Wednesday, October 04, 2017

The outlook is rainy.

I spent a miserable night in a hotel that shall remain nameless so as not to embarrass The Wave Hotel. I dropped my bag in the room, went out to eat, returned, bathed, and typed up my notes and only then realised I was freezing. The fan on the air-conditioning unit was working, but that was functioning-all. No response from the controls. Couldn’t turn off the fan, couldn’t raise the temperature. In the end I did a Bryson and left the fridge door open all night.

I managed to turn the fan off by unplugging the unit from the wall.

To make things worse, the room has four weak table lamps, Bryson would describe them as “in the French 7-watt style”, all shaded, and in the darkness while all four lights were turned on, I stubbed one of my toes. This is what it looked like twenty-four hours later.

I was glad to Wave the motel goodbye.

It did have a wide, deep bath, although this in no way compensated for waking up at 2am and again at 4am shivering with cold.

So, after registering a complaint at the front desk, I started the engine to melt the frost (yes!) off the car windscreen, and then found a gas station and, to cheer myself up, bought a hot coffee and a muffin.

Gas cost me $19 for about two hours driving, so a first estimate of consumption in this Chevy tax is nine dollars per hour driving at the speed limit (100 Km/hour)

Gas here is $1.28/litre. I didn’t bother checking prices before I left, because if I am going to drive a car, I’ll have to hand over however much cash the government wants, and its mainly a tax grab (but see below)

I didn’t stay at he Clarenville Inn. Next time I will. Or at least, I’ll take Waivers on the other place. After gassing up at “Atlantic” I took this shot, because I liked the plume of steam rising from the factory on the valley wall.

Check out the sunshine.

And it’s Ho! For the open road. At this hour the traffic is light, the sky is near cloudless, and every twenty kilometres or so are signs reminding me that I should see my dentist again. As in “Bridge Work” and even “Construction next 40 Km”, with a line of orange cones to prove it.

Excepting for the light cloud, the highway scenes look OK just like the Street View shots I took with Google maps. What a surprise.

Here we are with a row of orange cones. Well, red and white, and often enough it appears as if some petulant driver has mown a half dozen down just for spite.

By 8:45 I see I have another 363 Km to go until Deer Lake, where I planned to stop for lunch. The road-works are going to slow me down.

First clue is a sign that says “$1,500 fine for speeding in a construction zone”.

Second clue is a sign that reads “50 Km/h” and of course there is always some old-fashioned fuddy-duddy who brakes to make sure that he/she/it is not exceeding 50 as they flash by the sign.

Third clue is a sign that indicates a flag-man up ahead.

About a mile or so further on we might see a sign that says “Watch out for potholes”, and we crawl through that war-zone and on for another mile or two before we see a sign that says “Construction Ends”, but the truth is it hadn’t started at this hour in the morning.

So we all wait for a chance to pass Mister Slowpoke and re-establish our pecking order.

And still the cones go on,

Every ten or fifteen kilometres I see a sign telling me that Deer Lake is that much closer.

We still have the two-up one-down highway structure, which works surprisingly well. Big trucks take the opportunity to zoom past old farts like me.

Around 9:20 I toddle past the various intersections for Gander.

Already I get the feeling that I am in for some serious hills, or mountains on this trip.

The highway unravels, so much like the trip to Alaska, with stunted pines hiding the view of whatever hills or mountains or volcanoes might be out there.

The big difference is the number of curves in the highway. You never know what sort of construction lies around the bend.

But why do I get the feeling that these opportunistic road menders work as road menders in the summer months, then in the winter months hop onto the snow-ploughs and rip chunks out of the highway to ensure that they will have a seasonal job again next summer?

Remember that bottle of soda I bought last night? And the cup of coffee I bought this morning? Well, the coffee is gone, and I have poured myself a Tim Horton’s medium mug of Schweppes Ginger Ale. Much easier to drink from the mug, and , of course, A Second Use For Everything.

As I watch the distance to Deer Lake drop, I watch the distance from St John’s rise. I am 460 Km from St John’s, and getting further away each point-six of a minute.

And I think that on this holiday, I will be tired and stiff and sore much more than on my previous two trips, because in Poissy and in the Île de France I was not driving a car. I was sitting in trains and buses. And when you are travelling on suburban transit (in the Île de France) you are always near a train station, so it easy to bail out on the day’s activities and take a fast shortcut home.

