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Room at the Lighthouse The frigid waters surrounding Quirpon Island are always more crowded then the inn’s family style dinner table. That’s because Quirpon and its lighthouse inn, the island’s sole accommodation, are just off Newfoundland’s Northern Peninsula in “iceberg alley,” where humpback whales swimming north meet icebergs floating south. Porpoises, seals, and polar bears also traffic the rough waters, visible from atop the island’s 200 foot high bluffs. Quirpon Lighthouse dates to 1922; the incarnation as an 11-room inn dates to 1998 and occupies buildings that were abandoned when the 82-year-old lighthouse was automated in the 1990’s. a simple main lodge painted white with red trim houses a small sitting room (stocked with books and materials on Newfoundland lore) and a dining room, where guests feast family-style on such local dishes as cod’s tongue and whatever else comes in on fishing boats. Guests quarters are furnished with chairs and beds crafted by a local whale bone carver and covered with handmade quilts. What guests won't see: phones, TV’s, or other distractions from the main attraction, the epic Newfoundland tableau outside their windows. In spring, one can see polar bears on the icebergs feasting on seals. Orcas are regular visitors, and northern gannets flock here in record numbers. Then there are the clusters of humpbacks – part of North America’s largest population – lazily rolling in swells. It’s a setting both dramatic and relaxing. Officially open for business from May through September, Quirpon will accommodate off-season guests who are prepared for adventure – and some audacious weather. That might mean ramming through ice sheets on the four-mile boat ride to the inn (the only other way to arrive is by helicopter), then listening to moaning squalls that put ordinary tempests to shame. “I love the storms,” co-owner Ed English says. “This is a great spot to hunker down when the wind is howling and the waves are pounding below.” One thing you’re guaranteed no matter when you come: a most memorable experience. |
David Howard, April 2004
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100 Greatest Travel Secrets – We are #1 The sea fog frothed over the headland like smoke from a magic potion. It wasn’t a stubborn, dense kind of fog, but a fluid, swirling shroud that flirted with the lighthouse and played tricks with the eye. Just when I thought it had snuffed out the sunrise, the fog would thin until a pale tangerine light seeped through its translucent cloaks. Then it would suddenly congeal into a stodgy peasouper, cool droplets misting my face; the foghorn rasping through the greyness and resonating across the veiled Atlantic. “They’re out there.” Gerry, my guide at Quirpon Lighthouse Inn, has joined me on the helicopter pad for the daily dawn vigil. “You mean icebergs?” I said, glancing hopefully at the Canadian who had spent the past five summers at this northernmost point of Newfoundland. Gerry shook his head and laughed. “Maybe, maybe not. I was thinking more about our other visitors.” There was a 26-second pause between each blast of the foghorn; 26 seconds of calm when all you could hear was a soft chuckle of waves against the base of the cliffs. But then another sound began to permeate the fog – soft and indistinct at first, then stronger and more rhythmic. It was the sound of whales breathing. “Humpbacks often come right into the cove below the lighthouse,” said Gerry. “Too bad about this fog.” Too bad indeed. I was desperate to scan that ocean, to gaze north where the icebergs would appear on the horizon like tall ships under full sail. Carried south from Greenland on the Labrador Current, many would drift right past the 7km-long island of Quirpon (pronounced “Carpoon”), cruising Iceberg Alley before snagging on Newfoundland’s crinklecut coast. Icebergs had become an obsession. One of my earliest travel memories was glimpsing them on a trans-Atlantic flight where, from 10,000m, they resembled grains of rice scattered on the sea around Greenland. On later trips I had witnessed bergs calving from glaciers in Spitsbergen and Alaska. But there was something altogether more mysterious and alluring about an ocean-going iceberg carried far from its polar birthplace. I had barely paused in Deer Lake, my arrival point in Newfoundland, before driving six blinkered hours along the length of the Great Northern Peninsula and taking the boat across to Quirpon. “Welcome to the island, my dear. Come on in and make yourself a cup of tea.” Madonna, the lighthouse innkeeper had greeted me with typical Newfie exuberance. But no sooner had I stepped inside the wood-pannelled interior of the restored 1922 building than I was quizzing her about icebergs. There was one in the bay about a week ago, I think,” Madonna had said before plying me with pancakes and bakeapple jam. “Got some of it in the freezer if you fancy a drink tonight.” The fog had blown in that evening but by noon the following day it was beginning to turn back. Although some 40,000 medium to large icebergs are shed by glaciers in Greenland every year, just 2% make it as far south as St. John’s, Newfoundland’s capital at 48?N. That still meant 800 or so icebergs would pass Quirpon each spring, their numbers peaking in June... Soon my gaze began slipping from the horizon. There were too many wonderful distractions. At one point a squadron of gannets began plunge-diving for fish close offshore, folding their wings and hurling themselves at the sea in a salvo of black-tipped arrows. Porpoises then surfaced nearby, no doubt drawn to the commotion. And even when the feeding frenzy was over, the sea was rarely a blank canvas. Skeins of eider duck, puffin and black guillemot skimmed its surface, while kittiwake and gull pirouetted about the gentle swell. Later that afternoon, Gerry took me sea kayaking, nosing into narrow inlets where the water was so clear I could see jellyfish pulsing deep below like globules of liquid amber. He showed me huge slabs of half-submerged rock where humpbacks whales often rubbed themselves, and described how the 15m-long leviathans occasionally surfaced alongside his kayak. We didn’t see or hear any blows during our paddle, but it was impossible to feel a frisson of excitement and anticipated as you glided inches about the water, wondering if the dappled patterns in the sea beneath you were about to morph into a 35-tonne whale. Slowly, barely realizing it, I was being weaned off my fixation with icebergs. Newfoundland was seeping into my subconsciousness as, one by one, its other natural wonders demanded attention. I had arrived with the sole aim of spotting an iceberg – now I had whales on my mind. Humpbacks were breaching offshore during my final evening at Quirpon, rising like plump exclamation marks above a peach-colored sea. As the fiery dusk faded over the Straits of Belle Isle, Gerry described how this area of sea, where the Gulf of St. Lawrence met the North Atlantic, was a feeding ground for numerous species of cetacean, from humpback to orca. Inside the cozy Lighthouse Inn, Madonna served ‘Jiggs dinner’, Newfoundland’s traditional Sunday meal of salt beef, boiled potatoes, cabbage, turnip, carrot, pease pudding and dumplings with molasses. “Rough food, we call it,” said Madonna, heaping another pile of vegetables on my plate. “You probably saw how local folk grow it by the roadside when you drove up here.” I nodded unconvincingly, but made a mental note to look out for the intriguing vegetable plots when I left Quirpon Island the following morning. There was much I’d overlooked in my race to reach the island. I now had four days to slowly backtrack to Deer Lake, determined not to become too distracted by icebergs. But Hubert, Quirpon’s boatman, had some news for the day. “Fisherman just been on the radio. About 100 bergs on the south coast of Labrador. Could come across the Straits any day now.” So I lingered in the north, driving slowly through small fishing communities, snatching glances at the cobalt sea and trying to imagine how a cathedral spire of ice might transform these sheltered inlets and sleepy villages. I’d read that particularly large or unusually shaped bergs gained celebrity status when they ran aground here- hardly surprising when you consider what it must be like to draw your curtains one morning to find a 200,000 tonne, 60m-high ice mountain looming over your house... |
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Newfoundland – PSST! Most Canadians don’t know Western Newfoundland is a Winter Wonderland ...Visits picturesque villages in the park - like Woody Point and Trout River - where fisihing boats are moored and lobster pots stacked. Contact Linkum Tours for accommodations or guided snowshoeing or backcountry skiing. (You may be trekking in T-shirts by late March). With luck, your guide will be Ed Engligh, 46, whose grandfather famously ran the SS Ethie ashore nearby in a 1919 hurricane, saving all 92 aboard. Ed's energy is legendary and his non-stop stories gruesome yet hilarious. |
Jane MacAulay, March 2009
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William Gray, Dec 08/Jan09
The following is a website transcript from a radio interview for 12,000,000 listeners to BBC World and Public Radio International:
Adventure journalist Peter Potterfield: Above Ten Mile Pond, one of the unique land-locked fiords of Gros Morne National Park. The western side of the island is called The Great Northern Peninsula.
