Newfoundland: Port aux Basque to Francois in detail
Newfoundland is truly a magnificent place. The hospitality is unbeatable.
Less than 24 hours after our arrival in Port aux Basques a man offered us a pile of fresh mackerel fillets. Now mackerel is an oily bait fish which some people eat, but I’ve never tried it, nor has Kenny. I managed to unload some of it on another cruiser who told me she fried it and found it delicious. The Quebecois cruisers politely declined to take any, so now we have eight fillets in the freezer awaiting culinary inspiration.
Ivan said the unfortunate thing about the incident was that all the town of Burgeo was blamed when it was only a handful of folks who were shooting at the whale.
“I was only 12 then, but I knew what they was doing was wrong.”
Today, Sunday August 9, we find ourselves on the Island of Ramea about 10 miles from Burgeo. Our arrival was fraught with the usual stress and confusion about where to tie up. The old fish plant wharf was decaying. The outside of the ferry wharf was too exposed to waves and the public wharf was full of fishing boats. Finally a boat moved from the wharf and we dashed in. A nice man caught our lines and then the throngs came out for a look at us.
It is the opening day of their “Come Home” festival and we arrived just in time for the parade complete with a puffin mascot, floats, marching veterans, ambulance and fire truck. Best damned parade I ever saw. Short and sweet. The marching band consisted of a glockenspiel and bass drum. There is a festive air in the town as people long gone return to bask in the warmth of family and friends. This afternoon many different musical groups will perform, so we’ve got to get out there and check it out.
(Two days later)
Well, we did check out the music, and it was a hell of a wang dang doodle. Hundreds of people were gathered under a tent placed over the outdoor hockey arena. Three bands played for an hour each. Kenny describes their music as “Cajun polka meets Celtic.” Several couples got out on the dance floor and jigged up a storm.
We now find ourselves in the beautiful town of Francois, which is as far from a road as you can get in Atlantic Canada. Strangely, the small island of Ramea does have roads. Approaching Francois by boat is like driving into the crater of a volcano. The town sits on the bottom by the water. The hiking trails go on forever and the views of rocky mountains go on and on and on… We are rafted up to our buddies Phil and Karen. Dinner aboard their boat last night. Dinner on Mary T tonight.
This is probably the end of the road for us. We’ll anchor in some deserted fjords on our way back west along the coast, then cross back over to Nova Scotia before the end of the month and start heading southwest, retracing our steps. If all goes well, we’ll arrive back in the Chesapeake Bay before the end of October.
Less than 24 hours after our arrival in Port aux Basques a man offered us a pile of fresh mackerel fillets. Now mackerel is an oily bait fish which some people eat, but I’ve never tried it, nor has Kenny. I managed to unload some of it on another cruiser who told me she fried it and found it delicious. The Quebecois cruisers politely declined to take any, so now we have eight fillets in the freezer awaiting culinary inspiration.
Later that day our new cruising buddies Karen and Phil met a man who offered to drive them to the gas station for diesel and I hitched a ride. The man was originally from Ontario, but he was infected with Newfie generosity. He wanted nothing in return for his trouble.
In Port aux Basques and now here in Rose Blanche, a lot of people like to come by and just stare at the boat. Most of them are retired men over 60. They’re always happy to chat and tell us about their lives and how great the fishing used to be back in the day. Things are tough now, but most people maintain a chipper outlook despite hard times.
In Cape Breton, NS too, all the people seemed so happy no matter what they were doing. The employees at the grocery store, hardware store, liquor store, and post office all provided service with a smile. A woman who worked at the grocery store in St. Peters, Cape Breton joyfully volunteered to give us a ride back to the boat with our groceries. Our new cruising friend, Phil says it’s a product of good social engineering. Just about everyone is solidly middle-class and they all have health insurance. That isn’t to say they don’t complain about the government.
