Tales from St Anthony Part X -- Are you Trippin'?

We finally have a car.

After more than a month of wrangling our modus transportus has been upgraded from Shank's Pony to a 1999 Mazda Protege, which can mean only one thing -- ROAD TRIP.

I see you, caribou.

A gaggle/swarm/hive of caribou

For most people registering a car is a fairly simple task and involves the following steps:

1) Roadworthy; 2) Purchase; 3) Insure; and 4) Register.

With the first three under our belts and our hip pocket decidedly lighter for it, we headed for a motor registry office able to fulfill the transfer and registration.

Six hours and close to 450km later we arrived at the cavernous lair doubling as the motor registry. 

Having averted car sickness up until that point as soon as we entered I felt I had been swallowed by a wormhole that spat me out into the hull of a Vietnamese fishing junk used to traffic humans.

I was not however a people smuggler but more a smuglee.

The looks on my fellow sallow-faced inmates at the fore confirmed we were all on the same boat, their joyless eyes conveyed that feeling of being sixth in line to twirl the revolver's cylinder in a game of Russian roulette when all five people are crowding around you all very much alive and all very much wearing grins.

Without the need for guns we escaped triumphantly with registration papers held aloft and to prove we were still strong of spirit and mind we decided to test our resolve and headed for that other pit of human depravity – Walmart.

People in stressful situations talk about the ‘breaking point’ as if it is something you can see coming however I would argue the opposite, that you never see it coming, it just turns up and you are left stunned sifting through the emotional shards scattered on the well-lit and overcrowded aisle sandwiched between the dairy section and its 500 gram blocks of mild cheese on special for $4.59 and despair.

To put the adventure into context, St Anthony has admirable shopping options but there are just some things you can’t get here, items such as couscous or cloves draw looks of confusion, so when you reach a major centre like Corner Brook you have to make sacrifices and head to places like Walmart.

Our bid to extract ourselves from harm’s way worked against us and in no time we were being bashed from all angles by crazed shopping-trolley wielding housewives and teenagers who follow the “more is better” approach to make-up and their clearly uninterested boyfriends.

We had stumbled into the one place you do not want to get caught in Walmart – the clearance aisle.

Much like getting in between a bear cub on its mother, the clearance aisle brings with it a sense of rabidity, so with the coast clear we rushed to the neighboring pet aisle, which apparently is also where two Australians can get in the world’s way.

We escaped Walmart and discovered with glee that our B&B was just around the corner – so after meeting the owner, an interesting story in itself, we plonked our belongings in the room, had a quick shower and headed for a bar that had beer on tap – another thing that St Anthony lacks.

You forget just how nice a beer from a chilled tap tastes.

All dolled up we headed for a lovely tapas bar with live music and a wine list and the rest is history.

Our first road trip was a huge success – 1000km in 12 hours of driving. A registered car, Em now has a Newfoundland licence for the next six years (the minimum amount of time you can get a licence here apparently), we had beer on tap, bought cloves, met some lovely people and avoided all the moose the Northern Peninsular could throw at us.

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 III -- Just ask the janitor

A house near the most northerly tip of Newfoundland near L'Anse Aux Meadows, where Vikings first landed in North America.

"Do you eat meat," my landlord Ken asks me as we stand next to a chest freezer in the basement of what will one day be his dream home.

At the moment it is a gutted two storey house, age unknown, located at the front of a large chunk of land near the fish processing plant.

A seemingly abandoned fishing punt, replete with a large hole in its stern, dominates the backyard that is also home to a rake, a bit of fishing net and several large chunks of snow, remnants of one of the warmest winters on record.

From the outside it looks like it should be scuttled, but Ken is a carpenter, electrician and handy man. A scan of the work done so far you can tell he's a good one too.

He's also a good bloke.

"Do I like meat," I parrot, "of course."

Ken swings open the lid of the freezer, which will one day be replaced by a queen sized bed in what is to become the master bedroom.

"Ever eaten moose," he asks and seemingly already knowing the answer he rummages around in he bowels of the freezer producing a pack of Italian herb moose sausages and two moose steaks plonking them into my hands before reaching down again to retrieve another another plastic bag.

"Moose heart," he says revealing the contents of the bag, "we stuff it then bake it, it's quite nice really."

Having eaten heart during my time as a butcher, I strongly doubt it.

"You can tell the weight of a moose by the weight of its heart," he tells me balancing it in his left hand like he's a human Salter scale.

"This heart here is about five pound so the moose was about 500 pound," he puts the heart back in the freezer before pulling out another bag, this time I know exactly what is coming.

"Do you eat fish," he asks, "here take this it's cod, dad and I have got heaps, more than we can eat."

What he asks me to take is about 10lbs of frozen cod fillets, far too much for Em and I to eat in a year so we come to a gentleman's agreement and head back to the truck and jump in.

Every time I meet a local talk soon turns to the future of the town.

"If you want to know what’s wrong with this town, just ask the janitor,” Ken says as we round the bend near the processing plant.

"The problem is when things go wrong in a town like this they ask the wrong people what needs to be done," he continues.

"All you need to do is talk to the janitor or the labourer on the job site digging holes, doing the hard work. They’ll tell you what’s wrong with the place and how to fix it."