Ed English: An outdoor operator and inn keeper, paddles past the Quirpon Lighthouse Inn. photo by Peter Potterfield At the very northern tip of the peninsula there's a tiny island called Quirpon Island. It looks out on the Strait of Belle Isle. A waterway that's popular with Orcas and humpbacks and photographer Peter Potterfield: Peter Potterfield recently spent some time hiking there. He's researching new trails for the next edition of his book: Classic Hikes of The World. Potterfield's starting point was Newfoundland's Gros Morne National Park:
Ed English at Ethie Wreck: Ed English exams the sight of the wreck of the SS Ethie in Gros Morne National Park. English's grandfather, as captain, intentionally drove the Ethie ashore to save the crew during a hurricane in 1919. Photo by Peter Potterfield (Ed English) "It turns out we have a unique spot because the fish supply, the food that whales want is just incredible there. There's a little narrow strip of water that separates Newfoundland from the rest of North America and all the fish that want to go back and forth between the North Atlantic and the big Gulf of St Lawrence all have to go past our doorstep so it's essentially a never ending conveyor belt of food. That draws in the whales and then we're lucky because right at the lighthouse rocks its about 200 feet deep so you can literally sit with your feet dangling in the water, looking down through your toes and see humpback whales driving the fish in against the cliffs under your feet and then just surfacing. You can reach out and touch them quite frequently."
Iceberg and Quirpon Lighthouse: An iceberg, one of
many carried down from Greenland on the Labrador Current, That narrow strip of water is called the Strait of Belle Isle. From high up in the lighthouse, Ed English says the view is breathtaking:
Quirpon Light: Quirpon Lighthouse and inn, perched at the extreme northern tip of Newfoundland. Photo by Peter Potterfield. There are often as many as 50 icebergs in sight. They float down from Greenland and Baffin Island on the Labrador Current. (Ed English) "The icebergs just come down and smash into the rocks, they're huge, as big as mountains, so you can imagine a beautiful day, it's hot, and all of sudden, you're out walking and you come around the corner - there's an ice mountain and its just an amazing sight to see, constantly changing because its always rolling around and breaking apart. (Potterfield) If I were to succinctly describe the last 8 days in Newfoundland, I would provide a photograph of the wild terrain up on the Arctic plateau that you've got to find your way across for 20 miles using map and compass, that's got to be seen to be believed, a picture of the big moose, the caribou, and a picture of the whales frolicking beyond the lighthouse up on Quirpon Island, I think that pretty much says it all!"
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Go with the flow to ‘Iceberg Alley’ in Canada Off Labrador and Newfoundland, spring is prime viewing season for icebergs. Behold their natural beauty, but don't get too close: …Today, that glacial ice oozes and creeps toward the waterline. Its edges melt and break off, catching the frigid Labrador Current. Every year, an opalescent armada drifts south toward Canada. And every year, more and more travelers like my companion and me make a pilgrimage to the austere and sparsely populated coasts of southern Labrador and northern Newfoundland to greet those bergs. Streaked and shimmering, arched and tunneled, spired and prowed, pummeled and listing, these frozen behemoths briefly mesmerize, then melt. For centuries, fishermen cast their nets here for cod until the species became depleted and the waters were closed to fishing in 1992. Its impressive bergs earned this stretch of the Atlantic a moniker: Iceberg Alley. The fishermen whose nets were once ripped by itinerant floes now haul tourists for close-up views of their former nemeses… …For the ultimate iceberg show, however, detour to Quirpon Island, a rolling, moss-and-juniper-clad speck off the extreme northeastern tip of Newfoundland's Great Northern Peninsula, about 45 minutes by boat from the mainland. Quirpon (pronounced CAR-poon) was once home to an 1860s lighthouse that guided sailing vessels and steamships. The lighthouse is now automated and the lightkeeper's 1922 home has been transformed into a comfortable inn, with simple but hearty meals, convivial conversation -- and no telephones or TV in the rooms. Linkum Tours, which owns the isle, advertises "the longest iceberg viewing season in Newfoundland." From the wide wooden helipad overlooking the mouth of Belle Isle Strait, we could gaze in every direction at a tableau not only of icebergs but also humpback, minke and orca whales. (The same current that carries icebergs here is a watery conveyor belt for fish between the Gulf of St. Lawrence and the Atlantic.) At sunset, their breaching and spouting and chuffing were surreal, like an outdoor Imax movie. Early in the morning, we scrambled down the rocks to see what the current had brought in. Faceted bergs and whale flukes lighted up in the rising sun. When we grew tired of squinting at the distance, we tramped around the island, every step lofted by springy ground cover that invites napping. The only sounds were those of the surf, whales and seabirds. At sunset on Quirpon, a bottle of Grand Marnier appeared. The dinner table was set with clear glass pitchers of water: iceberg water, chilled by iceberg ice harvested in 5-gallon buckets from the cove. When immersed in whichever beverage you prefer, the ice makes a popping sound that has earned it the label bergy seltzer: tiny explosions of compressed air bubbles trapped in the original snow layers millenniums ago. Chemically, the liquid is indistinguishable from distilled water. But in this remote and wild setting, the clean, soft taste was beyond compare. On Quirpon, sipping iceberg water (or triple sec with iceberg cubes) while gazing out at icebergs was a highly agreeable form of suspension. Nature came full circle. The time capsule had opened. |
Madeline Drexler, Special to the Los Angeles Times, June 2008
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Caving On The Rock – How to be cool with your kids …remember that a surprising diversion is available just below the snow. Linkum Tour’s year-round cave tours kick off with a hike or snowshoe down the Corner Brook Gorge, followed by 1 km of sliding, shimmying and crawling through the Corner Brook caves. A twisting network of limestone chutes and caverns, the caves were carved over millennia by the Corner Brook Stream. And the names of some of the cave’s formations – Dinosaur Teeth, Rat’s Crawl, and Whale’s Back should give you an idea of the adventure involved. |
February 09, 2008
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newfound (winter wonder) land There’s a single luggage carousel that loops around and around at the small airport in Deer Lake, Newfoundland. The belt of black rubber is loaded with ski bags and duffel bags crammed with snowshoes, bulky Sorels (winter boots) and assorted winter gear. Standing at the end is local born and bred guide Ed English. “So, what do you want to do?” he grins, with the joy in his voice of a man who knows he’s got a cornucopia of opportunities for first-time guests. Any Canadian can tell you - whether they have been there or not- that Newfoundland is just a little different than the rest of the pack. The landscape, food, people, local colour and culture, and even the lilt to the language set this province apart. It turns out that the old joke about Newfoundland having only two seasons – July and winter – has been a blessing for the province’s snow-based businesses. While the rest of the country is starting to thaw out in early spring, skiers and snowboarders here still have weeks to go before the deep snow gives way to rock and patches of grass. According to English, “We don’t usually get enough natural snow for skiing before Christmas, but then we get lots, it stays a long time, and we can have a good season well into April. The whole forest becomes a playground – there’s still a lot of snow and the air is warm. You can be skiing in shorts.” Deer Lake sits in what’s called the western arm of the island: the stretch of land that juts north into the Gulf of St. Lawrence; the end point for the Long Range Mountains, a sub-range at the north end of the Appalachian Mountains, that snake from Georgia to the far reaches of Newfoundland. Much of the area is dominated by the Tablelands (a part of Gros Morne National Park); a spectacular landscape that was created when the continental plates of Africa and North America crashed and thrust upwards some 450 million years ago. Take the latitude, add the mountains, throw in the effect of a large body of water and you’ve got snow. Lots of it, and reliable amounts into the springtime months. Western Newfoundland is best known for the ski resort of Marble Mountain, with an annual snow dump of five metres and a reputation for some of the finest skiing east of the Rockies. There’s a full variety of downhill runs, from beginner ripples to extreme, black diamond, 50-degree slopes. Thirty five trails tempt both skiers and snowboarders (with an additional terrain park); short lineups and high-speed lifts mean run, after run, after sweet run… There’s barely enough time to down a cup of hot chocolate in the drive from the downhill slopes at Marble Mountain to the cross-country and snowshoeing trails at Blow Me Down Ski Park, the site extensively developed for the 1999 Canada Winter Games. The ski park has grown in leaps and bounds from a rather modest beginning (the first grooming machine was a snowmobile dragging an old bedspring) to one of the best cross-country facilities in eastern Canada. Just outside Corner Brook – “a community that revolves around snow, skiing, snowshoeing and snowmobiling,” according to ski instructor Denise MacDonald – Blow Me Down’s 50-kilometre network of groomed trails lies at the heart of a snowbelt, with a season that often stretches from December to May. There’s barely enough time to down a cup of hot chocolate in the drive from the downhill slopes at Marble Mountain to the cross-country and snowshoeing trails at Blow Me Down Ski Park, the site extensively developed for the 1999 Canada Winter Games. The ski park has grown in leaps and bounds from a rather modest beginning (the first grooming machine was a snowmobile dragging an old bedspring) to one of the best cross-country facilities in eastern Canada. Just outside Corner Brook – “a community that revolves around snow, skiing, snowshoeing and snowmobiling,” according to ski instructor Denise MacDonald – Blow Me Down’s 50-kilometre network of groomed trails lies at the heart of a snowbelt, with a season that often stretches from December to May. … But when Ed English really wants to show off the wild landscape of the western coastline , he heads to Gros Morne National Park, the famed UNESCO World Heritage Site, Just a few kilometeres past the entrance kiosk to the park he pulls off by the southeast arm of Bonne Bay. Several pairs of lightweight snowshoes are unpacked from the back of the van and within seconds we’re tromping through the sparkling snow towards a lookout point with a view over the crusty Tablelands. The snow is deep and clean, the sun is shining and the air is as cold as a deep drink of ice water. There are ramrod straight spruce trees and untouched snow as far as the eye can see. Gros Morne has a well-developed network of cross-country trails – and the off-trail skiing and snowshoeing opportunities are almost unlimited. For something a little more exotic it’s possible to go underground… into the world of winter caving. Large streams have cut through the soluble limestone to create a network of tunnels, sinkholes and caving sites. When English takes small groups into the caves it can be a little like playing a subterranean game of Twister…only with bulky orange overalls and headlamps. The biggest challenge is squeezing through narrow slots between the walls and finding footholds and toeholds along the rock ledges. “Caving is a challenge for people,” explains English when we turn out our headlamps to check just how dark dark can really be. “It’s a way of pushing your limits ina safe environment.” At the very least it can make you feel pretty pleased with yourself afterwards. And, in truth, the same could be said of any of western Newfoundland’s wintertime games. |