Mary T was the only sailboat among local fishing boats on the wharf at Rose Blanche, population 600. Opposite us there was a warehouse where fishermen store gear and bait their hooks. I stepped in there one morning and chatted them up while they slapped squid and mackerel on their long lines of 300 hooks. They explained to me how they set their lines and informed me that the government quota was 3000 lbs. of cod per week. People are allowed to fish for three weeks in July and 2 weeks in October. There was a complete moratorium on cod fishing from 1992 to 1998, but now things are up and running again, though it ain’t nearly as good as it used to be. “Hard to catch anything nowadays. Seals are eatin’ all the fish,” one man explained. Time to get back out there and start clubbing the baby seals again, I thought.
Rose Blanche is a gorgeous little seaside village perched on the cliffs. We heard about a hiking trail leading to the next village of Harbor Le Cou. Stopping at the only convenience store, we asked for directions to the trail. A woman named Shanda, who worked there, ended up driving us all the way to Harbor Le Cou so we could see the route by road. I expressed an interest in the whereabouts of the liquor store, so she stopped there for us. After a complete tour of Harbour Le Cou and Rose Blanche, Shanda dropped us off at the beginning of the hiking trail. She even let us keep our wine in her truck so we wouldn’t have to carry it on the trail. “You know where I park it, so just pick up your wine when you get back from your hike.”
The hike was spectacular. When the fog cleared the views of endless moss covered cliffs plunging into the sea were spectacular. On our return trip, we were followed by a small, black Lab who felt the need to escort us all the way back to Rose Blanche. Even the dogs in Newfoundland go above and beyond to make visitors feel at home.
After spending two nights in Rose Blanche, we moved on to the village of Grand Bruit as did Phil and Karen on their Alden 44, Challenge. Phil is a retired physician bent on reforming the health care system. His partner, Karen, used to work for Blue Cross Blue Shield. They are good company and easy to be with. It’s a good thing, because we seem to be on the same schedule. In Grand Bruit, there was only room for one boat at the floating dock so Mary T and Challenge rafted up together. It’s difficult to anchor in some places because of the rocky bottom.
If Rose Blanche is cute as a button, then Grand Bruit (Great Noise) is a 3 button village. It gets it’s name from the thunderous waterfall at the head of the harbor. Colorful saltbox homes dot the hills on either side of the waterfall. A paved sidewalk weaves up and down the hills connecting all the homes. The waterfall is fed by a fresh water pond just on the other side of the hill and beyond that are cliffs and mountain ranges as far as the eye can see. Kenny and I took a dip in the pond. The water was gorgeous. Apart from Karen, who joined us, the place was deserted.
During our wanderings, we stopped to chat with some men on a porch. I asked them about the “Cramalott Inn,” a postage stamp sized building on the hill from which canned music was emanating. It turned out to be the local hangout. Bring your own booze or food or instrument and make a party. Adorning the walls of the interior of the “Cramalott” are calendars of buxom women in bathing suits and photos of a bygone era showing Grand Bruit Harbor packed with fishing schooners. If we return to Grand Bruit on our return trip, we’ll surely make a point to rock the “Cramalott Inn.”
There is no road in Grand Bruit, so the tiny town is slowly dying. The government is talking about moving everyone out and cutting off all services to the 50 or so residents who remain. Since the decline of the fisheries and the closing of fish plants, many towns have been shut down or declined severely in population. To survive many men go to work in the oil fields in Alberta five months out of the year. It made me sad thinking about this as we walked about the town and surrounding hills. In Grand Bruit, it seems outsiders are slowly buying up all the properties. Not sure how they’ll manage if the government pulls the electricity and cuts off the ferry service…
As in Rose Blanche, we had a black Lab accompany us on our hike over the surrounding hills in Grand Bruit. We learned that her name was “Molly” and she too, was a perfect tour guide. At one point, she came running up to us with a large bone in her mouth. We joked that it looked like a human thigh bone. Later, we learned that there were several gravesites at the local cemetery that were deteriorating. Hmmm, guess we shouldn’t have tossed it for the dog to chase.
