NFLD Outports
Newfoundland’s road system basically follows around its shores from the southeast to the southwest corner - roughly in the shape of an inverted U. We were now at the very end of that road.
Rose Blanche is the name of this small community. Its steep hillsides are dotted with colourful homes overlooking the many arms of the bay. The lighthouse there is a unique and beautiful granite structure – one of only two in North America.
It would have been worth the visit just to see Rose Blanche – we walked, paddled, and met the locals – but we were there for another reason.
There are only two options for travel from Rose Blanche. Either you turn around and go back - or you take a ferry onward. We took the ferry.
The south shore of Newfoundland has about a half dozen small communities that are only accessible by water (these communities have no roads - no cars). Ferries carry passengers and goods in and out of these towns several times a week. We were heading to Grand Bruit – population 36.
Under blue skies and sunshine, our ferry hummed its way down the coast. After about two and a half hours we strained to get a glimpse of our new home. What a view.
The town wrapped itself around a small bay with a scattering of brightly coloured homes. The fisherman’s jetty was on one side of the bay. The public ferryboat landing was on the other. Fishing shacks and slips crowded the waterline. And right in the middle of it all was a multi-stringed waterfall that crashed down into the bay.
Our host Cynthia met us at the dock. We followed her on the orderly paved footpaths. We walked through the town, across the waterfall bridge and to our self contained cabin. After we settled ourselves in, we went out on the deck and just looked.
“I don’t think I’ve ever been in a town without a road before – have you?” I asked Jim. He shook his head in reply.
We decided to go for a wander. The town’s fire hall is up by the church and is the size of a large garden shed. A long ladder hung horizontally on the side wall, and extended out - front and back. There were no fire trucks here.
Another building also caught our attention. It’s the local Bar and it’s called the ‘Cramalott Inn’ (cram a lot in). This is a ‘bring your own’ bar. In this old fishing shed there’s a fridge, and a pile of empties stacked neatly against the wall. There is no bartender and no sales. There are lots of smiles though, and a quick invitation to the strangers in town to ‘come on in, sit down.’
We had wanted to stay in a true outport town. We also wanted to hike. We’d heard the Blue Mountains were marvellous hiking. We’ll never know. The great weather ended that night. Thick mist and fog greeted us the next morning. We decided to sleep in.
“Do you hear that?” I asked Jim.
“I don’t hear anything,” came the reply.
It was totally silent. No cars, no voices, no dogs, no birds, no radios – nothing. Later we did a soggy hike by the ocean and then basically hung out. We strolled the pathways and chatted with the locals. Soon it was time to settle our bill with Cynthia.
“Everyone in town I see asks me how you two are doing,” Cynthia told us. “People feel bad that you had so much rain.”
“It was beautiful when we arrived,” we reminded her.
Early the next morning the ferry pulled up to the dock to take us back to Rose Blanche.
It’s impossible to visit these places and not wonder about their future. These are fishing communities and there is no fishing anymore. The town’s few children have to leave for high school – and then for work. Of the 36 people who live in Grand Bruit, nearly half go away for the winter.
Our ferry passed by the community of Petite without stopping. When the town’s population dropped to 16 the government decided to close it down. They gave money to the residents to leave. Then the ferry was stopped and the power, phone and water were turned off.
Jim and I had paddled to Petite for a visit prior to our ferry run. A few fishing sheds had collapsed into the water. The peeling paint and rickety timbers of those that survived gave them a forlorn look. Up in the town, curtains still hung in the windows of abandoned homes. The grass in the yards was waist high.
We walked along the overgrown paths to the schoolhouse. The blackboards in the deserted classroom bear the chalked-in names and greetings from the last children there. It felt like walking through a cemetery.
One man and his wife still spend their summers in Petite. Ron invited us in for coffee. He ushered us into his home with a big smile and big cups of coffee.
We again heard the typical Newfoundland story. Petite was the town where he’d grown up. This was once a thriving place – a bustling, busy fishing port. And then all the fish were caught and there was nothing left for them.
Grand Bruit, Rose Blanche, Salvage, the Change Islands – and countless other communities of Newfoundland are all in the same boat – unfortunately it is a boat without a paddle.
posted by Michelle & Jim Wiebe at 4:54 p.m.