Josephine Matyas, December 2007
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| Sea Kayak Iceberg Alley |
When an iceberg explodes, the resulting slush can cover acres of sea. According to Linkum Tours co-owner Ed English, after a “horrendous thunderclap” the slush “sizzles like it’s in a frying pan,” twitching with the release of air compressed in the glacial ice for thousands of years. English’s kayak trips routinely go through the popping slush from a base at the northernmost tip of Newfoundland, right in the heart of Iceberg Alley (from $375 for two days: linkumtours.com). That base, at the lighthouse on Quirpon Island, is by a fluke of geography also one of the world’s best whale watching sites. English relates an experience of filming feeding humpbacks from the island one summer day and counting “10 times we could have stepped from shore right onto their backs.” June is peak time for slaloming among the procession of cathedral-high icebergs, while July is best for paddling with whales. |
| January 2007
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More places to park your wanderlusting butt |
Quirpon Lighthouse Inn From wherever you stand on Quirpon Island, a small 1.5km by 7km outcrop at the northernmost tip of Newfoundland, you can see the ocean. Its wide open, lightly rolling sub arctic terrain, 60 percent of it covered in a spongy mat of moss and lichen, ensures a clear vista. When Ed English read that the government had put the lighthouse and light keeper’s dwelling on the island up for sale in 1998, he bought it sight unseen, hoping it would make a good addition to the offerings of his burgeoning travel company, Linkum Tours. When he arrived the following spring to check out his purchase the house was encased in ice three inches thick. But he knew right away he had bought something special. Not only for the remote beauty of the place, have dramatic cliffs dropping off into the watery void, but because the island boasts the longest viewing season for whales and icebergs anywhere in Newfoundland. Fish swimming out from the Gulf of St. Lawrence have no choice but to make their way through the Strait of Belle Isle that divides Newfoundland from the mainland, ensuring, English says, “they travel right past our doorstep on their way to the North Atlantic. It’s a never-ending conveyor belt of food for whales and sea birds assisted by the Labrador Current.” This island is also the perfect trap for the whales to use as they herd fish against the underwater cliff’s “you can literally stand and watch whales drive fish into our cove,” says English. “Not only are the whales comfortable because the water is deep, but they feed easily just going constantly back and forth along the cove.” Quirpon Island, accessible by boat, helicopter, or, for the more adventurous, by kayak, is ideal for a day’s ramble. Informal trails spread out over the mossy ground, through tussocks of tuckamore, to cliffs both terraced and sheer. And beyond, icebergs cruise majestically past, while whales ply the water for food. The rich currents also attract killer whales, porpoises and dolphins. It’s not unheard of for a playful dolphin to leap over a kayaker’s bow. The area is redolent with history. Not just on the mainland, where the historical reconstruction of the Viking settlement at L’Anse aux Meadows is only 5kms away, or the waters themselves which have attracted migratory fishermen since the 16th century. But Quirpon Island itself is home to unexcavated sod huts and old murder mystery drenched in myth. |
| January /February 2005
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| Touch and Go in Iceberg Alley |
In the early warmth of spring, mammoth icebergs calve from the glaciers of western Greenland and begin a slow, 1900 nautical-mile drift- first north with the West Greenland Current and then south with the Baffin and Labrador Currents, spending their first few winters locked in sea ice before finally reaching Newfoundland’s shores. Then one day, a village on the northern coast wakes to a 200,000 –ton ice-mountain towering over town., and everyone knows summer is coming. This is Iceberg Alley – stretch of frigid waters running south from western Greenland, and the Davis Strait to the shores of Newfoundland and Labrador. Nowhere else can paddlers easily get so close to the world’s great icebergs. The monsters scraping the edge of Newfoundland can rise more than 200 feet above the sea, dwarfing those of coastal Alaska. They are pinnacled or tabular, crystalline, electric blue, slowly turning, tumbling, melting in the heaving North Atlantic swell. The ice is ancient-layers of compressed snowfall and air some 3000 winters old – and so pure that its melt-water is used to distill Newfoundland’s premium Iceberg Vodka. ….The Trick is meeting up with bergs. Their paths are erratic; they’ll appear suddenly and vanish just as quickly, disappearing, with a change in wind or tide. Ed English, co-owner of Explore Newfoundland, one of the province’s premier guiding services, woke one morning two years ago to find a huge berg parked outside his seaside home. “It came and sat there for ten days,” English says. “And then one day, while I watched, it just upped anchor and left. It went out 500 yards, turned right, and was gone in 20 minutes” In 1999, English approached six pinnacled icebergs during a single day of exploration, and by sunset all but one had collapsed, the 175-foot towers crashing in to the sea. ... As soon as I landed in St. John’s, in early June, the chase was on. On my map, I’d circled popular iceberg-sighting areas, including Notre Dame Bay and the towns of Twillingate and Fogo. But English had spotted two large bergs off Quirpon (Karpoon) Island, the northernmost point of Newfoundland. So early the next morning, photographer David McLain and I were pushing off from the isle’s eastern coast, set on a circumnavigation. Cresting six -foot swells in Grands Galets Bay, we quickly found our first berg, a spectacular twin-spired cathedral twirling in the current. I’d once paddled the entire Inside Passage, from Alaska’s ice-choked Glacier Bay to Puget Sound, but I’d never seen any thing like this. Along with awe, what I felt was fear: Those pinnacles were exactly the kind that can collapse suddenly-and catastrophically , for anyone who is lurking too close. Not that any berg is really safe. Seven-eighths of the thing is underwater; if you approach the visible ice, the rest of it is looming beneath your keel. And despite their size, icebergs can roll in a couple of minutes. Yet the allure is as irresistible as a siren’s song. Jim Price, a veteran Newfoundland guide, keeps his clients 300 feet away from the bergs-but on his days off he’s been known to ride up onto the edge of one, pausing briefly on the ice before shoving off. Ed English has even gone scuba diving in to the crevasses and vivid blue caves of icebergs he deemed to be stable. (After talking icebergs with English for a while, David and I started referring to him, in awe as Crazy Ed ) I’m more conservative. I kept my distance and tightened my grip on the paddle. Beyond the berg lay the open sea, the tremendous sweep of the horizon, and past that by 700 miles, Greenland. To our left, the shore steepened into 500-foot cliffs that obscured the view to the north. Leaving this skittery berg behind, we slowly rounded the promontory. And then we saw it, a great tabular berg, slightly concave and grounded a half mile from shore. It looked promising- stable and massive- so we made camp on a rise above a cove and studied it until dusk. On each of the next two mornings the VHF radio reported ”many to numerous icebergs” in the Strait of Belle Isle, a major shipping lane leading to the St. Lawrence Seaway: an ominous warning to ships , extra excitement for us. We paddled to and from the berg and tested the surf among rocky islets. It was a heavy ice year, and the waters were strewn with what the Canadian Ice Service called “bergy bits” – ice the size of small houses – and treacherous grand piano- size “growlers.” Tag with the Devil For hours at a time, I made quick approaches, always sprinting away from the icy rampart when my nerves- or good sense-seized control it was like playing tag with the devil. On the second day, after a morning of these close passes, we returned to camp for lunch. Topping the hill, I gasped. The sea boiled. New growlers floated in the ocean swell. The iceberg was rolling- a gargantuan seaward yaw, mythical in scale. We’d been planning to move on in search of more bergs, but suddenly I realized how wrongheaded that strategy was: The beauty of these ice mountains is in their transformations. In a single day, a berg may calve, fracture, and capsize, heaving its underside to the surface and submerging its highest walls. It’s like paddling across the sea and finding another iceberg, without every moving camp. On our final morning, we rounded the northern tip of the island, Cape Bauld. The sky had cleared, uncloaking the snow-patched coast of Labrador, sweeping north up Iceberg Alley I glimpsed dozens of bergs atop the swells, some maybe a quarter-mile long, all glowing in a crisp white silence. A hundred yard offshore, I rested my paddle and joined their drift, the Labrador Current nudging my kayak southeast at the leisurely iceberg pace of one knot. Then I peeled away and headed for Port.
