20 June

Waking up to a new reality, in the renovated wing of a 100-year-old house, wedged between the arms of two unrestored 10,000-year-old glaciers.

My modern abode seems at odds with the ridiculous scenery to be found just outside the window – selected highlights of Gros Morne National Park, a World Heritage Site, Newfoundland.

Although I am grateful for the toaster and the kettle. And electricity.

I left sunshine by the trailer on the harbour last night, and I need to retrieve it so I can paint the sky with it.

I also left my National Park guide there, with Mark and sister Wendy and husband Jim. Their trailer shack is deserted but the door is open, so I take my chance and rescue my map from the kitchen counter.

The four of us painted Bonne Bay red last night, and nature filled in the blanks, to the point where I figure there’s no colour left – it’s going to be a dull life today.

I take an overly long drive through now moody peaks, past Killdevil, the Tablelands, the Green Gardens, to Trout River.

And all the way here, forbidden rain seeping through the increasing mass of dark cloud, so that when I arrive at my hiking destination, I’m immediately questioning my preparedness, in internal conversations which will escalate in noise to the point of awkwardness.

The forecast was for a warm day, bright sunny spells. Although Mark warned me this morning of a sudden and significant change to that, telling me his kayak trip was likely being cancelled due to the weather.

For some reason, I went away thinking absolutely nothing of this, other than that’s a bit unfortunate. Maybe kayaking gets called off when it’s warm and sunny?

The gulf between optimism and pessimism remains as wide as ever, the fire risk marker of idiocy splitting the two.

For now, every misguided step through the lake-side forest trail is a potential step too far, and all I can think is – when will I turn around and give this up as a Shit Job.

For some reason, the answer I give myself is when I’ve at least caught a glimpse, partial or otherwise, of the Tablelands. Even though I can see them perfectly well from the porthole of where I’m staying.

In the middle of a midsummer’s day, the landscape is showing itself in varying shades of gloomy darkness.

Suddenly those vibrant greens and sunshine yellows and sparkling blues of yesterday are long-forgotten memories. Everyone and everything has moved on, so that we’re no longer considering beauty in the same hushed, mesmerised tones.

It’s now busy, violently grey hues with sharp edges, and all the while I’m being half-drowned, stood upright beneath that collapsed shelf of sky.

The trees are also vertical, but they don’t care. They’ve Seen It All, and the stiff breeze whipping through them I figure is clearly mocking me.

As is the complete lack of any other life, other than rocks and boulders. No birds, for instance … where are the birds? I miss their woodland melodies.

The trudge goes on, the path occasionally disappearing into nothingness, as the bush on either side consumes it.

I barge my sodden way through, reassuring myself of the confidence that I’ll be the only person pioneering enough to travel down this washed-up path today. Pioneering or stupid – it’s a fine line.

The kilometre markers help at first, but when a few of them bugger off, in an attempt to stay dry, the mood sours.

I’m not quite at Misery Bay levels of shivery dankness yet, though I know it’s only a matter of time if this cold front doesn’t shift itself.

The clouds above are evolving slowly but deliberately, altering in their shades of grey; however they’ve been doing that all morning and yet the same steady consistent rain has been falling. Nothing will change anytime soon, is my thought.

At the swollen stream throwing itself over the boulders and down the glacial rocks into the lake, a viewpoint. But there’s not a great deal to see, when the elements are all conspiring with each other to keep this scene behind closed doors.

And then the trail disappears, entirely.

In the open air of the clearing, the rushing water is working in cahoots with the falling rain, in a conspiracy of nature.

The disappearing path caps it all, pushing me into a submission, a retreat. I am losing the battle. But at least I’m the only person to attempt it today, that’s my victory.

It’s clear there are no ticklers in these parts today, no sir! That trout is safe – for now anyway.

I’m now going backwards, thinking how many more fallen trees and bogs and path-wide puddles do I need to navigate and scramble around. The kilometre markers only occasionally helping.

I’m so thoroughly damp and doleful that I completely miss the point where it stops raining; I simply and suddenly realise that moisture is now escaping from me, rather than being attracted to me.

A minor joy overcomes me that I get to eat my cheese sandwich down by the fake fjord, without a bucket of water being poured over me.

At the shoreline opening, a lone tree has made a dash for it, struck out from the timber mob behind it.

On the final few furlongs of my showery hike, plump brown-and-orange snails are now queuing up to tease me. I’m having none of it, though – all I’m thinking is … colour exists!

At the boat launch, the collapsed pier (yellow!), the empty structure, yellow-stained water, a car (not mine).

We all extend a hand to Captains Beefheart and Cook, who have taught us Many Things. We then move on and forget everything within the next hour.

By which point I’ve arrived at Woody Point, within arms length of where I’m staying, yet it couldn’t be further away.

Someone around here can make a cup of tea, and that someone debates with me the pros and cons of making a chocolate brownie from scratch, or creating it from a packet mix.

This is a conversation I wasn’t expecting to have today.

I take my afternoon tea by the pleasure boats moored at the harbour, constantly looking skywards at the misbehaving clouds.

There are abandoned truck drivers milling around the rebuilt town. And yeah they had firestarters in the 1920s, it’s true. Arson was alive and kicking back in the prohibition era.

In the liquor store is where the day boils over – my hiking frustrations compelling me to buy a carryout of craft ale.

Carries me back to Norris Point, to the viewpoint I ignorantly zoomed past yesterday, to stand and gawp at the alternately flat and jagged landscape in the far distance, splashes of snow stubbornly refusing summer.

The deer and the fish and the birds and the moose are all climbing up a pole to see this, the wicked snow not leaving when it’s asked to.

I head back to my crash pad, to get dry and sink a cold one, in a vague resuscitation attempt.

I can see the pub at Bonne Bay from here, but I’ve decided … I am not playing out tonight.

My moonshine has come to me this evening – in a brown paper bag.