Driving to a booked hotel or B&B, there is no fast shortcut home.

Twillingate and Fogo Island. Am I only this far? I thought I was practically on the shores of Labrador. Twillingate has spent the last three years over on the eastern side of my framed map of Newfoundland back home.

Sigh.

(Much later: An examination of the map shows that the stretch of the Trans-Canada Highway between Gander and Deer Lake is about half-way between the Northern and Southern tips of The Island, but because it is so sinuous it confuses folks like me. Because I have not yet been to the northern-most tip, I fancy that I am still in the southern edge, and because I have been driving a long time with the west as a goal, although not traveling westerly, I find it hard to believe that I am still near what I think of as an eastern stretch of land. I told you I was confused. Now you can believe me)

Every time we cross a brook I stare at the boulders and stones in the bed. The appear to be the size one would expect to see in a mountain stream, but these brooks are not in steep-sided valleys.

There must be one heck of a flow, perhaps from snow-melt waters.

I pass a sign that says “Green Bay” which leaves me confused. I know that I am near the Baie Verte peninsula, but who calls it by the English name?

I try to take shots of the rock cliffs but fail. This is not the cliff I was aiming for.

And this one looks pretty unimpressive too, but there were big’uns.

The trees have turned the colour of my toe in sympathy, bless’em!

And I’m nowhere near Deer Lake. I’m not even at Grand Falls, although I know that Deer Lake is the next town after Grand Falls.

Also Harbour Breton is on my list of places-to-visit.

The views and vistas vary (but what is the difference between a view and a vista?) Across the valley the seemingly endless miles of stunted pine are visible. Seemingly Endless because we are on an island and it is bounded by the sea.

Up ahead another bridge construction crew is at work.

On some of the jobs we are reduced to a single lane and two Stop-Go flag-men, so that those of us who overtook when opportunity presents itself sit embarrassed while the slow-pokes roll to a gentle halt behind us. Me? I stare pointedly at the idiot ahead of me. Serves him right.

No. I’m not crazy. I was trying to capture the swirl of this cloud formation.

I hope you notice that the sky has clouded over. Remember that forecast for rain?

Well, so. I bought gas in Deer Lake and grabbed a Subway sandwich. I figured that being a little bit behind schedule it made sense to grab some fast-food and then eat big tonight.

Took me thirty minutes to gas up, sub up, and chat with an Albertan guy outside the closed Visitor Information Centre.

Now, an hour out of Deer Lake and inside Gros Morne park I have pulled over to stretch my legs.

I am parked just off the side of the highway in what looks like an abandoned stretch of the old highway.

The car key fob is a switch-key sort of device. In the photo above you see a raised button near the top edge of the fob.

Press the button and the spring-loaded key pops out with a satisfying switch-blade Click! And you are instantly ready to gouge your enemy’s paintwork.

This is what a “road closed” sign means. It means you drive around the barrier.

I walked.

A poor shot of a large lake, or perhaps a bay, that runs alongside the road. Or perhaps the road runs along the side of the lake. Or the bay. You decide.

Now I am running out of ideas for descriptive text. It is as I thought, just like driving around Alaska. Stunted pine trees, occasional chunks of rock. Grey skies.

No arctic or even sub-arctic blossoms. But then none were evident in Alaska.

Not a good shot, but I want to drive this day. It is my big test-day of distance on Newfoundland highways.

Part of the ridge of mountains. If you read the article at the reference to Gros Morne park, you will have learned that (a) Newfoundland’s second-highest peak is 2,644 feet above sea-level, from which we conclude that this spine of hills probably tops out at 2,500 feet, and (b) the Long Range Mountains , an outlying range of the Appalachian Mountains , stretching the length of the island's west coast is the eroded remnants of a mountain range formed 1.2 billion years ago.

Long before my time.

But the Appalachian mountains were formed during the initial spreading of the Atlantic Ocean floor (and hence the creation of the Atlantic Ocean), and THAT means that the Susquehanna River is older still!

It is Time to for me to go back and re-visit the Susquehanna

I must say I am impressed with the driving protocol. Perhaps it is in part because every five kilometres or so we have a two-up chance, with a sign that reads “Keep Right Except To Pass”, and it may be that this steady incessant reminder has an effect on drivers.

Here is a transport truck getting an early start on a slower vehicle – in this case a utility truck with a trailer and what appeared to be an over-sized lawn-mower tractor.