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Byron Ricks, June/July 2002
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Newfoundland Unchanged, but always changing
Excerpt ...A night at a nearby Quirpon Island Lighthouse gives some sense of what the Vikings encountered en route to this continent a thousand years ago. Wind. Then fog. And always, the shifting currents of the Strait of Belle Isle. Oh yes, and polar bears following the seals on ice floes from the north, and whales, too. But they made it in their oaken boats without the aid of the Quirpon Lighthouse or, as fog set in recently, the added navigational aid of its intermittent fog horn booming through the soupy air of this most northerly part of Newfoundland. The conditions change instantly and sudden sunlight gives you a view of Belle Isle and the coast of Labrador beyond in what only can be described as the soft air of Newfoundland. It is a view unchanged since the Vikings saw it…. There are plenty of other attractions in this relatively untravelled part of Newfoundland, as Ed English makes clear. Formerly with the Newfoundland and Labrador Department of Tourism, the unquenchably upbeat English teaches survival skills and runs kayak and tour operations (Linkum Tours and Explore Newfoundland) and owns the lighthouse/inn operation at Quirpon (pronounced kar-poon) and another on the coast of Newfoundland. He knows the history of this place. His grandfather was captain of a boat that ran aground within sight of Quirpon. There is even a tome among Newfoundland’s estimable literature. The Curse of the Red Cross Ring is a true story about murder in the area... |
| Jim Kernaghan |
| Where icebergs compete with humpbacks |
...Before long he stood the Cessna on a wing determined to give me my first sight of a moose, finally rewarding me with a fleeing bull. Touching down in Quirpon harbour, Doris was at the dock. With her business partner Madonna, she makes everyone’s stay at the lighthouse memorable. The place is spotless and the Newfoundland food keeps coming, toutons (chunks of deep-fried white bread dough) with bake-apple jam for breakfast and jiggs dinner (salt beef, cabbage, turnip, carrot, potatoes and dumpling) for lunch... There is more traveling to be done before you reach the keeper’s house: a boat trip, and a three-mile hike through bogs, moss and rocks. An awesome experience, in the true sense of the word, when one realizes that it was in this area that the Vikings made the first landing in North America 500 years before Columbus |
| David Watts, Oct. 15,2005
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The Independent, online edition Adventure playground |
Wilderness training in Newfoundland gave Julia Stuart the skills to explore the stunning landscape by herself. It’s the perfect way to feel closer to the natural world Excerpt I say farewell to Tuckamore, and, after an hour’s drive north on deserted roads boarded by forest, past electricity pylons with nesting osprey, I arrive at the village of Quirpon, pronounced “carpoon”. From there I take a 20 –minute boat ride- in a vessel so tiny I can almost lick the salty waves to Quirpon Island, which stretches four miles long at the northern tip of Newfoundland. Until around the late Thirties it was home to a small summer fishing community. Today, however, the only buildings are the now automated lighthouse and two houses in which the lighthouse man and his assistant lived with their families. Since their departure in 1996, the homes have served as Quirpon lighthouse Inn, which sleeps 25 in 11 rooms from May to October. The only permanent residents on the island are two moose which either swam across or came over on the “hice”. Try to stay in the older house, which was built in 1922, and has much more character. The basic rooms, fortunately void of television or phone, are paneled in dark wood and come with handmade quilts... When the sun shines on Quirpon ( you can experience four seasons in one day in Newfoundland, which has several word for fog) there is nowhere else in the world you would rather be. It reminds me of Scotland - seal-coloured rocks poke out between springy vegetation crouching below the wind. Wild flowers include harebells and alpine milk vetch. Map in hand (and now able to read it), I spend two days hiking round the island, completely alone, bouncing over mattress-like flora, sometimes stopping to pick juicy bakeapples – a yellow berry resembling an engorged blackberry. While I’m picnicking on a cliff top gazing out at Labrador, slim seagulls cruise by overhead without a single flap. With the help of Hubert Roberts, a former fisherman with an almost impenetrable accent, who runs the inn with his wife, Doris, I eventually find the granite headstone, written in French, marking the resting place of a French sea captain who died here in 1861, as well as the grave containing the bodies of four children from the Manuel family who died between 1852 and 1858. Dead Sailors’ Pit is said to mark the spot where the bodies of five visiting sailors were thrown after they died drinking bad beer. By the lighthouse is an enclosed viewing platform with telescopes for whale-watching. Otherwise, sit in a bakeapple patch with a book, with one ear cocked, for you will hear whales before you see them. Twice, a minke snorts its way along the coastline followed by a family of killer whales. Meals - fabulous home–cooking by Doris, whose motto is “don’t go hungry” – are taken communally in the older house. If you’re lucky you’ll hit a night when she’s serving cod tongues, traditional Newfoundland fodder. If you ask, she’ll do them for you specially. She makes the partridgeberry and bakeapple jams for breakfast with berries from the island, and if you pick some she will offer to turn them into jam to take home with you.. The ice in the water jug on the table comes from an iceberg that Hubert nipped over to in his boat for supplies for the freezer. When it’s time to leave, again there are hugs goodbye. |
| Julia Stuart, September 2005
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| A whale of a Time |
Stare long enough at the dark waters of Iceberg Alley off the northern coast of Newfoundland, and the swells and whitecaps begin to look like whales. On this late June morning, as I sit in a kayak, bobbing like flotsam in the North Atlantic, these apparitions will have to suffice, for the real whales, dozen of which were visible from shore the previous evening, are not complying; not a single humpback spouts or even breaks the water’s surface. “I don’t see whales, so we’ll explore the nooks and crannies,” says Nelson Pilgrim, a 54-year-old former school administrator who took up kayaking eight years ago and has led visitors along this jagged coastline for the last three. As the only kayak guide in this northernmost part of Newfoundland, he works with Explore Newfoundland, the active-travel branch of a local company, Linkum Tours. Nelson, who grew up in the area and who as a youth spent all of his spare time working on his father’s fishing boat, is a highly educated outdoorsman who nevertheless cannot understand why people want to come here. I answer with my own reasons for visiting Newfoundland: Its remoteness and isolation are rare and, for some, alluring commodities, the rocky, dramatic vistas are spectacular; the local history, from Viking raiders of a past millennium to the disastrous codfishing moratorium of the last decade, is provocative, the people are renowned for their hospitality and warmth; and here I have found unique accommodations at an island lighthouse, Quirpon Lighthouse Inn. Finally, Newfoundland-its coastline etched with fjords, caves, and coves and its waters teeming with whales and icebergs- is said to be one of the world’s best places for sea kayaking. “Really?” asks Nelson. “I have never heard that.” Such an admission is perplexing. In a single day on the water, each nook and cranny of Quirpon Island (pronounced kar-poon), the home base for this expedition, yields a sight that gives pause. We paddle in from the open water to a 200 foot wall of black igneous rock that blocks the sun and serves as a nesting ground for a colony of white kittiwakes, which circle in scores of lazy orbits close to the ledges that hold their youngsters. We move on to enter a sheltered bay, which has an alternate exit that evokes a scene from The Lord of the Rings. Here, drifting except for the strokes taken to avoid rocks, we let the tidal wash carry our boats through a narrow passage between two towering cliffs, and in a whoosh we shoot along the swift current from the cut, back into the open sea. In another cove, a lone cabin stands where there was once a fishing settlement. Meanwhile, our unsuccessful search for whales continues, and Nelson compensates by spinning fish tales. Once, while kayaking, he encountered gridlock: “hundreds of humpbacks-so many of them feeding, I had to weave around whales all the way back to Quirpon Island.” He tells this story as we glide into a cove to visit a family of sea otters, which, alas are not at home. Despite the