Tales from St Anthony Part VI -- Rock eating dogs and lumberjack babies

Today I saw a dog chained to a chest freezer eating rocks.

Yep, that's how tough this place is.

When I say rocks I mean a rock, a big one, but a rock nonetheless.

My bid for a random daily walking pattern (yes I note the irony) has led me to discover some pretty interesting paths, today's was down along the harbour past 'Rock Dog'.

He was lazily gnawing on the rock as I strolled past, unconcerned by my presence I stopped to watch him chow down on some sedimentary supper and it got me to thinking.

St Anthony is an odd place of juxtapositions, of extremes.

It is not uncommon to see a big barrel-chested-truck-driving-Moose-antler-hoarding-hunter pull up to the convenience store, leap from his Chev, land with a thud in steel-capped boots, enter the store and return minutes later not with a sixer of Bud nestled under an arm but instead slurping on a soft serve ice cream.

It's true ... I've seen it.

Which brings me onto another question -- what is the collective noun for a group of men with moustaches?

If I were in Vancouver's Main Street area I would go with 'wisp' however in these parts I am inclined to go with a 'thicket' or 'bushell'.

It seems everyone here has a moustache and for better reasons then just irony.

My theory that only firemen and Tom Selleck are allowed the privilege of sporting a moustache has been updated to now include Newfoundland men.

They have some of the biggest and bushiest bottom lip marquees ever seen and it makes perfect sense, it gets cold in these parts and as such facial hair comes in handy but a beard can be cumbersome.

Things certainly are a lot tougher around these parts hence the title of this piece.

Last week I wandered past a house in which a grandmother, she would have been well into her 80s, was splitting logs in preparation for, I am assuming, next winter.


I am not sure where the logs came from but as I have yet to see any babies or kids younger than about five, I can only assume they are the ones out in the forests cutting down trees and providing their families with much needed warmth.


I told you they were tough in these parts. Lumberjack babies -- who would have thought?

Tales from St Anthony Part I -- Finding the viking within

Dear People of the Interwebz,

We have found a tiny sliver of Nirvana in our new home of St Anthony and if that wasn't good enough I may have landed on my feet already with word that I may get the chance to work as a viking in the summer tourist season, but more on that later.

Tomorrow's yarn will be about the place but firstly let me fill the gaps, the plot holes if you will and give the briefest of rundowns of the 7000km journey across Canada.

Two planes, one car, two days of solid travel.  

Maybe that's too brief ... okay how about this then?

A teary farewell at the airport with Em's parents was immediately squashed by a delayed flight but it worked out well for us because we too were delayed by a rather precarious situation thrown up by airport security.

Unconcerned by releasing an already cranky beast from its cage, the officer requested we remove Sir Richard from his travel kennel so they could check for explosives.

My response of: "You're kidding? Let him out here in this crowded airport - are you mad?" was met with a shrug of the shoulders and a curt "it's the law".

Coat in one hand and a firm grip around the scruff of his neck quelled his desire and chance of escape, the officer's swab revealed nought in the way of explosives which of course was not at all unsurprising, Sir Richard's bomb making ability curtailed by a lack of opposable thumbs and a brain the size of a pea that flits between just three things -- food, sleep, poo -- not necessarily in that order.

That's not to say Sir Richard's plans for world domination are any less fervid, they just don't include terrorism. 

After the baggage handler threw out his back picking up the cage (he weighed in a grand total of 11.5kg), we headed for security which was an absolute breeze, the flight itself highlighted by turbulence and a viewing of Ninja Assassin, an altogether tofu-like experience -- bland yet surprisingly filling.

A game of Scrabble later and we dropped into Toronto like a brick and thanks to our earlier delay walked straight onto our connecting flight to Deer Lake which gave rise to an interesting scenario: screaming baby versus burly Newfoundland men.

The baby won by virtue it was still on the flight by the time we got to Deer Lake at 2am.

Note to oneself -- the wicker cowboy hat I bought for road tripping purposes apparently has a different meaning in Newfoundland. 

While I enjoy the protection it affords me from the elements, over in these parts I have been told by locals at least that it is a sign of someone who has just returned from the oilfields. 

Being that I unloaded the luggage carousel with four bursting bags, one a cute little pink plaid number and a cat, I am unsure of where the other men thought I was from.

Nevertheless we packed the lot into the awaiting van and headed 45 minutes into Corner Brook checking in at about 3am. 

