Birding and Whaling on the Avalon Peninsula

On our first day, Bill and I took off for Bay of Bulls--a thirty-minute drive from St. John's--for a bird and whale watching tour operated by O'Brien's Boat Tours. As our boat chugged loudly and pulled away from the dock, our hosts Leslie Ann and Reagan sang traditional folk songs and taught us about various birds and whales. I felt a joyful shock as I spotted the first puffin awkwardly flapping its wings as quickly as possible to stay afloat. Witnessing the puffins for the first time in the wild gave me insight into an unfettered existence, which I would never be able to see in a zoo. As our boat pulled closer to puffins floating on the water, the birds would half-fly, half swim to get away--their flipper-like wings slapping the water as their yellow feet paddled. Eventually the boat approached the four islands which make-up the Witless Bay Ecological Reserve. These grass-covered sea stacks rise straight up out of the ocean, providing isolated, predator-free breeding grounds for 225,000 pairs of puffins. Other birds sighted included the penguin-like Common Murre and the Kittiwake, a small, black-legged gull.

Moving away from the reserve, we headed into the heart of Witless Bay, immediately spotting quick Minke whales gliding through the water. We all perched on the deck rails looking for the tell-tale spray of the more elusive Humpback whale. Once we spotted some, Leslie Ann showed us how to track them by searching for their white fins, which glow an aqua green under water. Later, Bill and I went back to O'Brien's Restaurant to soak in the experience and to enjoy a traditional island lunch of fresh crab, lightly fried cod and "scrunchions," or bits of fried pork skin (which Bill, an avowed foe to pork, refused to try).

On the second day, Bill and I drove our rented mini-van two hours to reach what seemed like the end of the earth--Cape St. Mary's Ecological Reserve. A tiny thumb of cliffs on the ocean, the reserve is home to hundreds of thousands of nesting seabirds, most notably the Northern Gannet--a white, goose-sized bird, with black-tipped wings and a wash of gold on its head and neck.

As we approached the reserve, a thick fog settled in. From the parking lot we started down a gravel path that lead directly into the opaque mist. We traipsed through lush, green meadows where buttercups and wild, blue-flag irises clung to moist, shallow valleys. Silently, like ghosts, local sheep munched grass on the horizon--their white wool blending with the gray skies.

Long before we caught sight of a single bird, we were surrounded by thousands and thousands of squawks and squeaks. The raucous social chorus only grew louder as we approached Bird Rock, an isolated sea stack rising 300 feet out of the sea and just yards from our own rocky outcropping. The dark rock was capped by a carpet of white birds. Gannets were everywhere. There were so many that some flew in and landed on their mates' backs. They challenged each other with open mouthed threats and affectionately tapped each other's beaks. From our precarious perch, we spied the graceful birds gliding on the wind and along the foggy cliffs. After many moments in silence, I took out my binoculars and got a good view of fluffy chicks all over the sea stack. These offspring were so young they could barely move their own weight. Pointing my lenses further down the surrounding cliffs, I spotted Kittiwakes hugging the sheer cliffs and protecting their own grey, fluffy chicks. Even further down, the penguin-like murres huddled on sea splashed rocks, bobbing their heads rhythmically up and down. It was hard to tear ourselves away from this scene, which could easily have been right out of a National Geographic nature special.

In between these excursions, Bill and I were enjoying the comforts of the Winterholme Heritage Inn, a beautiful Victorian mansion, just a five-minute walk from downtown. Patches of lazy country flowers dotted the circular drive, and the lead glass panels in the front door sparkled. Eclectic neo-gothic oak carvings, neo-classical motifs and bronze art-nouveau lamps decorated the interior. Our room, the old billiards room, was fitted with a whirlpool tub for two (or three) and a real, wood-burning fireplace. Other touches included a large window seat and a carved plaster ceiling. The toilet and sink were cleverly hidden behind a large chest, and the shower behind an added wall. Bill found the open bathroom a little embarrassing, but I enjoyed the open spaciousness of our accommodations (other rooms have enclosed bathrooms, inquire when making reservations). The only distractions were the anachronistic silk plants scattered around the room. Dick, his wife Ruby and their staff were gracious inn keepers, providing daily driving directions, a quick fix for an undone pant hem and information about the only Starbucks in Newfoundland. Easy to burn fire logs were left in our room, and, for a fee, candy bars and drinks were available upstairs for midnight snacks.

