Come Near At Your Peril - Dual-Sporting "The Rock"

The songs you sang to us in Russian will be just fine

Only about 85 soggy miles, mostly slab.

Rich is beat, and he's leery of the reported deep gravel. His bike's developed a stumble, probably because of moisture in the fuel. He states that he's going to take a slack day and catch up later. No blame. He's a pilot, and knows that it's far better to be on the ground wishing you were in the air than to be in the air wishing you were on the ground. He rides off in search of gentler terrain, fried clams, and likely conversation with pretty girls. We'll all meet up in Port Aux Basques in a couple of days.

Anton and I point off toward Deer Lake on pavement. Anton's got to stop for a bit. It's once again clear and hot, and I'm simmering in my gear. I tell him I'll wait for him at the beginning of the Trailway in Deer Lake.

The junction of the Trailway is featureless. I end up sitting on a culvert in the sun smoking a cigarette and swilling water from my pack. There's plenty of quad traffic, as it's near noon on a Saturday.

A fellow on a quad stops. His wife is on the pillion, and they're off to Buchans to visit family. They are both interested in the dizzer. The fellow has a KLR 650, and is an avid rider. We discuss dual-sports, tires, and the terrain ahead.

"Watch out for the gravel. It gets really deep. Look out for the sand, also!"

Gulp. "I'll keep an eye out for ya," he exclaims, and is off in a cloud of dust. When they say they'll keep an eye out for you, they mean it here. We'll see the couple again at the grocery store in Buchans.

After a few more minutes, Anton swings into view.

They weren't just whistlin' Dixie about the gravel! Sweet Jaysus, b'yse, in some places it's so deep that the quads don't even leave tracks. There's also a section of sand just outside Howley, and a river crossing at the spillway of a dam. This is by far the most technical section we've done on the Trailway.

I'm running about 12 psi in the trials tires, with rim locks. Anton's running about 15 lbs with the TuBliss system and D606s. We're both glad we took the time to drop the pressures. This run would be suicidal at street inflation.
It's not long before we come to the water crossing.


Photo by Anton

My camera's still suffering issues from the dampness. Anton has an excellent waterproof camera which shrugs the conditions. As soon as I can afford it, I'll get one like it. He is also our videographer. His helmet cam has been taking a beating the last few days:



The crossing is a non-event at this water level, although others have reported that it gets challenging in the rainier seasons. The hill up the other side is a different story. It's steep, reamed-out, with slick soil, loose rock, and a healthy dose of roots. Once again, I'm grateful for my tires. I'd have struggled on other tires, but they make the ascent a walk in the park!

Don't cross here!



This is the place! Finding the road takes a little work. It's off the main Trailway, which is gated across the top of the dam.



After crossing an interesting drawbridge (Anton has video of this) and braving the sand, we're at Howley.

This was the old train station. It's for sale, if anyone needs a train station.



Although we had real fun on the section from Deer Lake to Howley, I'd think twice before attempting it on a heavier bike. It was challenging enough on the 400.

There's gas and groceries at Howley. I fill up, and am engaged in conversation for about 20 minutes before entering the store. They don't make you pay first here. If it was the States, they'd have you in handcuffs for non-payment by that time.

I come in and say I'm sorry for the delay. "Oh, Lord, I knew you were outside talkin'!," the proprietress exclaims. People trust one another here.

Anton and I grab cold drinks and snacks. There's a sign that says "corned fish" is available here. I've never heard of it, although it turns out to be moist salt cod, or "green fish.". The cheerful lady spends time explaining local recipes and how to prepare it. "Have you had th' fish an' brewis yet?," she asks. I say no, no place we've stopped has offered it. Most of our dinners have been catered by Mountain House. She's gravely concerned. "You can't leave without trying fish and brewis."

She calls a fellow over, and a deep conversation ensues. They suggest a number of places where we can sample it, but none are on our route. I don't have the cooking gear to deal with the corned fish, which is not sold by the pound, but by the fish. I've donated my hard bread to the birds, in any event. Next time through.

The Gaff topsails are the most remote section of the Trailway, which is close to the highway for much of its length. It's also the highest section, climbing to nearly 1800 feet. This area was problematic when the trains ran this way. Delays of up to two weeks could occur when the tracks were blocked by snow.

Below are some pictures from http://www.virtualmuseum.ca, which has an interesting history of the line.







In the early days of the line, track maintenance was taken care of by "section men," who occupied small shacks along the way, and had responsibility for their "section" of about a mile. It was a hard, lonely life for them. During one of the railways frequent periods of insolvency in 1925, the railroad attempted to cut the wages for these 600 workers. Joey Smallwood organized the section men by traveling the length of the line and recruiting them into a union. A very good, although highly fictionalized account of Smallwood's journey appears in Newfoundland writer Wayne Johnston's The Colony of Unrequited Dreams.

I'm glad not to have missed this section. Although the riding is hard work, the scenery is otherworldly. There is a risk from trucks and quads here and elsewhere on the Trailway. Some of the quads don't seem to understand that they are much more stable than two wheels on these surfaces, and don't give way. The trucks are not supposed to travel here at all, but that rule is cheerfully ignored. The area is dotted with cottages, and families truck in building materials and supplies.

I'm nearly struck by a truck shortly after Howley, and only save myself by doing a Hail Mary maneuver into the loose gravel and bushes.

