The southern trails were in sharp contrast to Western Brook Pond fjord. I’d hiked for an hour through low, but lush vegetation to arrive at a jetty where the tour boat would head out. I was told they weren’t sure when the next sail would be because the weather looked ominous. The only family waiting and I shrugged our shoulders. We’d taken the hike, so might as well see how the day turned out.
Luckily after an hour, the ride was back on and we passed into a wilderness where caribou herds came through the mountains annually to cross the fjord and mate on the opposite side. The mountaintops were covered in mist, but as we journeyed to the end of the fjord, the clouds lifted allowing patches of blue sky to peep through.
I’d been struggling with Newfoundland music for some time on this trip. There was none of the magical Leahy style that I’d come to associate with the island. The music was like old Australian ballads early settlers sang that needed to be put to rest. As I sat on the boat, letting the wind whip through my hair, the captain turned up the dreadful sound and low and behold, I could tell who was from Newfoundland and who was a tourist.
The locals raised their voices to something along the lines of being proud to be a Newfoundlander until I was ready to invest in earplugs. Fortunately, I safely made it back to land and along a path that only sang with the wind.