Green Gardens Hike, Newfoundland

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The northeast corner of Bonne Bay rises up to a rugged, barren ridge called The Lookout Hills, the biggest of which – Big Lookout – is 600 meters (1968 feet) above sea level. And it’s only about a mile from the sea, so it’s a pretty steep slope that more or less drops right into the ocean. From where we’re living right now, we look out across Bonne Bay at this ridge, as well as the mouth of the bay. It is spectacular. We've been here about two months now, and it is still difficult to look out the window without getting momentarily distracted – a good problem to have.

It’s good to have such a view when you’re inside working much of the time, which is how we spend the first parts of our days. Distracting as it may be, it makes you feel like you’re not totally missing-out on what’s outside. Sometime in the afternoon we usually get out for a walk on one of the shorter trails, not so far away, as much to stretch our legs and get a little exercise as to explore and take a few snapshots. There have been a few days when we realize, usually too late, that it would have been okay for a paddle, perhaps in one of the more sheltered nooks of the bay, but we’ve felt more motivated to walk than paddle. Most days the temperatures have hovered in the low 30s (or around zero, as they say around here) and it tends to get windy at some point. 

I’ve often gazed across the bay at the Lookout Hills and wondered what it would be like over there. Just beyond that ridge, around the corner from this view we have, the shore stretches about 8 statute miles to the southwest, to the town of Trout River. It’s a rugged stretch of coast, but there’s one area with a popular trail, called Green Gardens, so named for the gentle, rolling pastures perched atop the steep, shore-side cliffs. It is all part of Gros Morne National Park.

A week ago we took a hike down to Green Gardens. This is a full-day trip for us, since the trailhead is about an hour’s drive from here, and the hike itself- the short version that just goes from the trailhead down to the sea, and then back up – is about 9 or 10 kilometers (6 or 7 miles total). (The longer version is now closed, due to erosion). The weather forecast didn’t look great- a bit windy in the morning, increasing to a gale warning in the afternoon, along with the arrival of a snowstorm. But it was the day we had planned, the day we could do it, so we stuck to our plan – which, I was too aware, is the auspicious beginning of many outdoor survival stories. 

The trailhead lies high on a plain between The Tablelands and The Lookout Hills, in a treeless, rocky tundra, gorgeously austere, but with nothing to buffer the wind. We had it at our backs for the first stretch, a mile or so in which we climbed a couple hundred feet in elevation, and were aware that returning against it might be difficult. We reasoned that after we crested the hilltop, we would be somewhat sheltered as we descended toward the ocean- and we were. It’s a different landscape on that side, with trees, ponds and meadows. The Gulf of Saint Lawrence came into view, steely grey, corrugated with whitecaps, and we made our way down toward it, stepping through shallow snow, which tapered-out into mud and bare rock as we descended.

It’s a bit backward from hiking up mountains. We hiked mostly downhill to our destination, and had an uphill climb to look forward to for the trip back. But the destination – Green Gardens – was astonishingly beautiful, even now, when it wasn’t all that green. We came to the tops of steep cliffs and walked along these meadows and pastures, dotted with piles of sheep poop, looking down at rocks and sea stacks below. It invited us to imagine paddling there. We were glad to not be paddling then- cold and windy as it was, but what a playground! The near-shore area lay in the lee, the whitecaps and big, lumpy seas beginning maybe a quarter-mile out. The shore had big, dark beaches and cliffs – probably anywhere from fifty to a hundred feet – rising just above them. 

And the pastures themselves felt like playgrounds, grassy fields to romp through, with weird rock formations like sculptures or perhaps the set of a Dr. Seuss drama. On top of that, there are some campsites there: tent platforms, picnic tables, privies. I wouldn’t want to carry boats and gear up there from the shore (and you would probably need to carry everything up, unless you were sure the tide wouldn’t come too high) but it would be a great place walk to and camp. 

We walked a little ways down the shore, had some lunch and then headed back-up. We knew the storm was coming, and as if on cue, the snow began.

