The ship sang its own songs as the wind strummed the stringers of the railings with a heavy hand. The woodwinds added a compelling crescendo played by powerful gusts around window seals and doors. The tiny flashing light at Fishing Point beat the rhythm, its point of illumination coming and going, obscured by fleeting squalls.
Outside the bight of St. Anthony’s Harbour, whitecaps drew abstract patterns over the dark sea as we waited for daylight to beckon us inside. The sun was not bothered by gales and such. It made its appearance in style with golden highlights on a navy sea and a rainbow from bow to bow. We sailed toward this technicoloured tunnel only to find that our destination was to be our reward.
“When two courses are open, take the most venturesome.”
Sir Wilfred T. Grenfell
The Great Northern Peninsula of Newfoundland seems to be an index finger pointing north, directing all and sundry to the far reaches of Arctic Canada. “Up there” is certainly the “path less travelled on.” How appropriate it is that Sir Wilfred chose this peninsula as his base for his medical missions. There was no need to imagine how his senses were shocked upon returning from high latitudes. We knew. We have been there too. Green is a colour that has long been absent from our world. A tiny taste was to be had two days ago but today, everything was green. Dark verdant conifers climbed the hillsides above the town while alder and birch were adorned with a paler shade. The understory of the woods too was lush with hints of autumn colour. The Arctic has a smell of its own, so different from the hints of wood and vegetation that wafted from under our feet as we tested the feel of the mossy forest floor and the grass of urban lawns.
How did the Vikings feel when they landed on this fingertip more than a thousand years ago? Was the shore a welcome sight after their long sea voyage? They too came from north to south. L’anse aux Meadows National Historic Site protects the remnants of their sojourn upon these shores. Standing by the grassy covered foundations of dwellings with the wind upon our faces, we tried to envision the emotions felt as they sailed into their tiny harbour. For a period of time they created a comfortable life as exhibited by a troupe of re-enactors. Their visit was fleeting, a matter of a few years. Ours must be much shorter as we continue on, slipping through the Strait of Belle Isle, bound for the western shore.
