evaporated. The landlady and I had a very pleasant chat over a cup of coffee and she asked if I had eaten. I replied that I had not, but it wasn't a problem.

"You're in luck," she said, "today I baked some bread, and there's some local butter and home made wild strawberry jam to go with it."

I beamed and woofed it all down. After a long hot shower, I snuggled up in bed listening to the sound of the rain beating against the window pane. I vaguely recall a sort of crashing sound at some point but was too cosy to worry what it was.



The B&B at Flowers Cove. (photo.$tromtrooper)

Miles at end of day = 1122
Tomorrow : Prelude to disaster