We encountered a young woman walking toward us, which came as a surprise, with the storm coming, and she didn’t look terribly prepared. But she also looked young and energetic. The wind increased as we climbed – we had nearly 800 feet in elevation to attain – and as we came back over the ridge, it hit us in the face, driving the snow – and sometimes painful bits of sleet – into our faces. But we were warmed-up from the climb, and just leaned into it, savoring the severity of the scene. It was a relief to climb back into the car. 

We worried about the young woman we’d encountered, and stopped at the park office to let them know she was out there. A ranger said he’d keep an eye out and make sure she got back to her car.

Notes:

This hike is in Gros Morne National Park. Visitor’s centers are closed for the winter, but you can find information on their website. They sell a small-scale topo map that covers the whole park – not a lot of detail, but it gives you an idea where you’re going.

I also have enjoyed Hikes of Western Newfoundland, by Katie Broadhurst and Alexandra Fortin. It provides basic details for a number of hikes in the area, including several off-trail, multi-day backcountry hikes, which certainly fuels my imagination for warmer-weather treks. Alex Fortin and her partner Cory also have a website called Wildly Intrepid, which is full of inspiration for adventure travel.

I’m really pleased that a photo I took was chosen as the winner of The Preserve Prize in Maine Coast Heritage Trust’s Wild Maine CoastContest. The photo was taken at Western Head Preserve in Cutler, and is described in this blog post from September. There were a lot of gorgeous photos entered in the contest; I’m very grateful to have been chosen.

We still don’t have much in the way of plans; we’re mostly focusing on the present, trying to get as much work done as we can. Hopefully we’ll share some of that before too long. Of course, lately our distractions have included not just the magnificent view from the window, but from where I sit at the kitchen table we see the occasional spouts and diving tail flukes of humpback whales, as well as others. There's herring in the bay, and at night, the lights of seining boats float out there in the dark.

We’ve also been able to spend some time with Rebecca’s parents, and with other family and friends. I’ve continued to post snapshots every now and then on Instagram. I’m still not sure why I’m doing this (a bit like writing blog posts) but it is oddly compelling, and I enjoy perusing other people’s photos more than a lot of the ‘content’ that gets passed-around on Facebook. 

Oh yes, I suppose it's worth mentioning: my sea kayaking guidebook, AMC's Best Sea Kayaking in New England makes a great gift. 

Gros Morne Mountain, Newfoundland

Gros Morne Mountain lies just north of Bonne Bay, a fiord reaching fifteen miles into Newfoundland’s rugged western coast. At 806 meters (2644 feet) it is the second-highest mountain in the province, and for anyone with hiking aspirations in the valleys around it, the peak is the elephant in the room, constantly beckoning. And while it doesn’t rise that much higher than some of the high spots atop the plateaus around it, the other peaks don’t have marked trails ascending to their summits; one could certainly get up them, but it would be a great deal more work. While mountains of this height may not sound so big, remember that the hike itself starts at an elevation of just 10 meters, so the elevation gain is akin to some of the bigger hikes in Maine or New Hampshire.

I’ve wanted to get up the mountain on previous visits to Newfoundland, but since those visits have been during colder months, I never had conditions to do so. This visit was beginning to look the same until we got a break in the weather a few days ago: no rain, not much wind, and air temps in the sixties. Judging from the five or six cars in the lot, I wasn’t the only one taking advantage of the nice day. The first 4 kilometers (about 2.5 miles – I’m doing the conversions as much for myself, since I still think in miles) is a gradual ascent through mossy forest and bog. It’s well-trodden, and well-maintained, with plenty of boardwalks and steps. It isn’t that steep, but I still found myself huffing at some point, something that seems to happen on a lot of hikes. It’s like I wanted to get up here so much that I forgot that it’s work. But then I slow down and it gets easier.