Venturing beyond our cozy lodging, we took in some historic sights and dined at several excellent restaurants, including the Cabot Club in the Fairmont Hotel Newfoundland. The lodging may look like hundreds of other generic chain hotels, but with one additional perk--a stunning view of St. John's harbor and the Narrows, where two hills pinch the bay into a slim channel out to the Atlantic Ocean. At the restaurant, our hostess quietly ushered us to a table with a magnificent sunset view. Along with perfectly prepared seafood, Bill and I enjoyed some long forgotten, but pleasant standards. Cesar salad prepared fresh and tableside seems to have died out like its 1950's cousin, baked Alaska, but Bill and I found this revived classic quite romantic. We watched as the waiter rolled his cart of ingredients to our table and worked his magic, stopping only to ask us about our garlic and anchovy preferences. The crowning touch was a dainty scoop of patridge berry (local berry similar to a lingonberry) sorbet served between courses on a carved palette of ice.

In search of further culinary adventure, Bill and I enjoyed a meal at the Stone House Renaissance, a more casual, but still elegant, establishment. The proprietors have lovingly restored this 1834 home, with its original stone walls and pine floorboards. Interested in trying some local game, Bill ordered the Caribou and blueberry stew, while I tasted their beef stroganoff (I wasn't quite as adventurous as Bill). We finished off with local berries like the bakeapple, a small yellow berry with a distinct, tart flavor.

When we expressed our interest in local berries to our server, he put his hand to his stomach and exclaimed "I just love Purity's Patridgeberry and Apple Jam." He pointed us in the direction of a supermarket, where Bill and I marveled (or at least I marveled) at some subtle differences between Canadian and American tastes. We purchased not only Purity's Patridgeberry and Apple Jam, but also Purity's taffy-like peanut butter and butter rum flavored kisses, Humpty Dumpty's Ketchup-flavored and Dill Pickle-flavored potato chips, Nestle's bubble-filled Aero Chocolate bars and Hershey's peanut and soft toffee Eat More bars.

Signal Hill was our last stop in St. John's and our first visit to a historic attraction. Park at the visitor and interpretation center to learn more about its history, including its role in military defense and communication since the eighteenth century. Bill and I, however, were more interested in the picturesque views, so we drove to the top of the hill and parked near Cabot Tower, which was built in honor of Queen Victoria's Diamond Jubilee and the 400th anniversary of John Cabot's "Voyage of Discovery." Ignoring the tower, we walked to the edge of the steep hill and watched boats chug past the Cape Spear lighthouse and slip through the Narrows. Picking up a trail which took us down the hill and back toward St. John's, Bill and I enjoyed an overcast, moody view of the entire city. Every step was so engaging that Bill and I couldn't help stopping again and again and taking far too many photographs. Finally, we tore ourselves away so that we could start our journey across Newfoundland to Gros Morne National Park.

Bogs, Fjords and Coastal Bluffs in Gros Morne National Park

Back on Route 430, Bill and I started up the coast for the most northern tip of the island. Unlike many tourists who head this way to visit L'Anse Aux Meadows, where the remains of a viking settlement were found, we came to stay at the much talked about Tickle Inn and to see some icebergs. (A "tickle" is a small narrow channel of water.) Along the western coast we passed many small fishing villages, but as we turned east toward Route 436 we started down a long uninhabited stretch of highway. When we finally turned down the paved road leading to the inn we were afraid that we would drive right into the Atlantic. As we slowly edged forward a parking area came into view. A small and pretty white building with light blue trim and a picket fence sat in the middle of a coastal meadow. Rocky outcroppings formed a ring of islands in the bay. Once inside, Dave showed us our room, which although charmingly decorated with floral wallpaper and a handmade quilt was probably the smallest room we've ever stayed in. We didn't even bother to try and bring our suitcases in--we just lived out of the car for two days. As were lying in bed (there wasn't room to do very much else!), waiting for dinner, we whispered like sleep-away camp bunkmates. (When making reservations ask about the two rooms closest to the ocean--they're significantly larger than the room we stayed in.)

The Tickle Inn is truly a community experience. After coming down to the living room a little before dinner, we got to know our fellow guests. Eating cheese and crackers and enjoying a glass of sherry, I also listened to Dave tell stories about local ship wrecks and the famous doctor who delivered his brother. At dinner, instead of providing the usual ice cubes, Dave brought out a bowl of "bergie bits" or fragments broken off of an iceberg. Dave collects them in June during the height of the ice berg season and saves them in his freezer to share with his guests. We supped on an incredible meal of tomato-orange soup, creamy seafood topped with puff pastry and triple-berry flan, which was out of this world. After dinner, Dave's tutelage continued in the living room with more local stories and some singing.