disappointment of missing some wildlife, five hours in the kayak pass as quickly as a coffee break, and, back at the lighthouse, sitting on rocks and sipping beers, we spy the whales that had eluded us all day. Plumes spout from humpbacks just offshore, and minkes surface and dive repeatedly. The schools of fish that attract the whales must have been swimming elsewhere until now. Nelson offers to take me out again immediately, but I decline. As kayaking days go, this one already is a keeper, with or without whales. My guide’s incredulity notwithstanding, this region merits its reputation. Newfoundland’s northern peninsula has attracted visitors for a thousand years, albeit infrequently and in small numbers. L’Anse aux Meadows, at the tip, is the site of the first known Viking settlement in North America. Along this portion of Newfoundland’s 6,000-mile coastline, the cold Labrador Current, carrying icebergs south, meets the warm Gulf Stream, churning up the marine tidbits that entice schools o f capelin and other fish, which in turn bring pods of whales. At the Quirpon Lighthouse Inn, which is owned by Linkum Tours, you can spot whales through the bedroom windows of one of the inn’s two buildings, or from a glassed-in observation hut, which is outfitted with telescopes and is a welcoming refuge for wildlife viewing during a gale, or for taking in the early-summer’s 10 pm sunsets. Although situated on the edge of civilization, the lighthouse is a hubbub of activity. The inn is officially open from May through September and, weather permitting, sometimes into October, but the safest window of opportunity for kayaking is June through August. Ed English, the inn’s owner, says it can be possible to kayak in May, but pack ice may still linger; September and October bring the northeast winds- not good for kayakers but fine for storm watchers. Hiking is popular on the island, which is about four miles long, and has a challenging topography. One couple, returning to the lighthouse after scaling the island’s highest point, brings tales of near-death experiences in the tuckamore thickets and of a particularly frightening encounter: “We were almost attacked by sea otters!” So that is where that otter family went: to stalk unsuspecting New Yorkers. I experienced my own harrowing trek en route to Quirpon Island, when a nor’easter raged through the area. “Just mist,” said a local grandmother, as I stood on the mainland dock, considering my options. Squinting through the “mist” from under the scrunched hood of a waterproof suit, I tried to gauge the chances that our small, open motor boat would successfully navigate the three-mile distance around the far tip of the island to the lighthouse. However, the skipper chose a shorter course, simply blasting through the chop to the island's nearest landing point and leaving us to hike the three miles through bogs, tuckamore thickets, and the storm. While hiking-for recreation or out of necessity-and kayaking are the primary activities among the inn’s guests, much time this week is spent speculating about the dearth of icebergs this season, while tracking the lone berg in the neighborhood. For more than two months, the iceberg had been lodged near the island, but it had broken free recently and was now barely visible several mils to the south- too far to reach by kayak. Nelson enlists the lighthouse keeper to take us to it in his fishing boat. The visible portion of the iceberg, which I had guessed would be the size and shape of a tractor trailer, turns out to be an altogether different formation, resembling a monstrous crown suitable for Poseidon (or Njord his Norse equivalent). Its four pinnacle rise at least 60 feet, and we circle closely, cod-size pieces break off from underneath. The crew fishes them out of the water to take back to the inn, where they will hack them up and use them in water pitchers at mealtime. (Icebergs break off of glaciers, which are formed from frozen fresh water.) On the return trip, a school of dolphins (“squid hounds” in the local vernacular) toys with us, jumping around the boat and zooming underneath. Nelson, who has seen “literally thousands of icebergs,” also points out a seal. It dives. I miss it. Whale sightings are reported at the following day’s breakfast, and one guest claims the humpbacks were bellowing loud enough to awaken him. (Salty storytelling is a skill evidently not exclusive to the locals.) Nelson has checked the weather and says we can go kayaking again, so I dash to my room to dress for another day of summer sport in Newfoundland. Following instructions, I don four layers-bathing suit, wet suit, fleece shirt, paddling jacket-plus life vest, rubber skirt to seal myself into the boat, neoprene socks, waterproof shoes, hat, and pogies to keep hands warm, and hasten down to the stony shore. Nelson shoves me off and follows in his own craft, and we skim swiftly out of the cove and into the open sea. The water is choppier today, and we steer a course to surf the powerful swells. In preparation for this trip, I had practiced a wet exit on a hot summer day on a placid suburban river- on another planet, it seems; it would be useful to know this safety measure if, when an orca jumped across my bow, I were to tip over in shock. Now, with the kayak as the sole joinery between body and current, the ocean’s pull is palpable, and I savor the speed and the roll from crest to trough, heedless of how much paddling it will take to return. “Now this is sea kayaking,” Nelson shouts from the crest of another wave. Between swells, we feel obligated to stop and look at the horizon, just in case a whale should wander by. “A beluga came up beside me once, and stayed alongside my kayak and wouldn’t go away,” says Nelson. “It got tiresome. Who wants to spend 20 minutes staring at a beluga? |
| Karen Cakebread, October 2005
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| Love at First Sigh |
Excerpt The true loveliness of this natural beauty continued to unfold when we set eyes on the geological wonder known as the Tablelands in Gros Morne. It was there that we spotted out first iceberg, floating majestically in the strait of Bell Isle. The white monster resembled a huge rectangular airplane hanger and stood perhaps two stories high. And to think, only one-tenth of it is visible above water. Why is it that you can’t look at one of these things without thinking of the Titanic? Most of the icebergs drift down from the west coast of Greenland, where they have broken off ancient glaciers. They travel slowly southward via the Labrador Current and caution is advised in the event of “calving” – that’s when the iceberg breaks up. Calving can create huge ice hunks, which fly off, causing sizeable waves that have been known to capsize boats. Calving actually sounds like thunder when it starts. Playful humpback whales greeted our arrival to Quirpon Island, their tails disappearing into the sea like graceful synchronized swimmers. The island is set against rough-hewn rocks whose intense beauty has been chiseled by time and the ever pounding surf. Amidst this beauty sits Cape Bauld Lighthouse, a welcome beacon for this seafaring nation of fishermen. A glance over my shoulder from our boat revealed two mammoth icebergs silently inching their way to extinction. Quirpon Island is a remote place, with only two houses on it. After settling in, we set out to explore this place where delicate wildflowers flourish among rugged, wind swept terrain. Because icebergs are commonplace near Quirpon Island at this time of year, sea kayakers flock here to paddle among the ice sculptures, hoping to spot the whales who favor this part of the province. Fortunately for us Ed English, part owner of Linkum Tours – they operate Quirpon Lighthouse – booked our excursion here to coincide with a “paddle and stroll” event that involved 12 kayakers and their colorful crafts floating around the icebergs and whales. |
| Kay Loek, July 31, 2004
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| Stuff to do in Newfy |
Excerpt Caving If you’ve a coalminer fetish, the cave system overlooking Corner brook is a great place to test your metal for enclosed underground passages. Guided tours will take you as deep and as narrow as you can handle and the guys up here know every mile of these labyrinths like the back of their hand. The Must Do Quirpon Lighthouse Inn is right up on the northernmost tip of Newfoundland, situated on the island of Quirpon (pronounced “karpoon’). You reach the island on a small ferry boat and are met at the harbour by your hosts Doris, Hubert and Madonna. It’s one of those magical places, where the atmosphere and setting will make you feel as if you’re in a film set. And it’s a top site for spotting whales and bergs. |
| Alun Davies November/December 2005
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| The Grand Outdoors |
