Sat 03 Aug 2019
I winced as I crawled across the floor of the tent to the door-flap. I’d just woken with my usual, everyday backache, then had part-rolled, part-dragged myself off my thin, ground-level airbed – where I’d been squashed all night like a sardine between a small, hard suitcase and the other three who were all rolling downhill onto me – and begun the slow process of getting upright through aches, pains and light-headedness until I could stand up properly outside our small tent. On this occasion, however, there were also sharp pieces of gravel jabbing into my knees (not great for the tent floor either), and I yelped as a particularly excruciating shard of gravel met with a particularly delicate part of my knee.
“Oh, Mummy!” exclaimed May, “Why don’t you just jump up out of bed and walk normally?” To be young...
The morning was clear and sunny, so we drove slightly south and did the James Callaghan Trail to the top of Gros Morne mountain, over and back round and down in a curve. This hike is about 10 miles long starting from near sea level with 2700 feet of climbing, including a relentlessly tough, steep scramble, but the views from the top in every direction are spectacular and make it all worthwhile.
To begin with, the four of us were together on the final scramble section to the top, the girls frequently getting ahead and then waiting for Dave and me to catch up. Soon, however, my stamina and determination came to bear over the girls’ speed and agility: they decided to wait for Dave to catch up and all three then had a short rest. This was my chance to get ahead and, although nowhere near as fast as when we powered up this mountain like steam trains 18 years ago (we didn’t do it 11 years ago, as the mountain path is closed in spring for environmental reasons), my competitive streak suddenly surged through and I reached the top without stopping and without anyone passing me, and I even passed a few people who were half my age.
Realising this might be the last time I beat the girls up a mountain, I let myself enjoy a period of quiet elation as I relaxed, waiting for them, at the top. I sat, marvelling, in a warm feeling of oneness with humankind, as each person, couple or group appeared on the mountaintop – people with a such a range of fitness levels, sizes, shapes, ethnic backgrounds and techniques, all sharing one goal, and achieving it at their own pace and on their own terms, the ascent of Newfoundland’s second highest peak. Full credit to every one of them.
The four in our party (i.e., myself, the girls and Dave) reached the summit from the car park within 2 hours. On the way up, we greeted a few people coming down who had camped out on the mountainside last night and passed a friendly, Japanese guided walking group from Toronto heading the same way as us, the ladies all with immaculate hair and make up despite the day of hillwalking ahead of them.
[Use arrows or swipe to scroll photos] At the summit, and more views. The cover shot over Bonne Bay was the way we’d ascended. In other directions, we have the Long Range Mountains with their rugged flat tops, elevated ponds and hanging valleys pouring waterfalls, all dotted with fair-weather cumulus clouds, and the scenic, water-filled, U-shaped valley of Ten Mile Pond draining out towards the sea.
We ate a picnic lunch near the top, then continued on the circuitous route down through Ferry Gulch along rugged, ankle-turning rock paths for a few hours, where we saw a close-up brown rock ptarmigan blended almost completely against the rocks (someone pointed it out to us) and a mother and baby moose, as well as passing the impressive Crow Cliff. By the time we reached the car, the girls and I had walked 50 miles (and Dave 55 miles) during our 10 days in Newfoundland so far.
As planned, we drove to Zach’s house after finishing the Gros Morne walk ... only to find that, whilst his wife (Kay) and daughter were at home, Zach himself wasn’t there. It transpired that he was out at Berry Hill campsite, trying to find us. He had been out there early this morning, looking for us: we were there, but it is a large site and there was no-one at reception to ask, so he didn’t manage to find us. Then, this afternoon, he had tried the car park and first part of the trail leading to Gros Morne mountain, but we had already descended and were driving to his house by then. Now, he was trying the campsite again (and obviously found someone at reception to ask this time as, when we returned just in time for bed, we found a note from Zach tied to our tent). It seems incredible that, in this day and age, sometimes the only way to communicate is to make a personal visit – which is what both Zach and we had resorted to! Kay rang Zach to summon him back home, and it was lovely to catch up ... and coming to Zach’s house after climbing Gros Morne mountain had a lovely symmetry with when we first met 18 years ago. (More on this in Friday’s flashback.)
