Our Newfoundland and Labrador Adventures: Part I

Newfoundland and Labrador is the kind of place that stays with you long after you leave its jagged shores behind. It is a place where the expansive and intimate intertwine, where formidable landscapes are sprinkled with small, colourful communities nestled in coves and tucked away in sheltered harbours. It is a place where wind is made visible and fog is as much part of the landscape as the land and sea. It is a place that braids together stories of the Earth’s billion-year-old history and those of people who have called this part of the world home into a unique and distinct identity.

It is known by different names. Mi’kmaq, who have lived across Atlantic Canada long before Europeans “found” this land, call Newfoundland Ktaqmkuk, which could mean either “the larger shore” or “the other shore.” Newfoundland’s Inuktitut name is Ikkarumikluak (ᐃᒃᑲᕈᒥᒃᓗᐊᒃ), “place of many shoals,” while Labrador is called Nunatsuak (ᓄᓇᑦᓱᐊᒃ), meaning “the big land.” With many of its early settlers coming from Ireland, the island also has an Irish Gaelic name – Talamh an Éisc, “the Fishing Grounds” or “the Land of Fish.” The Norse, the first Europeans to reach the shores of North America, referred to it as Vinland, the name that covered Newfoundland as well as Nova Scotia and coastal New Brunswick, while calling Labrador Markland.

People continue to flock to Newfoundland and Labrador’s shores: some in hopes of making a home here, others, like us, just visiting, at least for now. This was our second trip to Canada’s easternmost province. (Read about our first visit here and here). We returned to some familiar places and visited new spots. Three weeks, six ferry crossings, many vibrant communities, numerous challenging trails, and never-ending breathtaking vistas later, we’ve fallen deeper in love with this incredible place.

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Road Trip 2023: Goblins, Canyons and Sands of Time

Between visiting my brother in California, exploring new parks in Utah, trekking down to the bottom of the Grand Canyon and hiking in Colorado – our 2023 road trip promised to be epic. Unfortunately, we had to cut it short so the mountains of Colorado remain untouched by our hiking boots. And even though my mountain soul was really looking forward to that part of our trip, the Rockies have been around for almost 80 million years so I figured they will still be there in a year or two when we make our way back to Colorado. Plus, our truncated trip already featured quite a few beautiful places and exciting adventures. We returned with thousands of pictures, even more great memories and loads of sand in different colours – from the red sands of Utah to the yellow ones of California – tucked away in our camping equipment and clothing. So here are a few highlights.

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The Poetry and Prose of Backpacking the Coastal Hiking Trail in Pukaskwa

“This trail has been described as challenging,” says the park ranger flipping through her orientation binder. We stifle a nervous laugh, still trying to embrace the enormity of what we are about to undertake – backpacking the entire 60-kilometre Coastal Hiking Trail in Pukaskwa National Park on the north shore of Lake Superior. There and back, plus a detour to Picture Rock Harbour – totalling 130 kilometres over nine days. A significant distance even on the flattest of terrains, let alone what has been rated as one of the most challenging trails in Canada.

Map of Pukaskwa National Park and Garmin InReach
The Coastal Hiking Trail in Pukakswa National Park is no walk in the park.
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Sunrise in the time of COVID: Part II

Last year, when the word ‘pandemic’ split our world into the before and after, I headed to Lake Ontario to watch the sunrise – my attempt to find an anchor, something to hold on to in the face of uncertainty. Last week, I found myself on the same spot at Humber Bay Park, next to an uprooted tree trunk, stripped and polished by water into a work of art – a foreground for many of my Lake Ontario pictures. A few of its roots and branches had gone missing since last year – a big triangular shape that had worked so well for framing the CN Tower was now gone. Other than that the scene looked no different from last year – the same fiery orange paint spilled along the edge of the sky in anticipation of the big star’s entry, the same comforting lull of the lake…

Same spot, two images a year apart

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A look back: 2020 in pictures and words

Early morning is my favourite time of the day. As I lie in bed, eyes still closed, I savour the silence, interrupted only by deep breathing and an occasional snore from my husband and kids. I finally open my eyes and look through the window – craggy silhouettes of Green Mountains slowly come into focus. It takes me a few minutes to remember it’s January 1st. Which means 2021 is here. And even though in this tiny cabin in southern Quebec, in the presence of eons-old peaks, time units like years seem ridiculously arbitrary and inconsequential, even though I am fully aware that pandemics and other global crises don’t follow a calendar, I still can’t help that growing sense of relief. 2020 is finally over.    

view of Green Mountains at AU Diable Vert in Quebec in the winter
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Backpacking in Pukaskwa: Superior Adventure or Why Leave the Comforts of Indoors

“Humans have spent centuries perfecting the indoors,” notes my older son as he moves closer to the campfire. “Only for you to drag us all the way here to battle the elements.”