It was a quad bike with six wheels. What is THAT called?

I continue to be impressed with the views of the mountains every half hour or so.

I get the feeling that they should have names like “The Sleeping Giant” or similar.

Here is a classic example of a hill that is visible ONLY because it lies straight ahead of us.

Were the hill off to the side, we would have no idea that it exists. It would be hidden by the stunted pine trees (and sundry weed trees).

If by now you are finding the succession of dreary photos boring, imagine driving it all day long.

Then imagine retracing your steps the next day!

Rinse and repeat for six days.

The majority of roads head off to a settlement, and that’s it. This is true of the stretch from Deer Lake to St Lunaire/St Anthony, and it is true of the stretch from Sheppardville to Baie Verte, and from Baie Verte to Fleau de Lys.

Almost without exception, wherever you drive, you have to drive back down the same road. Get used to it. A bag of apples helps.

Another lump off the side of the road.

In this case a thinning of the trees gave me a chance to see it.

I experienced three bouts of rain, but only one warranted turning on the wipers.

However the rain spots did prompt me to grab (well, pay for and then collect) a jug of windshield washer fluid.

I do not want to be stuck two hundred kilometres from anywhere in a sleet storm with no visibility.

I can’t say that the mountains are boring. They show up suddenly as I crest a hill or round a bend, or else they are visible from afar and grow intimate as I draw closer.

Photos don’t do the views justice. In this case I crested the hill and saw the range off to my right and a vast bay or lake below. By the time I had woken up the camera and then waited for a gap in the trees, I was half-way down the hill, and this is the paltry shot. Now I am wondering about the difference between Paltry and Meagre.

At the foot of the hill we get a view of the lake. Blurred, yes, but then I’m driving.

The out-of-focus sign tells us to be patient; a passing lane is just two kilometres ahead.

A second blurred shot of the lake. We don’t have scenery like this in Ontario, and we are the poorer for it.

Another massive lump of rock at the side of the road. These incidents represent a five-second “Ooh-Ah!” moment every twenty or thirty minutes.

I noticed the style of elecrical power pylons on my drive to Clarenville yesterday.

In the background you can see the traditional “Martian” style of tower, but the tower in the foreground is based on what appears to be a needle-point, but is probably a twenty-four inch plate. These towers are kept upright by guy-wires

I cruise at 60Km/hr through Deer Lake and try to catch the style of housing. And fail.

OK. By now you have probably stopped reading and turned to finish this morning’s Sudoku puzzle, so I can drop a confession in here.

At some time during the day I adjusted the clock on my smart phone. So. The date-time stamp (Time last Modified) and the name of the file suffer a shift in time, and since I loaded the photos into the document in name sequence, which is date-time in the name file, well, a significant chunk of photos are shifted out of sequence.

This has caused me no end of grief in trying to reconcile myself to my scribbled and terse notes.

I am actually looking for a gas station or a Subway store, whichever comes first. Up ahead on the left is a building I take to be apartments.

Here is what I meant by taxes (as in “see below” above).

According to this table , in Newfoundland we pay 48.6% in tax. In Ontario 27.9%

Here is the Visitor Information Centre in Deer Lake.

Closed.

Deer Lake supports ferry traffic (from the mainland) and direct air flights from Toronto and many other cities. Don’t tell me that this Visitor Information Centre is a seasonal centre. Please.

I begin to spot unsealed tracks that lead off from the main highway. Any one of these makes a great spot for being fifty yards removed from the highway for a leg-stretch or a refilling of the coffee mug with Ginger Ale.

I don’t know whether I was trying to capture the ridge of hills, or the autumn colours that speckle the hillsides.

More distant hills, and hills that are more distant.

I get the feeling that the clouds are lowering. This can mean more rain.

And now it is time to play “Write your own caption”. I took this shot for a reason, but even on the original image (four megabytes) I can’t read the green sign on the left, and a dead insect smudge on the windscreen hides valuable detail from the green sign on the right.

I went down a couple of hills with the ominous “Brake Test” signs. These were stupendously steep hills, say I, and I have driven the Stikine Gorge at least eight times (in five separate visits)

This little car is equipped with both manual and automatic gears, so on steep hills I can shift out of “D”rive and into “M”anual and then ratchet down, or up a gear, which saves me finding out at the foot of a steep grade that the brakes have failed through over-use.