Excerpt An Icy Welcome I saw tangible signs of this fact walking across a treeless, cliff-bound dot on the map called Quirpon Island. Covered almost entirely with spongy moss, the terrain gave way at one point to a bog in which the submerged foundations of an earthen hut could be seen; one that, according to my guide, was considerably older than a 16th-centujry European settlement. Unfortunately for history, we didn’t slow down in our hurry to make it to the other end of the island and the highpoint of any visit to this part of Newfoundland – a trip to Iceberg Alley. Every June and July, the narrow strait between western Newfoundland and Labrador is filled by a stately regatta of icebergs, heading south from the high Arctic. You can arrange to kayak out amongst them and perhaps even get close enough to find out what an iceberg smells like. Some of them are as old as 10,000 years and contain scents and air bubbles from the Paleolithic era of the Mastodon and Giant Walrus. The Alley is also a seasonal feeding ground for the 36-tonne humpback whale, herds of which cross paths with the icebergs before August as they hunt their diet of capelin and krill. Whale watching is something you can also do from the front-row seat of a sea kayak, and, if there’s anything at all that can compare with the sight of a whale breaching in front of an iceberg mere metres away, please let me know. Quirpon Island itself is deserted except for an automated lighthouse on a point that scans the Strait of Belle Isle to the Labrador coast. The lighthouse-keeper’s home has been turned into a spotless, lovingly restored inn that would epitomize the word “quaint” if it wasn’t perched beside a helicopter landing pad on cliffs that crashed into a foaming sea. Run by the redoubtable Ed English, an adventure tour operator out of Steady Brook, the Quirpon Lighthouse Inn and its breathtaking setting are regularly celebrated in the pages of the world’s better newspapers, and the establishment deserves as much publicity as it can get. It offers all the authentic touches of a Victorian sea captain's home berth and anchorage – the feather beds, the varnished wood that slows the rot of sea spray and even meals of cod tongue, a local delicacy that is exactly as it sounds, but (trust me) tastes infinitely better. Outside at night, thousands of birds flit like ghosts over the island’s sea-battered precipices, calling shrilly through the surf and wind. Try lying prone on the chopper pad, as I did, and watch the moon rise out of the ocean, its light momentarily turning an iceberg into a flickering candle as the stars above chart a course through the pulsating aurora borealis. It’s certainly an image that stays with me as I write this, even though I’m afraid I never did manage to bottle the world’s softest fresh air. The Quirpon Lighthouse Inn (tel: 877-254-6586, www.linkumtours.com) is run by Linkum Tours referred to by National Geographic Traveler as a premiere guiding services. Based out of Steady Brook, they offer a large variety of trips around the province, including kayaking, guided camping, and whale and iceberg watching (June-July). Itineraries are easily tailored to individual desires, and many winter activities are also available. Inquire about rates at their five far-flung inns, including a wilderness lodge and two lighthouses |
| Robb Beattie June 2005
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Paddling among Giants |
| With cleaving fjords girdled by 2,000-foot-high cliffs, processions of icebergs 10-stories tall, and a cavalcade of breaching whales, the island of Newfoundland has a raw magnificence rivaling Alaska. Linkum Tours leads kayak convoys along the western shore to safely experience the contrasts and beauty of this rugged coast. Paddling off the Great Northern Peninsula jutting in the famous “iceberg alley”, you’re guaranteed to spot migrating humpback and orca whales as you wend among a flotilla of ice cathedrals. After daily adventures, your snug haven is the cliff-perched Quirpon Lighthouse Inn, near the site where Vikings landed 500 years before Christopher Columbus. If the weather turns arctic, the inn becomes a cozy fortress for watching North Atlantic storms and those hulking icebergs and whales that continue their timeless journey. |
| Ted Allan Stedman September/October 2004 |
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Escape the Crowds |
Thirty great holidays you’ll have all to yourself - #5 Excerpt: A Canadian wilderness of a more watery nature is to be found on Quirpon Island, at the northern tip of Newfoundland. Here, in high summer, you can watch icebergs drifting south along the Labrador Current, and see humpback and minke whales, dolphins and sea birds, all of which come to breed at this crucial maritime crossroads. Nearby is- the site of the only confirmed Viking settlement in North America. |
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Natural Selection |
Quirpon Island, Newfoundland – I spotted the iceberg as my guide and I paddled our kayaks around a granite headland off the northern tip of Newfoundland. From a few miles away, it looked like a bar of soap floating in a big bathtub – not quite what I had expected – but as we paddled closer, I realized it was as tall as a seven-storey building and as big around as a city block. It loomed overhead, and my 16-foot kayak seemed like a little piece of driftwood floating by. The berg had grounded in a shoal and would stay there and melt of be pushed out to see by the wind. As we approached it, I could see blue streaks running through the white ice (formed when melt water freezes in cracks); water trickling down one side, giving it a shiny glow; and seagulls perched on a jagged cornice high above us. “If the birds suddenly take off, it’s a good sign that the berg is about to calve [or break apart] – “they feel the vibration,” said Ed English, my guide, who owns Linkum Tours and runs hiking and sea kayaking trips around the province. A calving berg can let loose an avalanche of ice chunks the size of grand pianos and small houses. If you are too close, when a wave from a block of falling ice can swamp or capsize your boat. There is also the chance the iceberg could roll, and since seven-eights of a berg lies underwater; you do not want to be nearby when it takes a tumble. This berg had recently calved, and as I followed English around its corner, we found a gray seal sleeping on a floating chunk of ice. The seal lifted its head and watched us quietly slip past. The iceberg had collapsed in the middle, so the walls on our side swept down to sea level. They were covered with thousands of dimples, formed as the berg slowly dissolved. We stopped paddling and listened to the ice as it melted: a crackling, fizzling sound, created as millions of bubbles released air that had been trapped for more then 12 000 years. I had hiked across glaciers in New Zealand and Nepal, kayaked around 80 foot blue whales in the Sea of Cortez, and explored remote sections of the Australian Outback, but I had never seen an iceberg firsthand. It was one of the main reasons I drove 3 000 miles last July – a road trip from Boston to Newfoundland and back, via ferries and the open road. Along the way, I also wanted to explore a less fleeting relic of the past: a mountain of rock where the hearth’s mantle was exposed several hundred years ago. Quirpon Island is blanketed in peat bogs and rocks, and ringed by cliffs and coves with a few sandy beaches. You can explore the four-mile long island on foot – the rolling hills, dramatic sea cliffs, and small historic spots (old foundations from sod huts, which may have belonged to the Vikings, and Quonset huts, which were used by soldiers during World War Two.) – or climb the hill at Cape Degrat, which offers great views across the island and a large cove with eider ducks, common murres, and the bald eagles. The iceberg-viewing season lasts from approximately May to September and coincides with the whale migrations north. Whales and icebergs cross paths all summer long in the Strait of Belle Isle. Here, the ocean plunges hundreds of feet, making it an ideal feeding ground for humpbacks, minkes, orcas and occasionally belugas, and deep enough for the bergs to slip through. Each night, I sat on the rocks near the water and watched humpbacks and minkes surfacing 10 feet away. Some guests have reported getting sprayed by the spouting whales and being able to touch them, they were so close. During a day paddle around Quirpon, it’s not unusual to spot several dozen whales some breaching only 30 feet away. The white belly of a minke whale passed right under my kayak one morning – an amazing experience – and curious white-sided dolphins followed us out to the icebergs. On the last day, I kayaked up to the dock in the mainland town of Quirpon, and met an enterprising man who has figured out a way to tap into the ancient icebergs. Boyce Roberts, a cod fisherman who lost his livelihood when the fishery collapsed in 1992, harvests ice to make drinking water. When a berg calves, Roberts goes out in his fishing boat and uses a winch to hoist 100-pound chunks of ice into the boat. He brings them back to be melted, bottled, and sold as pure iceberg water. |
| Kari J.Bodnarchuk, May 11, 2003
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New-found Glory |