At 5am our friend Mark turned up and by 11am we hit the road, a taxi driver told us the trip would take about 4.5 hours, Google Maps said closer to 12 hours, we got there in a touch over 7 hours but we did stop a couple of times on the way.

Stay tuned for the next edition when I recount our first couple of days and my chance to live a dream and become a Viking.

Hey, weight a minute -- Departure T-Minus 15 days

Done and dusted.

The emergency box of belongings has been posted, the secondary box of non-emergency "jeez this would be nice to have when we get to Newfoundland" items has also been posted and a dozen bottles of our finest wines are winging their way to St Anthony Post Office -- 71.32kg in all for the princely sum of $187.89.

Now we must wait and see if they:

A) Arrive
B) Arrive undamaged
C) Arrive with everything still in them

I am not saying I don't trust Canada Post, they have done nothing untoward in the past except for bollockings my New Scientist subscription, but I just wonder how the magical postal system will react to packages that contain our lives. I don't mind putting my belongings in the hands of burly Silver back men in a delivery van but the postal system baffles me.

While Canada Post refuse to confirm the rumour, I heard their postal system past Saskatchewan is based on a series of well trained moose, a raccoon called Impatience and a multi-tongued man named Gary Reynolds, a God-like postmaster who dresses in pink pantaloons held up by fireman's red braces, refers to himself as the Mail Messiah and who it is said can lick a thousand stamps inside an hour.

Of course it is all rumours.

Learning how to time travel and the conspiracy of the Googlebox -- Departure T-Minus 16 Days

The enormity of what we are embarking on finally dawned as we sent bag after bag of clothes and belongings to the local thrift store but as in all great love stories the pieces of the Newfoundland puzzle are clicking into place with ease.

Like everything in the world though, nothing is what it seems, especially if you base your life on Google Maps and here is why.

Firstly we have secured an apartment and here is a lovely little map showing you just how far Em will have to travel to get from our two bedroom slice of heaven to the office. I wanted to work out just how far away it was from Em's office so I mapped it out.

According to Google Maps the 1.1km journey will take 12 minutes to walk or two minutes to drive but I wondered as I do, "what is Google basing this on?" and what I discovered could rock the interwebz to its very foundation.

Science, take it away.

Wikipedia, that great tome of questionable knowledge, states that the average human walks at 3 miles per hour according to Naismith's Rule, which is:

"a rule of thumb that helps in the planning of a walking or hiking expedition by calculating how long it will take to walk the route, including ascents, devised in 1892 following the rule: "Allow 1 hour for every 3 miles (5 km) forward, plus ½ hour for every 1000 feet (300 metres) of ascent."

The article also goes on to state that:

"Specific studies have found pedestrian walking speeds ranging from 2.8 mph to 2.95 mph for older individuals to 3.3 mph to 3.38 mph for younger individuals"

That "study" is from a 1997 TranSafety study specifically looking at older people's walking speeds in relation to traffic signals and for how long the little green walking man and the blipping red non-walking man should be shown for to allow those 65 and older to cross a road without being skittled.

Without stating an age range for the "younger individuals" the study also states that males walk 0.32 feet per second faster than women.

Extrapolating the results from Google Maps, a person will need to walk at 3.42 miles per hour to accomplish the distance of 1.1km in in the stipulated time of 12 minutes leaving two possible conclusions:

A) Google is being optimistic and encouraging in their appraisal of our modern day walking habits or;

B) Google is wrong in assuming the fitness of the young males from the aforementioned 1997 study are the same as the fitness levels of young males circa 2010. Don't forget that in 1997 there was no World of Warcraft, physical activities didn't involve a Wii console and worldwide obesity levels were manageable without the need for stretchy pants.

Anyway the real reason for me jumping into the details of this 1.1km journey is that Google Maps suggests it takes 17 hours to drive from St John's to St Anthony, which I find to be all together a load of bollocks.

According to Newfoundland and Labrador Statistics Agency the 1056km journey will take 12 hours if you stick to the speed limits. If you choose to travel at 100km/h the entire way, an implausible and illegal activity, you can make the trip in 10-and-a-half hours.

Where are those other 5 hours Google? Hey? Hey?

Oh and the other good news is that we almost own a car -- a 1999 Mazda Protege, but more on that later.