I have pulled over to eat half of my sub. The other half can sit in the trunk of the car (a.k.a. “my fridge”) until lunchtime tomorrow.

From the side-track I look down on Highway 430. The white car is, like me, heading from Deer Lake towards St Anthony.

An here is the drawn-back shot. That is an old bitumen road surface in the foreground. My guess is that this is a stretch of the old highway. What a nightmare it must have been to travel.

Now only a nerd would consider this a rare treat.

I had driven the car about a quarter kilometre up the old dirst track and pulled out my sandwich. Then I heard some sort of motor start up. A heavy motor.

Suddenly the road looks like the sort of road that would lead to a quarry.

Is that big motor owned by a 200-tone mullock truck? And will my sandwich get crushed. 200 ton trucks don’t stop all that quickly.

Keep your eye on that little red blob.

Keep your eye on that little red blob.

Keep your eye on that little red blob.

What a treat that little red blob turned out to be.

He circled over me and headed off to the east.

James Bond is keeping tabs on me?

This is indeed a mighty range of mountains. I have driven all over the Southern Tier (as they call it in southern Western New York State) and all over the Northern Tier (as they call the same range in Pennsylvania), but they can’t compare to this stretch of about three hundred and fifty kilometres.

Beyond the trees is a slope that is trying to harbour scree, and beyond that a hint of a great bald-rock mountain. Stopped, I was at the wrong angle. Started again, the road was too twisty and windy to take the chance of getting a better shot.

You’ll just have to come and see for your self. Fly in to Deer Lake and rent a car, OK?

Leaving my lunch spot I creep down to lake level. Really. I can never work out whether I am looking at an inlet of the Atlantic Ocean, or another large lake.

Here is a zoom shot of the bare cliff faces on the far shore.

Another stretch of road work arrives as the clouds lower over the mountains.

Sigh. Another Sleeping Giant.

Hard to tell, I know, but the sky is growing darker, the clouds seem thicker.

And there is quite obviously movement in the air, otherwise we wouldn’t see those ripples. Is the wind going to pick up? We are surely well enough away from the fall Thunderstorms in Toronto?

I am driving along the stretch between Green Point and River of Ponds. This hundred kilometres of highway right alongside the ocean is host to wind-swept plains and for me, the treat of seeing waves wash ashore every time I turn my head.

The Nullabor Plain is more barren, but it isn’t this bleak.

Waves breaking on the shore.

I cruise through many small towns. Some of the homes can’t seem to make up their mind as to whether they are houses or bungalows.

I don’t know how Google Maps came up with its estimate of travel distance. I reckon that keeping to the speed limit through town and trying, but rarely succeeding to obey the construction speed limits added at least an extra thirty minutes to my trip.

The buildings all seem so new. Is this a result of serious Government Financing to rebuild settlements after the collapse of the fishing industry?

Another crest, another mountain.

Another bend, another settlement.

I have a vague idea that on the way back I’ll stop the car and walk to the ocean.

Another mile, another hundred wind-swept acres.

I pass a sign that points to a place called “Nameless Cove” and chuckle.

I am on the last little leg, the stretch that runs inland, east from Green Island Brook to St Anthony.

I find the bed and breakfast. My host didn’t realise that it was today, thought I was arriving on the eighth, even though we had exchanged emails mentioning Wednesday October 4th.

So my host recommended a local place to eat food. I am greeted at the door by a water-advisory.

“Please wait to be seated”, said the sign, so I and the two guys ahead of me (and ultimately the six people behind me) waited. I waited five minutes according to my smart-phone, and then was steered to a table.

The place wasn’t crowded, but the staff appeared to be inefficient. There was much hurried walking between and around the bar and the tables, and the bar had only one entrance, so it was a long walk to the table to take the order, back around and then into the bar to pour the drinks, back through the bar and back across the face to make the way to the table, rinse and repeat.

While I was waiting for my simple salad I formulated Greave’s First Law of Restaurant Customer Satisfaction: If you insist on clients waiting to be steered to an empty table, then make sure that your staff know that it is a bad thing to have people waiting in line to sit down. The wait to start eating may be just as long, but putting people at a table lets them know that they have been identified. Also takes the weight off their feet.

Greave’s First Corollary of Restaurant Customer Satisfaction: It doesn’t matter what your job is. If you see someone standing in line, greet and seat them, and since you know all the staff and whose table it is, let that member know that you have seated a party at one of their tables.

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