Dave Howard kayaks among whales and ‘bergs in a land far away Excerpt Newfoundland’s Northern Peninsula is, by any standard, remote. From New York, it takes about 12 hours – seven flying, five driving – to get to Quirpon Island, right at the tip of the peninsula, which is on par with travel to Alaska. And it feels at least that far away. The London Sunday Times, in fact, recently ranked it one of the world’s five most secluded destinations. There are a few reasons why. Northern Peninsula accents are so unintelligible that a Canadian television news show once used sub-titles while airing an interview with a local fisherman. Newfoundland has its own time zone (90 minutes ahead of Eastern Standard Time) and names that are straight out of Dr. Seuss: Ha Ha Mountain, Luscious Bite, and Heart’s Delight. The crew of last year’s “The Shipping News” couldn’t even make it this far and filmed instead in northeastern Newfoundland, where there were enough lighting trucks and power and hotel rooms to accommodate them. My reading material on the flight included “Some Superstitions and Traditions of Newfoundland,” a 1919 book that vividly delineates the perils of these waters: “It is asserted by many mariners,” author P.J. Kinsella wrote, “that the sea does actually wail and shriek in the demand for human life.” I had come to Quirpon (rhymes with harpoon) to hear the Atlantic wail, to kayak among the whales and icebergs. Soon after arriving, I found myself lying face first on a slab of ice or, more precisely a “bergy bit” of an iceberg. I lay on my slice of dazzling white, about the size of a baseball infield that had sheared away from the berg looming 75 feet overhead only two hours earlier. It was a bit unnerving. Host, captain, and fearless iceberg explorer Ed English is the co-owner of Quirpon Lighthouse Inn. Bergs are as common as lobster traps here, so English suggested checking out a pair of behemoths. “Want to climb on?” he asked, when we encountered the bergy bit. He warned me not to try to stand (I’d need skates), so is slithered around walrus-style, entombed in a wetsuit. …The Quirpon Lighthouse Inn, opened two years ago next to an operating 80-year-old lighthouse, may be the most intriguing addition to the neighbourhood. Guests take a motorized skiff or a kayak to the northern tip of the 4-mile-long uninhabited island. There are no TVs or phones in the 10 rooms, but the inn’s viewing platform, high on a bluff, more than, makes up for their absence. Here, at the intersection of the Atlantic and Iceberg Alley, humpback whales swimming north meet 10,000-year-old bergs drifting south. Around sunset, clusters of whales rise to lazily exhale. In spring, polar bears feast on seals. Dolphins and killer whales are regular visitors. It’s a setting that Captain Ahab might have given his other leg for |
| Dave Howard, October 22, 2002
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Hotels Unique |
Excerpt You’ve stayed at cutting-edge boutique hotels and been pampered at luxury resort, but what about taking the road less traveled? Turn your next hotel stay into an adventure at one of these unexpected hideaways. LIGHT BRIGHT Quirpon Lighthouse Inn (pronounced kar-poon), perched on the cliff tops of the northernmost point of Newfoundland, is nestled under the protective watch of its historic lighthouse. Take in sweeping views of the Atlantic Ocean and the ancient Viking settlement, L’Anse aux Meadows, from the two guesthouses echoing the lighthouse’s sun bleached white exterior with red trim. Beds crafted by local artisans, the local fare inspired by fresh catch, and the secluded setting make this inn an ideal romantic escape a` deux. Curl up in the indoor whale-watching station with a book and have a pot of tea delivered. Early summer is the best time to see humpbacks rise up to scrape off a few barnacles on the rocks at your feet, or to marvel at cathedral-sized icebergs lazily drifting by. |
| Laura Osbourne, 2006
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A Night to Remember |
Excerpt We could have gone for the top 10 most beautiful destinations in Canada, but how do you single out only 10 places in a country as breathtaking as ours? Instead we sent Camilla Cornell on a cross-country search for the most unusual places to lay down your weary head. Light the way. The Quirpon Lighthouse Inn on Newfoundland’s deserted Quirpon Island overlooks “iceberg alley,” offering tremendous views of the frozen floating behemoths, as well as humpback whales and orcas migrating north to feed in Labrador’s well-stocked waters. You’ll stay in the restored lighthouse keeper’s residence, with its 11 private rooms perched on a cliff. |
| Camilla Cornell, July 1,2006
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Island Escape to Tranquility |
Excerpt More often than not Newfoundland feels like an island that has floated away from the rest of the world- like a lily pad whose tendrils have been cut. If I’d grown up surrounded by craggy coastlines and clapboard houses, I can imagine a compulsion to get out and explore the manmade arrogance of the big cities of the world. But for anyone else, Newfoundland’s ruggedness if bliss. In a matter of days I find myself thinking through ways I could successfully maroon myself forever. None more so than on Quirpon Island, a deserted island bar a lighthouse and lighthouses keeper’s cottages hospitably run, but not owned, by a former fisherman Hubert and his wife Doris. To get there Hubert kits us out in lifejackets- and waterproofs if it looks a bit blowy- and we motor boat out in two boats into the ocean. The lighthouse is in sight when the engine suddenly cuts. Hubert has spotted dolphins. We shriek with childlike abandon as dolphins leap out of the water around us. When we finally reach the island and catch up with the others-having raced up a rocky scrub laced with crackerberries, blackberries, blueberries and partridge berries- we are nothing short of high on experience. From the top of the lighthouse I later watch a drippy sun melt and take over the sky. On a cool, clear night you’re highly likely to see the Northern Lights from Quirpon. It’s also the most fantastic spot from which to spot icebergs and whales, with Quirpon Island located at the tip of Iceberg Alley- through which icebergs drift down as far as St. John’s Icebergs disappear with the summer, but I determine to catch sunrise, and as much time as possible for whales. I stumble out around 6.30am, my pyjamas betraying themselves from under my clothes. But being bathed in golden light from this benevolent god is worth every bit of sleep prematurely rubbed out of bleary eyes. I sit at the end of the whale watching platform for an hour or so with my thoughts and a calm ocean. And find my lips whispering thanks for such a place. And then a fellow traveler- who has joined me-is eagerly pointing far off, at whales breaking the surface of the sea |
| Christine Miles, January 2004
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More than a Place to Lay your Head |
It’s safe to say that George Washington never slept in any of Atlantic Canada’s historic inns. But Sir John A. MacDonald did. So did Charles Dickens, and the future King George V. In fact, these beautifully restored gems have seen their share of rich and famous during the course of their histories, and most have long stories to tell. Small inns are a romantic step back into a slower-paced time when traveling just a few kilometers was a wonderful adventure. Spending a few days at one of them is a great way to make mew friends and get to know a community intimately from the inside – to try another life on for size, just for a few hours. Unique inns give vacationers a chance to tap into a variety of experiences It’s hard to imagine a more rugged existence than the life of a lighthouse keeper on a remote piece of Newfoundland’s Great Northern Peninsula. What was once a lonely, cold, harsh existence is today an utterly irresistible escape for any urbanite at the end of their rope. Part ecotourism bonanza, part lighthouse aficionado’s fantasy camp, the Quirpon Lighthouse Inn gives travelers a chance to live the life of a 19th century lighthouse keeper for a day, a week or more. The village of Quirpon is a place where human and natural history converge. It lies just a few km from L’Anse aux Meadows, the only known Viking settlement in North America. Some historians, including the Pulitzer Prize winning author Samuel Eliot Morison, believe that John Cabot may have made his first landfall right here in Quirpon Harbour. Nearby the town of St. Anthony is the center of Newfoundland’s sealing industry and the home base of the world-famous Grenfell Mission. But the annual show that nature stages is the area’s biggest tourism draw. For one thing, this is “Iceberg Alley,” the only part of Newfoundland where iceberg sightings are practically guaranteed 12 months of the year. And in these waters, 26 species of sea mammals call the area home. Quirpon Lighthouse Inn is located on an island in Quirpon Harbour. Guests reach the island by a quick boat ride, and then walk a short distance to their quarters in an old lightkeeper’s house beside a working lighthouse. Despite the rugged surroundings, the service is high-end with lots of amenities and gourmet meals featuring local seafood. The seven-by-two km island is great for hiking, bird watching and kayaking. Proprietor Ed English says herds of seals numbering in the thousands often attract polar bears in the early spring and whales are a daily sight year round. You don’t even need a boat to get close to them. “The water depth right at shore is about 200 feet,” says English. “Whales come so close you can literally reach out and touch them from shore.” But the best part of the Quirpon Lighthouse Inn according to English, comes when a late spring storm sweeps across the Great Northern Peninsula. “It’s a really cozy place to be when that happens. If you want to see an ocean storm at its finest, you’ve got to come to Quirpon |