I know he’s only half-joking. This is the first night of our backpacking trip at Pukaskwa. We’ve just spent half a day hiking in the pouring rain, at times through ankle deep water and a good portion of the trail over slippery rocks. So I can see why our kids are not particularly excited about the whole endeavour. And while our younger son simmers quietly by the fire waiting for food, the older one launches into one of his philosophical arguments.

Once we get some chili into them and dry clothes on them, the mood improves considerably. But I can still feel spoken and unspoken doubts floating around under our green tarp, getting trapped in the criss-cross of clothing lines that spot everything from t-shirts to socks to underwear, wrapped in a dense coat of smoke courtesy of wet firewood. Eventually, we pack our edible stuff into the food locker and retreat into our tents. Maybe not the type of indoors our older son had in mind, but the best shelter for this particular moment. As I fall asleep to the fading beat of raindrops against the nylon, I start wondering what we are searching for on the wildest of Lake Superior’s shores.

sunrise on Lake Superior in Pukaskwa National Park
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The power of Gi chi Gamiing – Lake Superior in every way

We drive around another bend on Highway 17 and my heart cracks open: framed by the green hills, a canvas of the brightest blue stretches all the way to the horizon until it merges with the sky. This is not our first trip to Lake Superior, yet every time we come here, its power strikes me in new, unexpected ways. Every time I feel my brain, my eyes, my heart are too ill-equipped to embrace the immense beauty of Gi chi Gamiing. Everything is exaggerated here: dramatic views, overwhelming rage, fiery sunsets, deep calm painted in cotton candy colours, sudden mood swings. More than anything, Lake Superior is a study in extremes.

dramatic sunset on Agawa Bay on stormy Lake Superior

Lake Superior is a study in extremes: the rage, the calm, the immense beauty – everything is exaggerated here. Continue reading

On change and connection at Point Pelee

I’ve been thinking about change lately. And not only because the world is suspended in a grey space between the fall lushness and the white splendour of winter. Or because we are about to put another decade behind us. Our family is going through a change as well. Not a massive seismic shift. More of a gentle, gradual transformation, like the water reshaping the shore of the lake or the forest constantly redrawing its contours.

southernmost point of mainland Canada at Point Pelee National Park Continue reading

In the Tall Grass: Microadventuring in Windsor

The sound of waves slowly fills up the space around me to the point where nothing else can fit in. I feel my eyelids get heavy under the sun’s gentle kisses. My body sinks into a tree trunk, slowly adjusting to bumps and cracks like a memory-foam mattress, until it merges with the driftwood, polished and white like a bone of a giant prehistoric animal. The sound of waves seeps into my skin, fills up my brain, overflows my body. I imagine myself one of the sand grains tucked into cracks in the wood. After what feels like eternity, I finally open my eyes. Gulls pierce the air with their impossible screeches, clouds of birds covering the sky. I sit up and notice a woman watching me intently not too far away.

driftwood on the beach

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A serious case of butterflies

Butterflies have been plentiful this year. All day they flutter by my office window, flaunting their exquisite dance moves and the kind of freedom that is only possible if you have wings. Lured by their charm and hoping to finally capture them in their glorious multitudes, I grab my camera and head to Colonel Samuel Smith Park near Lake Ontario. After an hour of unsuccessful wandering around, I am finally rewarded with a butterfly mosaic clustered in a tree. And while they don’t amount to millions, like in this story from University of Ottawa biology professor Jeremy Kerr about his visit to the monarchs’ overwintering site in Mexico, it is still a mesmerizing sight.

monarch butterflies in a tree Continue reading