For now I am awaiting a response from the Googlebox on my time travel conundrum.

Tylenol 1, Tylenol 2, Tylenol 3, ready or not here I ....... zzzzzzzzz -- Departure T-Minus 26 days

"Can you call Air Canada and make sure the cat is checked in," Em said to me last night, at 10.15pm, on a Friday. March 12. Our flight isn't until April 7.

"Sure but how about I wait until the morning," I replied.

"But what if there's not enough room? Don't forget you have to measure him. How long do you think our cat is? I'd say a couple of metres at least."

At this juncture I must point out that Em had four wisdom teeth ruthlessly ripped from her jaw today by a man that all together seemed too nice to be a dentist. Accent unknown, he was delightful in his appraisal of his success and the means to which I must hold Em on our departure from the clinic.

"She may think she can walk," he said, "but she can't. Hold her tight, don't let her go."

Never in any fear of that, we headed home and through traits learned osmotically via my nurse mother, I proceeded to institute a hard-nosed drug regime which has led us up to this point whereby we now have a two metre long cat, which in all honesty isn't far from the truth.

Act I
Fur ball Logic
(Full-time score: Sir Richard 1 Juris 0)

Only the day before I bought a hard case travel hutch and thanks to the genius of our friend Ian, I finally worked out how to weigh the ever-flighty Sir Richard (he's 8kg but don't mention it to him, he's kind of sensitive but on the sumo side, you know, that he's not big enough).

After having tried to sit him on the Ikea-scales and after unsuccessfully trying to jam him into a cat carrier cage, which I had already devised the tare weight of, I gave up and weighted for Em.

Thankfully Ian suggested I simply weigh myself then pick up the cat and weigh him in my arms. Presto, 8 kilos.

Act II
CSI Newfoundland
(Stats Amazing)

If you read my last post you will no doubt be aware that I love facts and the only thing I love more than facts is my wife ... and stats ... in that order (hey, it's sappy but true).

Mark Twain allegedly said at some point that "facts are stubborn, but statistics are more pliable" but I would love to trace down just what Ambrose Bierce, author of The Devil's Dictionary, would have said.

I imagine a statisticians job description as written by Bierce would read:

Statistician: a folly for those too wise to become bankers and not foolish enough to become gamblers.

The reason I bring this up is I came across Statistics Canada Census results for Newfoundland which dispelled many myths I had about our new home.

If you can bear with me for a few moments I will don my Sherlock Holmes hat and using some deductive reasoning give you a profile of Newfoundland based on what I found.

Okay deep breath ... and .... go:

Newfoundland's (NL) population dropped 7% since 1996 from 551,792 to 512,930 and of that population the most common age range is the 25-44 year old with 151,770 of which the clear majority is female with 78,795 women.

The third highest age range behind those 45-54 (82,975) is kids aged between 5-14 (63,950).

Now:

Of the population who are over 15, that is 424,165, the bulk of them are married (235,015) while there are more widows (28,700) than divorcees (20,305).

Of the widows however, 23,320 of those are women compared to 5475 who are men.

Also:

Only 2015 people immigrated to Newfoundland between 1991 and 2001 while 499,090 of the 508,075 people are Canad........hang on....discrepancy and a big one.

If the total population stated earlier was 512,930 yet they use the figure 508,075 to describe the "immigration characteristics", what in the blue blazers happened to the other 4855 people?

Anyway back to the profile:

There are more Protestants (303,195) than Catholics (187,445), more Buddhists (180) than Jews (140), more Muslims (625) than Hindu (130).

The school kids are getting smarter by the generation although university educated students are outstripped by those with trades. Women are on average paid less ($18,341) than men ($29,267) however that gap narrows when you compare the two when working full time over an entire year.

Women on average rake in $29,935 compared to men who earn $44,607 yet the median family income for couples is $45,253.

More people work at "no fixed address" (15,865) than those who work from home (11,570) and there is more people in "other services" when it comes to describing their industry than any other category (51,055). The next closest is health and education (45,320).

There are more owned dwellings (147,750) than rented (41,170) and there are more dwelling built before 1991 (162,200) than after (26,840) and the average cost of a dwelling is $76,283.

So there you have it and what have you learnt from today's lesson? Well it's simple.

People are moving away from an island that has a cracking education system filled with happily married families who can afford cheap houses and who have low cost of living. While the wages are low the chance of owning your own house is extremely high.