At an elevation of 1100 feet, the trail reaches a saddle below Gros Morne Mountain, where Ferry Brook flows down a valley and forms a series of small, shallow ponds. It is an astoundingly gorgeous spot. The mountains rise steeply above, and stretch below to the towns along the edge of Bonne Bay. I sat and ate a snack, watching a moose do the same down below in a pond. I could also see the tiny specks of hikers beginning the ascent of The Gulley, which looks more like the site of a landslide than a trail.

Getting to these ponds would be a worthwhile hike in itself, and the park signs suggest as much, encouraging those who are less-prepared to call it good and linger here awhile before heading back down. The sign says, in effect “So you think that was a hike, do ya?” The signage also counsels that if the top of the mountain is obscured by clouds, don’t proceed any farther, that the trails are not that well-marked. But when I crossed the bridge over the brook and started-up The Gulley, the sky above was blue and cloudless.

At the bottom of The Gulley, it seems inevitable that you pause and consider the climb ahead. It rises some fourteen to fifteen-hundred feet in under a mile – a steep ascent over a loose jumble of boulders. After such a well-marked trail below, it’s a bit of a surprise to find this stretch almost completely unmarked, almost non-existent in places. Unlike the trails in New England, these have no painted blazes anywhere. There are maybe three stone cairns, each one supporting a post with an arrow that essentially points up. Of course, you couldn’t get lost in the Gulley, but it takes a little more effort to put your feet onto rocks that don’t shift sideways, so you’re always looking for the easiest path.

But you get a lot of bang for your buck very quickly. I kept pausing to look out at the view and down at the ponds where I could still make-out the moose, knee deep, munching away like a cow in a pasture. These pauses helped me slow-down and catch my breath.

At the top of The Gulley, the edge of the plateau is fairly distinct: arctic tundra on top, thousand-foot drops below. The landscape levels-out somewhat, gradually climbing toward the summit over the next half-mile, following cairns supporting fluorescent yellow trail markers. The markers are not that far-spaced, but it's easy to imagine being here in dense clouds, unable to see the next one. It would be very easy, compass or not, to lose the trail and venture closer than you want to some very precipitous drops.

The wind picked-up as I ascended the last gradual stretch. At the summit, a couple sat in the lee of a stone wall and I found another where I ate my lunch. Someone had tied a Canadian flag, inscribed with many signatures, to the summit sign, which had a generic, Department of Transportation look, in both French and English. But it let you know you were in the highest spot, which is good since the rise from the rolling tundra around it is so gradual. After awhile, I noticed a few rock ptarmigans nearby, a grouse-like bird with white arctic coloring that blended-in extraordinarily well.

The couple headed onward and I watched them until they became specks, giving the massive landscape around us some scale, as did, half mile away, a herd of caribou moving slowly across the plain.

The trail continues as a loop, gradually descending the summit along the edge of a huge drop down to Ten-Mile Pond. This stretch of trail takes over three miles to get down to the junction with The Gulley section, so it is a good deal more gradual than the ascent. But the views are over the top the whole way; I often stopped to just take it in. Back at the ponds, the moose (I assume it was the same one, a female) hadn’t moved much from where she’d earlier grazed, and now the light on the mountains began to take-on that late-afternoon glow as I hiked the last few miles back to the car.

Notes:
We've been sea kayaking a couple of times and I'll write about that in another post soon.

Off Center Harbor, a subscription boating website made an eight-minute video about out summer paddling trip along the Maine coast. For now at least, they're sharing it for free (click here) so that Pygmy Boats can share it with their subscribers. I'll admit it's a little weird to see myself on video, especially as I rhapsodize about the differences between skegs and rudders (not really a favorite topic, but it was of interest to the filmmakers).

The Shubie

We gathered near the shore, floating in our kayaks, waiting: nine of us- coaches who'd got together after the symposium to share a shuttle and a ride on the Shubecanadie's famous tidal bore. We'd met in a dark parking lot at five am and drove for four hours, a caravan of car-topped kayaks winding along a quiet Nova Scotia highway. We didn't even know who were in all the other cars until we pulled-off for a coffee and stood in line, a group of tired, but charged-up ruffians in stinky clothes. Finally, the caravan snaked along a smaller network of roads and arrived at the put-in in Maitland, near the head of the Minas Basin. Just after the full moon, or the Supermoon as everyone was calling it, the tidal range was anticipated to be around 54 feet- the largest in eighteen years.