He's right. If you want to know what ails the population and how to fix it, just ask the people on the bottom rung of societies ladder.

No point asking the ones with the money, they'll just tell you how to make them more money, although I don't get that same feeling in a town like this.

In sporting parlance, St Anthony has a serious case of the yips, a form slump if you will.

The town is facing a troika of trouble -- the fishing industry (cod, crab and lobsters) has gone belly up, the seal season is similarly slow and the government is in the midst of relocating the air ambulance, the biggest issue of the day here.

Just a few years back they tried to relocate the trade school but that failed and while the future of the hospital seems certain considering they have invested a whack of money into it, the air ambulance is seen as a life line that is being yanked from the slippery grip of the people by the government.

"I’ll give you this," I say, "you Newfoundlanders are a hardy bunch, you’ll pull through."

He looks at me and laughs.

"Oh ya right, we are hardy," he says, "stubborn too."

Not far from his house, moored along the docks are rusting hulks, a few men mill around a big black Chevrolet truck.

"They’d go out if it were worth it but it ain’t," he says.

"What do they fish," I ask.

"Anything that will pay the bills. They'll stay at it though, they'll find a way."

You know what? I believe him.

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.

Just the facts maam, nothing but the facts -- Departure T-minus 27 days

I love facts.

They provide higher ground from where the very best argument can be launched and if you've got your facts right, the meandering substance of the argument is offset by the conclusion. (Disclaimer: This doesn't apply to scientific fact however as it seems to change every time someone has a thought.)


So when I came across a website extolling facts of Newfoundland I was automatically engrossed however it left more questions than answered. For instance:

• 99% of the world's population of the critically endangered Boreal Felt Lichen is found on the island of Newfoundland. (Now that is fine and all but what I want to know is where the other 1% resides and how they studied and came up with this figure. I am assuming it wasn't on any census.)
• Showy Lady's Slipper orchid, "the largest and most beautiful northern orchid in North America" is found in western Newfoundland. Because of its rarity, this orchid is imperiled in the wild. (Imperiled? Sounds like something from Communist China or Stalinesque Russia)

This however is a fact that is indisputable, my kind of fact:

• Corner Brook in terms of latitude, is a little distance south of Vancouver, British Columbia but it is on the same latitude as the French capital, Paris. St Anthony, our glorious new home to be on the northern tip of Newfoundland, is on the same latitude as London, England.

Having lived in London for 18 months, I always found 51°30′28″N to be quite a nice latitude so it is another tick in the column for our new home town. Confused as I was about Pacific and Eastern time zones I also found out that Newfoundland is actually 3.5 hours west of Greenwich, and hence has its own time zone. The Newfoundland Standard Time Act of 1935 enshrined this time zone before Newfoundland joined Canada in 1949.

Just back to London for a minute, Newfoundland celebrates Guy Fawkes Night as they do in England which to this day is still one of the most hilarious celebrations I have come across.

Who else but the English would celebrate via fireworks no less the attempted assassination of King James I of England by a man who planned on blowing up Parliament house with explosives. Like pyrotechnics explosives.

Anyway, time for another history lesson:

• The ceilings of the Council Chamber and the Assembly Room in the Colonial Building in St. John's were painted by Polish fresco painter Alexander Pindikowski in 1880. Mr. Pindikowski had been serving a 15 month prison sentence for passing forged cheques - his sentence was reduced by 1 month for his work. In 1940, the ceiling work was restored by local painter Clem Murphy.

Remember the moose that Em had nightmares about, well here's a little known fact:

• Moose are not native to Newfoundland, but today there are more than 100,000 on the island. One pair was introduced in 1878 from Nova Scotia (not thought to have survived). Two pairs of moose were introduced on May 14, 1904 from New Brunswick. All of the moose in Newfoundland today are descended from the 1904 moose and possibly also from the 1878 moose.

• Arctic Hares are native to Newfoundland, but Snowshoe Hares were introduced from Nova Scotia in 1864 and 1876. They were released at the same time by local Magistrates. Hares are often erroneously called rabbits.

• 
  
• The Newfoundland Timber or Grey Wolf became extinct on the island of Newfoundland in the 1930s.


• The coyote arrived in Newfoundland during the winter of 1985, when heavy ice in the Gulf of St. Lawrence allowed passage from Nova Scotia.


• There are no snakes, skunks, deer, porcupines or groundhogs on the island of Newfoundland. Chipmunks were introduced to Newfoundland from Nova Scotia in 1962 and 1964, and today they are plentiful in the Codroy Valley of southwestern Newfoundland where cultivated (farm) oats are a favourite treat. There is no ragweed pollen on the island either (a very common allergen).

Anyway enough facts.

Em had her wisdom teeth taken out today and now she looks like she's done 10 rounds with Tyson. It hurts my heart to see her like this but I know it's only temporary but it still hurts however I am passing the time by cooking for her and instituting a drug regiment of military precision.

In other news, there's still no word on a car. The $800 I spoke about earlier seems to have disappeared so we are trying another avenue, a mechanic in St Anthony with a 1999 Mazda Protege. We'll just have to wait and see.

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.