At the end of our walk, we stopped by the porch again to visit with the fellas and one of them mentioned Caribou. I asked if people did much Caribou hunting these days. I noticed horns adorning many a lintel in Grand Bruit. “Well,” the man said, “not too much anymore. Coyotes killing all the Caribou. And sometimes they don’t even eat it. Just do it to kill. They’re predators, ya know. They was brought here from the mainland.”
“You mean the government, introduced Coyotes here? Why?"
“Don’t know…. leave it to the government.”
That night we had a delightful dinner aboard “Challenge” and planned the next day’s adventure.
We departed Grand Bruit on Friday under sunny skies and light winds and motor sailed to Burgeo, the site of Canadian author, Farley Mowat’s A Whale for the Killing. About 50 years ago a whale was trapped in an inlet and some of the town folks started using it for target practice. Farley alerted the international media in hopes of saving the whale, but he only succeeded in gaining the contempt of many of the townsfolk. In the end, the poor whale died.
Geographically stunning but architecturally purposeful Burgeo nonetheless, has fuel, food and entertainment. Jimmy Flynn, “The Funny Fisherman,” was to perform Friday night at the rec. center. We elected to go despite being in an anchorage a half mile away and having no idea where the rec center was. If Jimmy only knew the lengths we went to catch his act… His one-man comedy/music show consisted primarily of bawdy jokes and popular folk songs like Whiskey in the Jar. It didn’t have much to do with fishing or Newfoundland, so we were a little disappointed.
Our trip back to Mary T was an adventure as there were no lights to guide us through the very narrow passage way to our anchorage. Thank goodness we brought our big spotlight with us in the dinghy.
The next day I went off with Phil and Karen to find diesel. We were only on the road for ten paces with our fuel jugs in hand, when two trucks stopped to offer us a lift. Ivan Lushman was headed for the gas station anyway, so we went with him. Not only did he take us to the gas station, but took us for a tour of the town. He even pointed out the entrance to the inlet where Farley Mowat’s whale had been trapped. Ivan was only 12 years old at the time, and his father and friend took Farley Mowat in their skiff to go and feed the ailing whale. Ivan said the unfortunate thing about the incident was that all the town of Burgeo was blamed when it was only a handful of folks who were shooting at the whale.
“I was only 12 then, but I knew what they was doing was wrong.”
In Port aux Basques and now here in Rose Blanche, a lot of people like to come by and just stare at the boat. Most of them are retired men over 60. They’re always happy to chat and tell us about their lives and how great the fishing used to be back in the day. Things are tough now, but most people maintain a chipper outlook despite hard times.
In Cape Breton, NS too, all the people seemed so happy no matter what they were doing. The employees at the grocery store, hardware store, liquor store, and post office all provided service with a smile. A woman who worked at the grocery store in St. Peters, Cape Breton joyfully volunteered to give us a ride back to the boat with our groceries. Our new cruising friend, Phil says it’s a product of good social engineering. Just about everyone is solidly middle-class and they all have health insurance. That isn’t to say they don’t complain about the government.
Mary T was the only sailboat among local fishing boats on the wharf at Rose Blanche, population 600. Opposite us there was a warehouse where fishermen store gear and bait their hooks. I stepped in there one morning and chatted them up while they slapped squid and mackerel on their long lines of 300 hooks. They explained to me how they set their lines and informed me that the government quota was 3000 lbs. of cod per week. People are allowed to fish for three weeks in July and 2 weeks in October. There was a complete moratorium on cod fishing from 1992 to 1998, but now things are up and running again, though it ain’t nearly as good as it used to be. “Hard to catch anything nowadays. Seals are eatin’ all the fish,” one man explained. Time to get back out there and start clubbing the baby seals again, I thought.