I am tad concerned about all the female widows though -- at a ratio almost five to one, I hope that their husbands had high risk jobs like whale wrestling, moose wrangling or polar bear shaving.

I'm also trying to comprehend where the 4855 people went unless of course they are not from this earth (you say aliens I say potentially friendly overlords).

Maybe Mark Twain was right.

*puts fingers in ears * la la la la la la la -- Departure T-minus 28 days

So it has come to this, I simply put my fingers in my ears and ignore the ruminations of the universe because, let's be honest here and this is just between you and me, life needs a big kick in the balls and told to f-off every now and again.

What is this you say? Has he lost his mind? No my mind is still in tact however I am choosing to ignore Newfoundland for the day.

Well that was the plan at least but it took a micro-second from when I woke up to start thinking about the things we need to get done but like a true champion I am choosing to ignore that today and instead I went snowboarding knowing full well that a day on the slopes would clear my head, which of course it did.

In between listening to Great Big Sea (apparently they are a Newfoundland icon) and chewing the ear off anyone unlucky enough to catch the perilously slow chair lift at Grouse Mountain about my amazing wife, her amazing new job and our amazing journey across Canada to St Anthony, I had time to collect my thoughts, like Edgar Allan Poe once wrote, they were my ruminations.

My conclusions? First is that I need to relax just a tad ... after all where we are going there is no need to feel stress or be worrisome, quite the opposite really. Where we are going, according to the Great Big Sea, Newfoundland is a place where watches are seemingly abandoned on arrival, where deadlines (and I am borrowing from the late Douglas Adams here) make a whooshing sound as they fly by, and where the most stressful thing about your day is working out which gumboots you are going to wear.

Now that's my kind of place.

See, I feel better already.

The mechanics and mathematics of buying a car, traveling with a heavy cat and shipping our life across Canada -- T-minus 29 days

"Are you okay," my wife asked last night.

"Mmm, mmm, yes" I replied in the midst of my first 'official' freak out complete with heart palpitations, bending intestines and cold sweats.

I'm not sure what set me off but for a few moments last night the thought of moving to Newfoundland made me queasy but my wife's calming hand on my arm and reassurances that "everything is going to be alright", set me at ease.

I think we are going to take turns in having mini-meltdowns when we discuss the logistics of this adventure, we worked out last night the equation that:

more money = more sanity however our serious lack of funds means that this adventure will be more of a challenge, just like The Amazing Race, except without all the whiney American divorcees who think racing around the world, when they have never left their State let alone the country, will somehow bring them back together.

Nope this is a challenge and my wife and I are good at challenges and the more I can break challenges down into science and mathematical equations the easier it will be so this post will be in three acts.

Act I
The purchasing of the car
(Sight Unseen)

I've owned a lot of cars and they have all ended their life the same way, at the scrapyard.

My first car was a Datsun 180b with two working cylinders my final car was a Hyundai Excel, dubbed The Little Green Teabag of Doom for the way it not so much turned corners as it slid and dipped around them thanks to seized ball joints.

Buying a car sight unseen then would appear to be a dangerous exercise however I think the problem of transport in St Anthony has been solved.

Enter the 1994 Chevy Cavalier.

Our biggest concern on arriving in Corner Brook was that we need a car to get the 10-hours to St Anthony (see map on first post for scale). That being said on our current budget of $0.00 it is going to be hard.

That was until we came across this gem for $800 (or best offer). The ball joints are shot but for $150 they can be repaired so we shot off an email to that effect. Before hand though I scoured the mighty interwebz to find out all I could about the 1994 Cavalier and here is what I discovered.

One reviewer stated:

Likes: no-nonsense low-cost car
Dislikes: lack of refinement, sluggish performance with auto transmission and four-cylinder engine.

I say: I am not overly concerned if it's sluggish. We are not rally car drivers and with all those suicide moose, we'd be mad to want to drive fast.

Another reviewer said:

Good:
"Good fuel economy" (Me: That's a good sign)
"I loved the car" (Editorialised comment ignored)
"Comfortable" (Meh, if I wanted comfort I'd buy a new car)
"No leaks (in convertible)" (Surely this doesn't mean ours will leak because it's not a convertible?)
"Extremely dependable even after 178,000 miles" (That sounds positive)
"Nice riding car"

Bad:
"It’s a little noisy" (Boo)
"Clutch a bit notchy" (What do you expect with automatic?)
"ABS brakes produce too much judder" (Judder. They said judder. Wicked)
"Brakes could be better"

My mind started racing at the thought of fuel economy so I did the math.