Throughout our stay, Dave, his wife Barbara, and his cousin Sophie tried to make our trip as comfortable and memorable as possible, from offering to lend us umbrellas and rain gear to providing great recommendations for lunch. Sophie and Barbara even ran to get me whenever they spotted moose within sight of the inn. (After they saw my stuffed version, they knew I was a fan.)

But Bill and I had bigger plans--ice berg viewing. The end of July is pretty late in the season for ice bergs; if we had been here in June we would have seen them even in St. John's, which is much further south. But, thankfully, there was still a big iceberg trapped in a harbor near St. Anthony. We called up Northland Discovery Tours and reserved a space on one of their boat tours. Decked out in fleece pullovers and heavy duty rain gear, Bill and I set off. Out on the water, we faced a overcast skies, a brisk wind and some stomach-churning waves. One of our fellow travelers took pity on me and gave me a pill for motion sickness.

The box-shaped ice berg was about 50 feet wide, 50 feet long and 30 feet high. According to our guide, Paul, it was also about 150 feet deep and was actually grounded on the bottom of the bay. As we neared, we noticed that it had a blue-ish color to it, with viens of a brighter blue ice running through it. Paul explained that the purer and more air-free the ice, the bluer the color. The brighter veins were cracks filled with bubble-free ice. As we circled the berg we all took about 20 pictures each. We just couldn't get enough of it. It was like a great piece of modern sculpture: every angle brought a new and more interesting view. The real fun began when our guide got out his fishing net to do a little bergie bit fishing. Chunks of the melting ice berg were just floating in the bay. He scooped up a few big peices and then smashed it with a mallet so we could all try some. I caught a few snapshots of Bill shoving ice in his face.

The boat ride was also a boon for birders.Traveling further down the coast, we could see black, duck-sized birds, with a big white spot on their wings, motoring across the water, much like the Murres and puffins we saw on the Avalon Peninsula. These were Black Guillemots, and they were indeed part of the same family as the puffins and murres. Paul also pointed out a small gull-like bird with an erratic wing beat, the Arctic Tern. Arctic Terns have the longest migratory route of any bird on the planet and travel all the way from Antarctica to breed near the Arctic Circle. We also caught site of an eagle's nest--a tangle of bare branches high up on a cliff--but, alas, the birds were not home.

It was our second to last day in Newfoundland, and Bill and I were winding down and taking it easy. While Bill took a long jog, I took advantage of another windy day and flew a kite. That afternoon we headed over to the Dark Tickle Jam Company to sample some products and buy gifts for friends. The shop has a small area for eating and an interpretation area which explains how berries are gathered and made into the company's products. Bill decided to try some bakeapple "drinkable berries." I had heard about the "drinkable berries" but had assumed that it was just juice--not so. Dark Tickle actually makes a berry syrup with sugar and spices. At the tasting area, they put two spoonfuls of syrup into a tea cup and then pour hot water over it to create one of the best tasting hot drinks I've ever had. I realized that the shelves of tan-colored plastic bottles, which I had been avoiding, were not maple syrup at all, but different flavors of the company's drinkable berries. Along with some jugs of drinkable berries, Bill and I bought wild blueberry jam, partridgeberry jam, bakeapple jam and some berry flavored teas.

On our last day, Bill and I woke up at five a.m. so we could make the long drive back to the airport and still catch our flight. Coming downstairs, we were touched to find a breakfast of fruit, cheese and muffins packed and left for us by Dave and Barbara. Outside, next to the minivan, we took our last look at Cape Onion. The rocky outcroppings and pounding surf were heartbreakingly beautiful. With the sky still a deep, dark blue, Bill and I drove off.

Before we could get very far, we saw a large dark shape in the middle of the road. Right in the middle of our lane was a young moose. Frightened or startled, it just stood there and stared at us. Bill was a little puzzled too and asked me what to do. I advised him to turn off the headlights (it was still pretty dark) and he did. This seemed to reassure the moose and it slowly stepped away off the road to our left, but as Bill turned the headlights back on and started to drive, the moose ran back across the road to the right. Concerned, but delighted we again proceeded for the airport at Deer Lake. That morning we saw no less than 34 moose along the side of the highway.

At the Deer Lake Airport, we returned the car and waited for our flight; our trip was over. After many connections and a few delays we were back in steamy, noisy New Jersey. Sitting in a crowded diner or walking along Manhattan's busy streets, Bill and I were stunned by the noise and commotion. It was only after we came back and rediscovered our hectic lives that we realized what an incredible trip we had experienced.