Some had paddled the Shubie before- Rebecca had ridden the chocolate-brown waves the previous year- but for some of us it was hard to imagine the tidal bore- a wave that would, according to prediction, come surging toward us and rapidly fill the basin of the tidal river. "There it is," someone shouted, and it took me a moment to see how the distant water surface had turned bumpy.

We weren't really sure where to position ourselves. A group of Zodiac tour boats also waited nearby and a guided group, led by symposium organizers Committed 2 The Core coaches occupied a stretch in the middle of the river. We didn't want to get in their way, so we held position near the edge, not really comprehending what would happen when the bore reached us. But then the wave came. It seemed to descend almost in slow motion at first, lifting the guided group and propelling them down the middle of the river. Some of us managed to surf the wave as it caught us, but others were piled-up along the edge, pushed higher along the bank by the tide like so much driftwood, unable to maneuver in the shallows, subject to the whims of the current.

I managed to avoid the knot of boats, but still wound-up stranded in shallow water, watching a couple of boats surf away ahead of me. There were a few capsizes in this stretch, and after I got loose, I watched as a standing wave ahead of me rapidly increased in size, roaring as I bounced through it. We all finally gathered on the opposite side of the river and caught our breath. Rebecca's boat had a crack in it- presumably from the weight of the other boats that had ridden over her in the pile-up. I quickly patched the gash and inflated a flotation bag in the front hatch. The water level rose very quickly.

But the tidal bore is just the first of many features. For the rest, we paced ourselves, letting the water fill-in, developing stretches of standing waves that we drifted down into and surfed. I only took pictures in the quieter moments between features, but it's a gorgeous area: tall red cliffs, eroded like the sandstone I usually associate with the southwest US deserts. A rainstorm came and went.

One stretch, known as "The Killer K" (K=Kilometer) produced massive haystacks of red standing waves. Balanced on the crest of a tall mound of ochre, foamy mayhem, I had a moment to think about all the things that might happen next before I was propelled down a steep wave face. I really just had one thought, and I heard it come out of someone else's mouth: "holy shit!" I'm glad someone else said it.

We took some long rides, some through stretches where you could feel the enormous volume of water surging overwhelmingly around you. At times I couldn't tell if I were flying forward over the waves or if they were rushing backwards beneath me: usually a bit of both.

We took short time-outs in the eddies to make sure everyone was accounted for, and kept moving with the amplified current up the river. The sun came out.

We went around the last corner, a reddish bluff protruding into the river, and gathered in the eddy. On one hand I felt like I wanted more- it had been just a few hours of focused paddling. On the other hand, I felt exhausted. The others seemed a bit spent as well; we drifted around the last turns with a dream-like slowness,  paddling up a tributary creek, savoring those last moments on the water before we had to pack our cars and go our separate ways.

Here's another Shubie video from the Committed 2 The Core crew.

Bay of Fundy Sea Kayak Symposium

After we closed the gallery last winter, with an uncertain future and no real commitments, I applied for and was accepted as an assistant coach for Bay of Fundy Sea Kayak Symposium. As it turned out, the timing was perfect to end our busy season here at Old Quarry. We continued to work 70-80-hour weeks until we packed up the car last week and drove up to Canada to catch Bay Ferries Limited St. John to Digby Ferry-- which we boarded with about 8 minutes to spare after we provided entertainment for customs officials for well over an hour ("why do you need three kayaks for two people?").

But the ferry was well worth catching. The crossing-- under three hours-- cut-off the better part of a day's drive around the top of the bay. Not only that, but we started running into paddlers en-route to the symposium who were charged-up and excited- a contagious enthusiasm that made it feel we were part of a pilgrimage of paddlers headed for the southern tip of Nova Scotia.