Rose Blanche is a gorgeous little seaside village perched on the cliffs. We heard about a hiking trail leading to the next village of Harbor Le Cou. Stopping at the only convenience store, we asked for directions to the trail. A woman named Shanda, who worked there, ended up driving us all the way to Harbor Le Cou so we could see the route by road. I expressed an interest in the whereabouts of the liquor store, so she stopped there for us. After a complete tour of Harbour Le Cou and Rose Blanche, Shanda dropped us off at the beginning of the hiking trail. She even let us keep our wine in her truck so we wouldn’t have to carry it on the trail. “You know where I park it, so just pick up your wine when you get back from your hike.”
The hike was spectacular. When the fog cleared the views of endless moss covered cliffs plunging into the sea were spectacular. On our return trip, we were followed by a small, black Lab who felt the need to escort us all the way back to Rose Blanche. Even the dogs in Newfoundland go above and beyond to make visitors feel at home.
After spending two nights in Rose Blanche, we moved on to the village of Grand Bruit as did Phil and Karen on their Alden 44, Challenge. Phil is a retired physician bent on reforming the health care system. His partner, Karen, used to work for Blue Cross Blue Shield. They are good company and easy to be with. It’s a good thing, because we seem to be on the same schedule. In Grand Bruit, there was only room for one boat at the floating dock so Mary T and Challenge rafted up together. It’s difficult to anchor in some places because of the rocky bottom.
If Rose Blanche is cute as a button, then Grand Bruit (Great Noise) is a 3 button village. It gets it’s name from the thunderous waterfall at the head of the harbor. Colorful saltbox homes dot the hills on either side of the waterfall. A paved sidewalk weaves up and down the hills connecting all the homes. The waterfall is fed by a fresh water pond just on the other side of the hill and beyond that are cliffs and mountain ranges as far as the eye can see. Kenny and I took a dip in the pond. The water was gorgeous. Apart from Karen, who joined us, the place was deserted.
During our wanderings, we stopped to chat with some men on a porch. I asked them about the “Cramalott Inn,” a postage stamp sized building on the hill from which canned music was emanating. It turned out to be the local hangout. Bring your own booze or food or instrument and make a party. Adorning the walls of the interior of the “Cramalott” are calendars of buxom women in bathing suits and photos of a bygone era showing Grand Bruit Harbor packed with fishing schooners. If we return to Grand Bruit on our return trip, we’ll surely make a point to rock the “Cramalott Inn.”
There is no road in Grand Bruit, so the tiny town is slowly dying. The government is talking about moving everyone out and cutting off all services to the 50 or so residents who remain. Since the decline of the fisheries and the closing of fish plants, many towns have been shut down or declined severely in population. To survive many men go to work in the oil fields in Alberta five months out of the year. It made me sad thinking about this as we walked about the town and surrounding hills. In Grand Bruit, it seems outsiders are slowly buying up all the properties. Not sure how they’ll manage if the government pulls the electricity and cuts off the ferry service…
As in Rose Blanche, we had a black Lab accompany us on our hike over the surrounding hills in Grand Bruit. We learned that her name was “Molly” and she too, was a perfect tour guide. At one point, she came running up to us with a large bone in her mouth. We joked that it looked like a human thigh bone. Later, we learned that there were several gravesites at the local cemetery that were deteriorating. Hmmm, guess we shouldn’t have tossed it for the dog to chase.
At the end of our walk, we stopped by the porch again to visit with the fellas and one of them mentioned Caribou. I asked if people did much Caribou hunting these days. I noticed horns adorning many a lintel in Grand Bruit. “Well,” the man said, “not too much anymore. Coyotes killing all the Caribou. And sometimes they don’t even eat it. Just do it to kill. They’re predators, ya know. They was brought here from the mainland.”
“You mean the government, introduced Coyotes here? Why?"
“Don’t know…. leave it to the government.”