I'm glad that we didn't plan an overnight on the Gaff. Most of the likely places to camp are occupied by cottages, and the rest is forbidding tenting. This is no place to bring a hammock, to be sure.

A cluster of cottages on "The Gaff."



Good use for an old caboose:




Photo By Anton


Photo By Anton

Rocks, trees, and water.


Photo by Anton

One of the mountains for which the area is named:



Red Rocks and Mountain Ash:


Photo by Anton

One of the thousands of streams:


Photo by Anton




Photo by Anton

We'll let the photos speak for themselves here:


Photo by Anton


Photo by Anton


Photo by Anton


Photo by Anton


Photo by Anton

This old stone quarry would be a possible place to camp, if it wasn't windy. It's a lot colder up here than it was down in Howley, however.




Photo By Anton


Photo By Anton




Photo By Anton


Photo By Anton


Photo By Anton


Photo By Anton


Photo By Anton


Photo By Anton

I bought a moose lapel pin here when I crossed the T'railway. It has remained on my tank bag and saw me safely across NL on that trip and two others . Howley is also where the moose were introduced to NL in 1904. Did you see the statue and plaque there?

Peter

I saw the moose, but missed the plaque. The diet here would be a lot sparser without moose. We saw moose skulls and bones just about every day, and saw about six live ones. I wish that time allowed going down to Burgeo, as I would have liked to see some caribou. Next time through!

We had a bumper sticker that was popular here that said, "Moose is good food", and so it is.

During our time on the island I heard only one siren and saw the police car using it. There were no other LEO's to be seen. In fact, from my border entry at Callais Maine, all the way to N Sidney and back I saw zero cops.

Maybe these folks require less "supervision"?

Maybe their cops hide better than the ones I see at home?

All too soon, we're across the bridge at Mary March and down to Millertown Junction. This will be our last taste of the Trailway for this trip. We're headed to Buchans and then Red Indian Lake. I know it's possible to follow the old ASARCO mining railway to Buchans from here, but I haven't been able to find any information on it. Later, we'll run into our friend on the quad that I talked to in Deer Lake. He's come down that way, and says that some of the bridges are really bad. When a Newfoundlander says that a road is really bad, it's a good thing to listen. They aren't wimps around here, and I don't see very many Lexus SUVs on the roads.

This little shack may have been a sectionman's cabin. It's right across from the scant remains of the Millertown Junction station.



You can see the remains of the train platform in the foreground. There's an active group of cottages here. It's Saturday afternoon, and it's obvious that some of the residents have been celebrating. A group of men two-up on quads passes us, hooting and hollering.

I saw one or two police trucks. They use pickup trucks up by St. Barbe.

Rural Newfoundland didn't have a police force at all until 1935, although there were police in the larger towns. In 1935, the Newfoundland Ranger force was formed. Although the Rangers were nominally game wardens, their duties went far beyond that. During the fifteen year period until 1950, when the Rangers were joined with the RCMP, only 204 men served in total, and never more than 72 at any given time -- about the size of a police force in a small city.

The Royal Newfoundland Constabulary is the oldest police force in North America, existing since 1729, but only provides enforcement to St. John's and vicinity and Corner Brook on the island, and Labrador City and Churchill falls on the mainland.

With the amount of personal property along the roads here (wood, lobster traps, etc), I'm pretty sure the locals do a good job at self-policing. I know I'd hate to be the one caught stealing another's traps or firewood.

Buchans is interesting in a gritty sort of way. Unlike the seacoast villages which are spread out in an organic plan, Buchans is a grid of similar-looking buildings, obviously a company town. There's a gas pump by the grocery store, which is far larger and better stocked than anything we've visited in a town of this size. They even have items on sale, which I've not seen elsewhere. The sign out front is interesting. They don't roll like that down south!



Anton and I ride around the mine site for a little bit. We certainly don't cover anything but a fraction of it. It stretches for miles.




Photo by Anton

Anton and I head down Red Indian Lake road looking for a place to camp. There's some pleasant views of the lake, but the riding is not particularly interesting. This is a gravel superhighway meant to pull trees out of the woods as quickly and efficiently as possible, and it's apparent they do just that. I would be very cautious riding this road during the week.

There's a big hole in the decking of one of the bridges which wakes me up, though!

Anton finds blueberries:


Photo by Anton

It's obvious that most of the likely camping places by the lake are occupied by cottages. However, to the northwest, away from the lake, there are occasional roads going up the hillside. We turn up one of these. A fellow on a quad is coming down, and he yells that we should watch for washouts.

Washouts are plentiful! I catch this shot of Anton coming out of one of the better ones. My camera isn't quick enough to get the action, so I made it into a half-assed art shot. Yeah, I meant to do that.



We ascend high above the lake, and find a tailor-made campsite. There's plenty of wood around, a fire ring, and a level place to pitch the tents.



The campsite has Anton's seal of approval. It turns out that Adam camped at a similar spot just a little down the road the night previously.



We spend a cold night with a big fire. Coyotes howl off in the distance. We're ringed by stars. What a monumental place!

In Labrador it's very common for stores to close for lunch and supper, and when you're up on the coast often they're not open on the weekends at all.

Not very convenient when you're 300kms from home on a snowmobile.

178 miles and some sporty and challenging sections. Not too shabby.

Somewhere between Millertown and Buchans, the lens pops out of my sunglasses and spins off down the road. If anyone finds a brown-tinted bifocal sunglass lens out that way, you know who it belongs to.