| Tom Mason, 2003
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Newfoundland |
Kayak around the northern tip of Newfoundland during the summertime and you’ll see icebergs as big as 15 story buildings drifting along the coast melting, rolling and crumbling as they go. A calving berg can let loose an avalanche of ice chunks the size of pianos and small houses. Paddle closer and you may see blue streaks running through the white ice (formed when melt-water refreezes in cracks), waterfalls, pouring off the top and thousands of divots forming across the surface as the iceberg slowly dissolves. Listen closely and you can hear it melting: it cracks and fizzles, as millions of bubbles release air that’s been trapped within since the Stone Age some 12,000 years ago. Newfoundland’s icebergs come from the west coast of Greenland, where the world’s fastest moving glacier dumps five cubic miles of ice into the ocean each year (that’s equivalent to a one-foot-deep lake covering the surface of West Virginia). As these ice cathedrals travel south with the Labrador Current-along a water route dubbed iceberg alley- they’re carved into fantastic shapes by the winds and the waves; giant horseshoes, mountain peaks, domes and wedges. Quirpon Island, off Newfoundland’s northern most point, has the longest iceberg-viewing season. From May to August, hundreds of bergs drift past this island, many grounding in shallow bays along the mainland, within a mile from shore. These sheltered inlets often accessible only by boat, typically offer calm conditions that are ideal for beginner and intermediate paddlers. Areas more exposed to the North Atlantic and the region’s strong winds and currents, can dish up considerable chop and impressive swells, making them more suitable for expert kayakers. On a 10 –mile trip around Quirpon or a day-paddle along the main coast, it’s not unusual to spot a few dozen migrating humpbacks, minkes and orcas. Falcons, puffins, gannets, and kittiwakes are also common. What you won’t see: many other people or boats. IF YOU GO ...stay in the Quirpon Lighthouse Inn, an authentic renovated light-keeper’s home, and enjoy fresh cod, homemade apple pie, and iceberg vodka (the real deal, made locally from pure iceberg water). Gear rental, guides and customized sea-kayaking trips can be arranged through Explore Newfoundland (877-254-6586; www.linkumtours.com). |
| Kari J. Bodnarchuk, June 2003
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Newfoundland is imagination central |
Excerpt Plan to spend a couple of days in the area. Quirpon Lighthouse, only a few kilometres from here, still operates on Quirpon Island. Pronounced kar-poon, the island lies at the tip of the Great Northern Peninsula and projects into “iceberg alley’ so visitors usually spot both whales and icebergs. They offer accommodation in the lighthouse keepers cottages, as well as plenty of wonderful hiking and kayaking. There are the remains of at least two Viking sod huts on the island. And in August, wild bakeapples, also called cloudberries, provide a delicious snack |
Liz Campbell, July 1, 2007 |
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newfound (winter wonder) land |
There’s a single luggage carousel that loops around and around at the small airport in Deer Lake, Newfoundland. The belt of black rubber is loaded with ski bags and duffel bags crammed with snowshoes, bulky Sorels (winter boots) and assorted winter gear. Standing at the end is local born and bred guide Ed English. “So, what do you want to do?” he grins, with the joy in his voice of a man who knows he’s got a cornucopia of opportunities for first-time guests. Any Canadian can tell you - whether they have been there or not- that Newfoundland is just a little different than the rest of the pack. The landscape, food, people, local colour and culture, and even the lilt to the language set this province apart. It turns out that the old joke about Newfoundland having only two seasons – July and winter – has been a blessing for the province’s snow-based businesses. While the rest of the country is starting to thaw out in early spring, skiers and snowboarders here still have weeks to go before the deep snow gives way to rock and patches of grass. According to English, “We don’t usually get enough natural snow for skiing before Christmas, but then we get lots, it stays a long time, and we can have a good season well into April. The whole forest becomes a playground – there’s still a lot of snow and the air is warm. You can be skiing in shorts.” Deer Lake sits in what’s called the western arm of the island: the stretch of land that juts north into the Gulf of St. Lawrence; the end point for the Long Range Mountains, a sub-range at the north end of the Appalachian Mountains, that snake from Georgia to the far reaches of Newfoundland. Much of the area is dominated by the Tablelands (a part of Gros Morne National Park); a spectacular landscape that was created when the continental plates of Africa and North America crashed and thrust upwards some 450 million years ago. Take the latitude, add the mountains, throw in the effect of a large body of water and you’ve got snow. Lots of it, and reliable amounts into the springtime months. Western Newfoundland is best known for the ski resort of Marble Mountain, with an annual snow dump of five metres and a reputation for some of the finest skiing east of the Rockies. There’s a full variety of downhill runs, from beginner ripples to extreme, black diamond, 50-degree slopes. Thirty five trails tempt both skiers and snowboarders (with an additional terrain park); short lineups and high-speed lifts mean run, after run, after sweet run… There’s barely enough time to down a cup of hot chocolate in the drive from the downhill slopes at Marble Mountain to the cross-country and snowshoeing trails at Blow Me Down Ski Park, the site extensively developed for the 1999 Canada Winter Games. The ski park has grown in leaps and bounds from a rather modest beginning (the first grooming machine was a snowmobile dragging an old bedspring) to one of the best cross-country facilities in eastern Canada. Just outside Corner Brook – “a community that revolves around snow, skiing, snowshoeing and snowmobiling,” according to ski instructor Denise MacDonald – Blow Me Down’s 50-kilometre network of groomed trails lies at the heart of a snowbelt, with a season that often stretches from December to May. … But when Ed English really wants to show off the wild landscape of the western coastline , he heads to Gros Morne National Park, the famed UNESCO World Heritage Site, Just a few kilometeres past the entrance kiosk to the park he pulls off by the southeast arm of Bonne Bay. Several pairs of lightweight snowshoes are unpacked from the back of the van and within seconds we’re tromping through the sparkling snow towards a lookout point with a view over the crusty Tablelands. The snow is deep and clean, the sun is shining and the air is as cold as a deep drink of ice water. There are ramrod straight spruce trees and untouched snow as far as the eye can see. Gros Morne has a well-developed network of cross-country trails – and the off-trail skiing and snowshoeing opportunities are almost unlimited. For something a little more exotic it’s possible to go underground… into the world of winter caving. Large streams have cut through the soluble limestone to create a network of tunnels, sinkholes and caving sites. When English takes small groups into the caves it can be a little like playing a subterranean game of Twister…only with bulky orange overalls and headlamps. The biggest challenge is squeezing through narrow slots between the walls and finding footholds and toeholds along the rock ledges. “Caving is a challenge for people,” explains English when we turn out our headlamps to check just how dark dark can really be. “It’s a way of pushing your limits ina safe environment.” At the very least it can make you feel pretty pleased with yourself afterwards. And, in truth, the same could be said of any of western Newfoundland’s wintertime games. Josephine Matyas, December, 2007
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