The 1994 Cavalier has a 15 gallon fuel tank, 120hP, 2.2 litre, 3-speed automatic apparently get s 23 miles to the gallon in "city" driving and 33 miles to the gallon in "highway" driving

So on a tank of petrol we can expect to travel 345km (city) or 495km (highway)

Now the prices of refueling at current rates in St Anthony are about 116.2 c/litre and being that there is 3.78 litres to the US Gallon that puts our empty fuel tank at 56.7 litres however that would be more like 55 litres because you are not going to have an empty tank which means that at current prices, to fill the tank will cost us: $63.91 which for almost 500km of driving isn't bad although a quick check of Google Maps shows that it is 468km between Corner Brook and St Anthony so that trip may be a stretch however for an alleged 11 hours of driving that isn't bad.

Act II
The Kitty Conundrum
(A case of cat nip and tuck, meow)

The reason we saved Sir Richard from the SPCA was because my wife and I wanted a big cat, the bigger the better so when we saw our 10kg behemoth it was love at first sight.

Now considering how much it will cost to take him with us I wonder if that was such a smart choice.

The problem is the dimensions for a soft carrier that would allow us to bring him on as hand luggage also won't allow us to fit him inside.

At 27cm high, 40cm wide and 55cm long, you would think you could fit a small puma inside but alas that is not the case, plus his weight and the weight of the carrier break every single Air Canada regulation hence we have to go for a hard shell and put him under the fuselage.

Not the most ideal scenario but he'll be drugged to the eyeballs so he won't miss any of the scenery and the fact he snore louder than me, sleeps 22 hours of the day and only wakes to eat or wake us up so we can watch him eat, well, I think he will be fine.

There is a small part of me however that feels bad for giving him the crappy seat on the trip. It's like that person who has to sit in the middle of the back seat straddling the glovebox and being drooled on by their brother and sister on either side.

Act III
The Boy in the Bubble Wrap
(Package me up Scotty)

The other issue was just how to get our belongings across with us. We consulted a packaging and freight company who were going to charge us about $500 to send two boxes that were 25 inches X 25 inches and 30 inches high of no more than 98kg in weight.

That sounded alright until we worked out that boxes slightly smaller than that weighing 30kg will cost us $65 via Canada Post so that's what we are going to do.

Suicidal moose and other nightmares - Departure T-minus 31 days

"Sweetie I'm scared of the moose, they are suicidal."

3am and exactly a month to go before we land in Newfoundland and the very real prospect of coming face to nose with a moose sporting suicidal tendencies has just been broached in an early morning panicked conversation.

The previous night my wife woke with nightmares about driving on the icy roads surrounding St Anthony on Newfoundland's northern peninsular.

"Sweetie, I've never driven on icy roads, what happens if I have an accident, I don't want to have an accident?"

I concurred.

"It's okay, driving in those conditions is the best way to learn," was my sleepy response. Last night I went with "moose are only suicidal if you hit them and if we try not to drive at night and avoid going too fast we will be fine."

It's funny how your dreams are shaped by what you do just before you go to bed. Last night it was a quick scan of wikitravel which said:

"Moose of any size are often aggressive on the roads and frequently attack the headlights of passing cars. Drivers who survive collisions have been killed by the legs of an injured moose wedged in the windshield opening of the wreckage. Animals who have moved out of a vehicle's path may suddenly reappear on the road and exhibit suicidal behaviour."

The real lesson here is you should always try and avoid reading about moose attacking headlights of your car just before bed.

In a month my wife and I will be sitting in an airport in Cornerbrook, Newfoundland at about 2am. That's almost 7000km away from where I type this, Vancouver, British Columbia and the journey will have just begun because we will still be a 10-hour drive away from our final destination, the tiny community of St Anthony.

The plan is to hang out in the airport until day break (travel Scrabble and chess is on the cards) finding a cheap car to buy then setting off up the west coast to our new home, which we will see for the very first time when we arrive.

You would think going to a completely foreign town with no home, no friends with four suitcases and a big black cat named Sir Richard Von Pinkenbar III is scary but it's not as nightmarish as the thought of suicide moose.

In fact, we can't wait.