Ah...another good (and dry) night's sleep. Up early and out of camp en route to Western Brook Pond for our boat tour. A quick stop outside the town of St. Paul at a gas station for coffee...and off we go.
From the Western Brook Pond parking lot, it's a 3.5 kilometer hike over level ground through low brush and bogs (with boardwalks) to the boat launch. Off we go, hiking through the bogs...and down to the boat launch.
We're early, but there's some coffee to be had and a little cigar before we board. There are probably forty people on our boat as we head out into the "fjord"....a few folks from the U.S...and a nice couple from Quebec next to me...they've driven the Labrador Highway, so they have some helpful info as we're heading out.
It's a spectacular cruise,,,a deep body of water surrounded by high mountain peaks. This was originally an outlet to the sea carved by ancient glaciers, but now it's closed off from the sea...not a true "fjord" anymore, but magnificent nonetheless. The tour takes u into the "fjord" for an hour up one side, then back out next to the other side. All along the way, I'm getting some really great photos.
Back at the dock, we're off the ship and on the trail back to the parking lot.
Now we're back on the road and heading to the town of St. Barbe, where we'll catch the ferry to Labrador. We arrive around 4:00, and camp at the only RV park around...much gravel...no scenery. But, we head across the street for a few cold ones at the local "hotel".
Back at the "RV Park", we hook up with Jimmy, Timmy, and their fog, Tobey. They invite us over for beers and we share a dinner of cheese, salami, and white wine.
In a great stroke of luck, it turns out that Jimmy and Timmy are fellow "arthritis sufferers", and they happily share some of their local "medicine"...it's a great night of beers, medicine and great stories...we're up till almost midnight.
But...it's time for bed...ferry leaves at 10:00, and we've got to be in line at 9:00.
Good night.
Ed's Sidebar, Day 43:
Now for something completely different. We are adrift in an iceberg field, in July. Our ferry boat, Apollo, has had a "slight mechanical problem" in the Strait of Belle Isle. I can hear the crew laughing in the pilot house and no one is passing out life jackets. But dead in the water, we are. Finally the ship coughs up one huge hairball of a black cloud from its smoke stack. A few preliminary shudders of the railings later, and we are underway slowly. We limp among icebergs in the company of two whales. Welcome to Labrador, Pilgrim.
It is seven hundred miles of gravel road to Labrador City. Now and then a car passes in the opposite direction. I hold my breath instinctively as we drive through the dense dust cloud it raises. I wonder if cats in the city have been doing that for a hundred years already.
The Labrador Highway kicked our ass today. It is a five round fight, though, to Baie-Comeau, QB.
The black flies are back. We suspect they are mercenaries of the Winds of Blomidon. We captured several and waterboarded them under interrogation, but learned nothing. They are tough little buggers. A camp rumor says these flies get forty acres and a mule for service with the Winds of Blomidon.
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