We camped that first night near Yarmouth, arriving in Argyle early enough on Friday for a paddle. And we ran into our friend Andrea Knepper from Chicago, who joined us for some playtime down at Cape Sable Island.

The symposium brings coaches from around the world to teach in the varied environments near Yarmouth, where the tides rush in and out of the Bay of Fundy and the open ocean rolls-in from the south. There's sandy beaches down at Cape Sable Island, sheltered, island-studded harbors off of Argyle and the glacial till islands of the Tuskets, where the tidal flow squeezes through. In addition to plenty of classes for beginners, the symposium offers opportunities for paddlers to improve their skills in tide races, rocks and ledges, safety and leadership. For me, it was an opportunity to learn from other coaches.

I assisted in several classes, each with different coaches in diverse locales. The steep rocks at Cape Forchu was a good spot for Incident Management & Tricky Landings, led by Jeff Laxier.

The dynamics of assisting also varies greatly - some classes have more coaches than others. Being less experienced than most, I tended to wait for a cue from the lead coach before stepping-in, but the high coach to student ratio makes it easy to paddle aside for a moment with a student to offer individual feedback, which is often the most valuable form of help.

 Multiple coaches also makes it easier to get-in a little of our own playtime.

 We assembled at Ye Olde Argyler Lodge each morning for announcements and class rosters. My classes were always going off to more challenging venues, so we assembled caravans of vehicles car-topping kayaks that snaked down the highways, sometimes about an hour away. At the end of the day we returned for dinner and evening presentations. Gordon Brown led us us in a Greenlandic game that tested our coordination, then, around the campfire, he told us the story of how he'd discovered sea kayaking.

Another evening, James Manke gave a presentation on his trip to the Greenland Kayak Championship. Chris Lockyer & Peter Bojanic told stories about a Newfoundland trip. I was really too tired to do much socializing in the evenings, but in a way, much of the reason we're there is to meet other paddlers.

 
With coaches visiting from the UK and Germany, as well as all across North America, the symposium has a way of making the global paddling community feel a bit cozier. Despite different languages and accents, we recognize that the ocean - and our chosen mode of discovering it- beckons us like nothing else. The nearly full moon rose over the campfire, reflecting in the calm waters of Lobster Bay. A guitar went from hand to hand and we sang a few songs. (Thanks to Barbara Bellows for these shots- she's Rebecca's Mom, making the trek from Newfoundland to attend the symposium for the second year).

On the charts around Yarmouth there are a number of locations labeled "The Sluice." At one of them, I assisted Santiago Berrueta in an Intro to Currents class, which felt particularly successful, since most of the students had little or no experience in tidal currents, and by the end of the class they'd all learned the basics of boat handling in current. We also had plenty of rescue practice, but the venue is perhaps a bit less intimidating than Sullivan Falls, so it was really perfect for beginners.

Ryan Rushton led a class in Tide Race Play & Safety that took us out into the Tusket Islands in search of a tide race that previous classes had found lacking in lumpiness. But the perigean full moon and strong southwest winds against the ebb did their magic, and we found a proper tide race that challenged everyone.

I'm lacking in photos of people in conditions since I felt preoccupied with my roles of coach and safety boater- and Rebecca had the camera. At the end of each day we all shared our stories about where we'd gone and what we'd learned. With 30+ coaches and 70+ students there's enough variables that the symposium is really a conglomeration of hundreds of stories: trips taken, lessons learned, people met. We return with skills to improve, new friends on Facebook and some new approaches to coaching. But maybe the most significant thing is to connect with all of these people, many of whom, like us, probably go back to their communities where they're seen as a bit oddball because of their obsession.

Of course, we still had the trip home, including a post-symposium run on the Shubenacadie River, a story that will wait until next time. The next Bay of Fundy Sea Kayak Symposium will take place in September, 2017; I hope to see you there.

