La Manche, Newfoundland

Newfoundland has always had a strong tie to the sea. With the boom in offshore oil, our primary resource is beneath the waves. But before Hibernia, King Danny, and the Atlantic Accord, and all the way back to John Cabot's (likely) landing at Bonavista, the fishery was our foremost industry. Historically, the fishery led to isolated communities along the island's cove-marked coast, populated by fishermen who worked the surrounding waters.

These isolated havens dot Newfoundland shores to this day. Looking at the land itself, it seems preposterous that anyone would build in such locations. Houses perched atop rocks and stilts, living, like their owners, with one foot in the sea.

Looking at the land itself is a flawed perspective, however. Started by fishermen seeking safe harbour, these settlements provided access to, and shelter from, the ocean. The land was only important as a respite from the water around it. This respite, however, was never absolute.

The sea found its way into the bays and inlets of the island. With it came fishermen for whom the water was passage and pasture. Without roads, these communities relied on the ocean to transport catches to the merchants, and to transport supplies back in return. Even now, terrestrial access to these communities is often limited to hiking trails.

The fishermen came with the sea, and, despite their best efforts, the sea came with the fishermen. The water was ally and adversary; it gave and took in turn. Such was the case in the village of La Manche, year of 1966, population of 25.

A severe storm and its accompanying tide destroyed the wharves and bridges of the community. Emotionless and capricious, the water laid waste to the infrastructure that worshiped it, eroding the fishermen's efforts like the rock to which they clung.

Like the rock, though, the fishermen did not yield easily. In 1954, the provincial government began the Resettlement program, an effort to consolidate the scattered Newfoundland outports into larger communities. Premier Joey Smallwood claimed that these isolated havens had “no great future” (citation), and provided financial support to those willing to resettle. Stubborn as their sheltering stone, the citizens of La Manche resisted the program. Until the sea intervened.

In the wake of the 1966 storm, La Manche joined the ranks of over 300 communities abandoned during the Resettlement. Almost fifty years later, only stairs and foundations remain, still clutching the land and enduring the water. These remnants are physical echoes of good catches and bad storms, of the promise and power of the waves. The sea is heaven, hell, and the road to both; it is stairs bolted to rock, leading from nowhere to nowhere in an abandoned cove.

Black Lake, Newfoundland

Every Newfoundlander's second favourite pastime is complaining about the weather. I'd guess it's because we're always ten minutes away from the outdoors turning into bullshit. April and May weather is particularly suspect, since at any moment a swelling spring can flaccidly flop back into winter. Even in an unseasonably warm year like this one, it's hard to trust spring. Break out the deck chairs, but don't put away the shovel and Polaris jacket quite yet.

That said, the recently beautiful weather has me pining to get out and enjoy it while it's still here. But, little things like my writing career and day (or more accurately, night) job prevent me from taking time off to gallivant around the wilderness. Instead, I'll turn to the two favourite recourses of the trapped modern worker: nostalgia and the Internet.

I have a bunch of wintry photos ready for the blog, but I'll let them wait until I'm certain that the snow isn't biding its time until an ambush on May 24. For now, I'll take us back to last summer and an off-the-grid hideaway called Black Lake.

This place greeted me after about 700 kilometers of highways, back roads, and woods roads. Having spent my teenage years in Central Newfoundland, I'm no stranger to highway driving. Back then, my buddy Jean Claude Grand Am could push me back in my seat with the force of a roundhouse kick. Nowadays, the trickiest part is getting my 90-horsepower muscle car to maintain the mandatory speed of 20 km/h over the limit.

To the left of the cabin there's a small sandy beach, a rarity in Newfoundland. The water is no more than neck-deep for several hundred feet out, making this cove perfect for swimming. And, the winds off this large lake help deal with the deadliest animals in Newfoundland: flies.

Well, it isn't always windy, a trait that separates Central Newfoundland from St. John's. To the right of the cabin, the semi-private cove continues. I say “semi-private” because you can barely see the roof of the nearest cabin near the end of the point. The first day I was there, the neighbours came over bearing bacon-wrapped scallops and tips on where I could get cell reception. With strangers like that, it's small wonder that Newfoundlanders never truly leave the island.

Black Lake has no electricity or amenities. The cabin itself is fairly advanced, featuring propane heat, a pump for indoor plumbing, a gas-powered generator, and a solar battery. That said, a lot of the energy comes from old-fashioned axe and bucksaw. There's no shortage of windfall trees, and a campfire just isn't a campfire if you don't make your own splits.

This campfire certainly is a campfire. A few birch junks turn kindling into a towering inferno. Thanks to its natural oils, the bark—or “rind”—burns hot and fast. The fire looks impressive, but it's not practical for cooking until the heat dies down. I've never had any success making marshmallow flambé.

After the kindling turns to coals, the indirect heat is more than enough to roast meat. Cooking in a fire pit has a charm that even barbecue can't replicate. To the left is an onion with butter, and to the right is a pork tenderloin rubbed with extra virgin olive oil and seasoned with salt, pepper, garlic, and rosemary. Next time I go to the cabin, I'll document my recipe and technique. I'll call it “Iron Age Chef.”

After eating, Nicole and I enjoyed the sunset. If you're wondering, I'm the rugged one with the chiseled jaw.

And what a sunset it was.

Black Lake didn't give me any reason to complain about the weather. It did give me reason to complain about the flies, though. They're like the weather, except itchier and more predictable. That said, I can't wait to go back. Maybe I'll go out the next time there's a big snowfall. I give it about a month.