We had intended to make a short visit, perhaps have a cup of tea, then head back to the campsite for dinner, as we would be coming back to stay with Zach and Kay in a couple of days’ time. But, when Zach and Kay asked if we’d like to join them for some food – “just a bit of soup with bread, and some biscuits” – it seemed an attractive option compared with the alternative of heading back to the campsite for another attempt at shifting our excess of tomato sauce and pasta (and cooking over a single ring and washing up in a miniature bowl after a long walk to the facilities). We had a long, hard think and, 0.3 seconds later, said we’d love some food.
When it transpired that the soup was a homemade, vegetable and moose soup (the moose being one that Zach had caught and prepared last winter with some friends), that there were two varieties of bread (both homemade completely by hand) and about 4-5 types of biscuit (also all homemade), and that any of Kay’s baking could be entered in a competition and win across the board, there was no doubt that we’d made 100% the right decision.
Reluctantly, we left Zach and Kay’s soon after eating as we had planned to go along to the ranger-led campfire beside the lighthouse at Lobster Cove Head near Rocky Harbour just before bed.
The ranger, Kevin, engaged everyone with his historic tales told around a roaring campfire and his emphasis on the philosophy of ‘take only what you need’, before he arranged us into a ‘medicine circle’ and took us through a traditional and meditative routine. Although we later heard from Zach that Kevin’s island ancestry isn’t quite so authentic as he would have people believe (Zach turned out to know every single ranger we met during our time in Gros Morne National Park, and he and his family are still considered relative newbies in this part of Newfoundland, having moved here only around 50 years ago, so it obviously takes a long time to be considered ‘authentic’ around these parts), Kevin was still an interesting, powerful and persuasive speaker.
Being completely honest, he was slightly preaching to the converted (on our part) when he spoke about not wasting food. He asked those in the campfire circle what we do with food that’s past its sell-by date, expecting everyone to murmur, “Throw it out.” Instead, I told him that I look at it, smell it and, if it seems O.K., eat it. If in doubt, I cook it thoroughly first.
I could have gone further and told him that, if it has mouldy bits – say, on a piece of cheese – I cut them off and eat the rest, whereas Dave will happily eat even the mould whilst the rest of us look on aghast. I could have regaled him with the story of when I turned our freezer off for 7 days by mistake just as we set off for a short holiday. It was bung-full of food and we returned to a puddle under the freezer and all the food completely defrosted and at various degrees of warmth. All that food wasted. Except it wasn’t. It was my mistake, so I felt it was my job to sort it out. I tested and cooked for 14 hours continuously (instead of unpacking from our holiday or even going to bed) using all four rings of our stove to make three meals at a time until I had completely worked my way through all the defrosted food. I sniffed and carefully tasted in the way recommended for a survival situation, succeeded in throwing away almost nothing, and there were enough meals to last the four of us for the next three weeks.
I could have told him about the time I’d cooked for friends and they were happily tucking into a home-cooked shepherd’s pie that I’d made (for those not from the UK, this is a meat, vegetable and gravy mixture cooked in the oven under a mashed potato topping: delicious!). I asked my guests what they do with their potato peelings when they do mashed potato (mash is one of the rare times I peel potatoes). Most said, ‘Throw them away.’ A couple said, ‘Compost them.’ I rejoined with, ‘Well, I grated them and mixed them into the meat in the base of this pie.’ Their faces were a picture – I think beaten only by the response of the dinner guests when another friend’s grandmother had handmade and cooked up a lovely pastry pudding that they were all tucking into: at which point she innocently commented that, when making pastry dough, it was amazing just how clean your fingernails got.
But no. I didn't tell him any of these things. I took pity and instead let him continue as if there had been no aberration to the usual discourse.
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