Thanks to the organizers of the event: Christopher Lockyer, Jarrod Gunn McQuillian, Trevor Killam, Trudy Killam, Kirk Dauphinee & Peter Bojanic.
 

Bonne Bay, Webb Cove

We returned home from Newfoundland last week. I did manage to get out for a bit more paddling when the conditions were fair, but paddling-wise, the trip was a tease; I look forward to getting back there, perhaps in warmer weather.


Back home, our hills looked rather low, our shores gentle, but our local archipelago was a beautiful sight to return to. Newfoundland gave me a new appreciation for paddling here. The numerous, closely-spaced islands make it much easier to go out and choose your route according to conditions or whim. Last week, when my sister and her husband were visiting from California, we headed out, only to encounter quickly-increasing winds. It seemed like a good day to take a tour of Webb Cove.



The great thing about having visitors is that it encourages you to get out and go places that maybe you've taken for granted, to see your place with a fresh perspective. Usually, I just want to get out to the islands, but on a blustery day out there, Webb Cove was calm.



With the colder months ahead, these coves and coastal routes might be a good thing to keep in mind. There's still so much I haven't seen here. Today is another sunny, blustery day, whitecaps in the Thorofare, temperature around freezing. The weather doesn't exactly make you want to get out there, but winter is too long if you don't. We'll be watching for the next good day.

Newfoundland

We weren’t sure if we should even bring the kayaks with us to Newfoundland. We knew the conditions here could be rough and unpredictable, even in the summer, and to be exploring cold, unfamiliar waters in October and November might be pushing our luck. As we drove the thousand miles northeast, we were aware of the occasional odd looks our kayaks received. Ours were certainly the only car-topped kayaks on the overnight ferry from Nova Scotia, and after disembarking in Port aux Basques, we drove past thin ice formed on the ponds. On our way into Gros Morne National Park though, we saw two kayaks riding atop a car heading out of the park. The car’s occupants seemed as eager to wave to us as we did to them. Since leaving Stonington, we have seen no other kayaks.



Should we have brought the boats? Of course! It would have been crazy not to. We’re staying in a house in Wild Cove, near Norris Point on the shore of Bonne Bay, a fjord that stretches fifteen or twenty miles inland from the Gulf of Saint Lawrence. From the house, we have a view of the cove and the bay stretching out to the two-thousand-foot mountains on the other side, and beyond them, open ocean.



On our first full day here I launched my boat, just to get in the water, if just for a short, cautious paddle. The winds blew maybe 10 to 15 knots with occasional gusts. Outside the cove, the waves were low and choppy. For the first time in awhile, I tethered my paddle to the boat. I was glad to get out, but felt less than enthusiastic about the conditions, especially since chances were, they might not improve during our two weeks here. If you waited for a calm day, you might never get out.


Most days we wondered if maybe we should have gone out paddling... until we watched the winds increase quickly as the day went on, usually to 25 - 35 knots. We were glad to watch from the shore as williwaws gusted down from the mountains, the water surface erupting into turbulent white spray.



It rained on Halloween. With temperatures in the low 40’s, it seemed a better day to sit inside with a book and a warm beverage, but we found the calm water irresistible. We launched into some small surf and paddled around the point, beneath black rocky cliffs, past the small town of Norris Point with its gathering of low, small-windowed houses crouching beneath the hillside. Like the wind-stunted trees, the towns here are low, built to withstand harsh weather.



We didn’t go far- just a couple hours of paddling, but it felt great to be in such a new and different place. On shore, life went on as usual. Some builders stood atop a new roof, tacking down the first run of roofing felt as the rain started again. A fisherman opened the cockpit window on his boat and told us we were getting wet.


A woman came out of a house and shouted “Is that you, Mark?” then “Oh, hard to tell with all that gear on.” She asked us if we’d seen any whales, and where we were from. “Maine,” we told her and she nodded her head as though this explained why we were out paddling in the cold, pouring rain. “Ah,” she said. “Welcome to Newfoundland.”