That night we had a delightful dinner aboard “Challenge” and planned the next day’s adventure.
We departed Grand Bruit on Friday under sunny skies and light winds and motor sailed to Burgeo, the site of Canadian author, Farley Mowat’s A Whale for the Killing. About 50 years ago a whale was trapped in an inlet and some of the town folks started using it for target practice. Farley alerted the international media in hopes of saving the whale, but he only succeeded in gaining the contempt of many of the townsfolk. In the end, the poor whale died.
Geographically stunning but architecturally purposeful Burgeo nonetheless, has fuel, food and entertainment. Jimmy Flynn, “The Funny Fisherman,” was to perform Friday night at the rec. center. We elected to go despite being in an anchorage a half mile away and having no idea where the rec center was. If Jimmy only knew the lengths we went to catch his act… His one-man comedy/music show consisted primarily of bawdy jokes and popular folk songs like Whiskey in the Jar. It didn’t have much to do with fishing or Newfoundland, so we were a little disappointed.
Our trip back to Mary T was an adventure as there were no lights to guide us through the very narrow passage way to our anchorage. Thank goodness we brought our big spotlight with us in the dinghy.
The next day I went off with Phil and Karen to find diesel. We were only on the road for ten paces with our fuel jugs in hand, when two trucks stopped to offer us a lift. Ivan Lushman was headed for the gas station anyway, so we went with him. Not only did he take us to the gas station, but took us for a tour of the town. He even pointed out the entrance to the inlet where Farley Mowat’s whale had been trapped. Ivan was only 12 years old at the time, and his father and friend took Farley Mowat in their skiff to go and feed the ailing whale. Ivan said the unfortunate thing about the incident was that all the town of Burgeo was blamed when it was only a handful of folks who were shooting at the whale.
“I was only 12 then, but I knew what they was doing was wrong.”
Ivan said the unfortunate thing about the incident was that all the town of Burgeo was blamed when it was only a handful of folks who were shooting at the whale.
“I was only 12 then, but I knew what they was doing was wrong.”
Today, Sunday August 9, we find ourselves on the Island of Ramea about 10 miles from Burgeo. Our arrival was fraught with the usual stress and confusion about where to tie up. The old fish plant wharf was decaying. The outside of the ferry wharf was too exposed to waves and the public wharf was full of fishing boats. Finally a boat moved from the wharf and we dashed in. A nice man caught our lines and then the throngs came out for a look at us.
It is the opening day of their “Come Home” festival and we arrived just in time for the parade complete with a puffin mascot, floats, marching veterans, ambulance and fire truck. Best damned parade I ever saw. Short and sweet. The marching band consisted of a glockenspiel and bass drum. There is a festive air in the town as people long gone return to bask in the warmth of family and friends. This afternoon many different musical groups will perform, so we’ve got to get out there and check it out.
(Two days later)
Well, we did check out the music, and it was a hell of a wang dang doodle. Hundreds of people were gathered under a tent placed over the outdoor hockey arena. Three bands played for an hour each. Kenny describes their music as “Cajun polka meets Celtic.” Several couples got out on the dance floor and jigged up a storm.
We now find ourselves in the beautiful town of Francois, which is as far from a road as you can get in Atlantic Canada. Strangely, the small island of Ramea does have roads. Approaching Francois by boat is like driving into the crater of a volcano. The town sits on the bottom by the water. The hiking trails go on forever and the views of rocky mountains go on and on and on… We are rafted up to our buddies Phil and Karen. Dinner aboard their boat last night. Dinner on Mary T tonight.
This is probably the end of the road for us. We’ll anchor in some deserted fjords on our way back west along the coast, then cross back over to Nova Scotia before the end of the month and start heading southwest, retracing our steps. If all goes well, we’ll arrive back in the Chesapeake Bay before the end of October.
posted by Ken at
1:11 PM
1 Comments:
Great writing, I'm practically there, wish I was!
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