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The talk of salt cod and moose started even before we’d made landfall on The Rock. On the ferry from North Sydney, Nova Scotia to Port Aux Basques, Newfoundland, a wizened fellow regaled us with stories of jigging for fish with his cousin and bagging a bull moose for his wife. It was late September. He was pleased as punch that the freezer was stocked with enough cod and moose meat to see the family through another harsh Newfoundland winter. As we drove off the ramp the man motioned me with a gnarly finger. I rolled down the window. “Safe travels me-son. And don’t drive at night,” he warned. “The moose’ll be so tick you’ll be pushing them off the road.”

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We were on Newfoundland’s southwest tip. The island is bigger than you might think. The first road sign we saw proclaimed:  St John’s 890 km. But before heading to the capital on the distant Avalon Peninsula we wanted to explore the west of Newfoundland, Gros Morne National Park and L’Anse Aux Meadows, where Leif Erickson established North America’s first European settlement 1,000 years ago, 500 years before Columbus set foot on Hispaniola in the sunny Caribbean.

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The drive north from Port Aux Basques was slow going. Along the highway, workers were repairing the new transmission line from Muskrat Falls in neighbouring Labrador. This project has been an expensive undertaking—and considered by many Newfoundlanders as just another dam boondoggle. Many Islanders also still bristle at the mention of Churchill Falls, a hydroelectric legacy from the era of Joey Smallwood, Canada’s last Father of Confederation.

Fall colours were near peak as we drove past lovely Corner Brook and leafy Marble Mountain. A little further down the TransCanada we made a sharp left at Deer Lake onto Hwy 430, bound for Gros Morne and the rugged west coast. Gros Morne National Park is remarkably diverse. The pebbled shoreline of Rocky Harbour gives way to finger lakes, forming magnificent inland fjords. South, across Bonne Bay, lie the Tablelands where Earth’s mantle has squeezed to the surface and only the odd pitcher plant and a few other hardy species can survive the acidic, infertile soil. And lording over all is Gros Morne, Newfoundland’s second highest mountain, which we intended to climb.

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The night before our ascent we stopped at Park Headquarters to pick up a trail map. “Be careful me-loves,” warned the ranger, “specially if you see a tick fag.”

“We most certainly will,” I assured her, glancing over my shoulder. In the morning, low dense clouds roiled out over the sea but the sky above Gros Morne was crystal clear. No tick fag up there.

The hard part about summiting Gros Morne Mountain isn’t the summit itself. The top is flat as a pancake, a broad sparse plain where caribou graze on lichen and rock ptarmigan nest. The difficult portion of the ascent is ‘the Gully’ a breathless hour of bouldering through frost-shattered rock that precedes the Arctic tundra of the plateau.

“Big Lone Mountain” tops out at 806 metres and since the hike starts pretty much at sea level, the elevation gain is just that. As we exited the Gully, our calm fall day rapidly deteriorated into wintery conditions atop the windswept barren. We snapped a quick pic at the signpost marking the high point before scurrying toward the descent on the far side of the mesa. There we met two young women who had stopped for a terrifying selfie on the precipice overlooking Ten Mile Pond. I could barely stand upright as we screamed at each other over the wind. The Parks Canada brochure warns trekkers to be prepared for an arduous climb and that “hikers have fallen… and died.” Watching the gals pose near the cliff in this gale, I wondered, “Fallen? More likely blown from the ledge.”

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That night, at the Ocean View Hotel in Rocky Harbour, we enjoyed our first Newfoundland kitchen party, where we were screeched in and kissed the cod, courtesy of host Dave Shears. I joined him on stage for a couple of songs. “Stick around and strum a few after the others have left,” he offered, “and we’ll have a cuffer ‘bout dis and dat.”

So, long after the cod had been smooched, the screech inned and the bar doors barred, we were still singing, quaffing—and trading yarns with our convivial hosts.

Western Brook Pond is a glacier-carved, masterpiece of nature. A boat ride on this fresh-water fjord is mandatory for any visit to Gros Morne. But check the forecast. You might find after your 40-minute walk from the parking area to the pier that the cruise has been cancelled due to foul weather. Even then, the 2 km hike through Tuckamore Forest, with long stretches of boardwalk over peaty bogs and around fragile wetlands, is worth the amble. Luckily we had a good day for it.

The boat meandered slowly to the far end of the long, narrow lake, squeezing between sheer cliffs, 750 m high. Everywhere waterfalls cascaded to the surface from the dizzying heights. Since Newfoundland is a land of perpetual music, even the boat’s crew couldn’t refrain from scratching their musical itch during the two-hour tour. When not attending to his maritime duties, the first mate played the spoons. Passengers clapped accompaniment and Celtic jigs blared over the ship’s loudspeakers.

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The next evening the live entertainment continued at the Gros Morne Music Festival in Cow Head with fiddling, percussion and sad, acapella ballads recounting the hard life of early Newfoundlanders. After midnight, walking back to our campground, the wind began to freshen. At 3 a.m. we were shaken awake by a strong sou’ wester—and slept only in fits and starts for the rest of the night.

Our plan was to hit the road early for the 350 km drive to L’Anse aux Meadows on the extreme tip of the Northern Peninsula. But by morning the gusts were blowing in at 100 kph—a sad portent for motor home travel. We decided to hunker down and wait out the tempest. But one by one our resolute fellow campers pulled up stakes. Soon we were the sole remainders. Suffering from FOMO, I threw caution to the gale-force wind, pulled out onto the narrow, winding highway and, as they say in Newfoundland, steered north “down the coast.”

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