Bordering on Heresy

It was about now last year when while excited about spending so much time on the rock during the upcoming summer, I was worried. I would be so far from the rock that I knew no Bruce’s, running into Sharon, joking with Henry on his way to either free coffee or a six pack of Canadian. Away from the seamlessly endless slog along route 20 out of St. John’s to Pouch which seems to be worsening day by day – either that or I am driving more and more like a Newfoundlander. No Duke and I would be looking in the wrong direction – Québec in the distance not Europe.

What came of the experience was – as was obvious – an even deeper affection for the island. I had come to think that like most people off the Avalon that Newfoundland ended at the overpass. While missing the comforts of big city life – the evening read of the Globe, the glut of papers on Saturday to get me through Sunday, the lack of decent beer, to where I was looking forward to 1492, the self sufficiency was much more rewarding. The realisation I could function 40km from the main road and 70 from the most basic requirements was enlightening as was even though I teared up seeing the Signal Hill, the harbour and the Bubble – but not The Rooms – we were more than happy to head west again a bit early to the parks house.

This realisation has opened up a can of worms. I day dream over maps. I wonder if the same could be done in Burgeo – always wanted to see Burgeo – the extreme it seems to be as being at the end of a long endless road. Buchans – the same with no sea view.

Worse it has opened up options away from the nation’s far east. I could go off island. There are other remote places even though they have normal time zones. There is a residency in the Klondike, I now know someone who has been there and it sounds as challenging as my initial forays north and east. The application deadline is 1 April, I have to get on it. Because of the revelations of last summer, am dead set on driving. The drive to the rock was a trial I remember stating that we needed some reward after long days of nothing – making it only to Scranton on the first day, the endless urban areas of Upstate New York, Connecticut, and Massachusetts actually all the way to Portland where even crossing state lines weren’t fulfilling.

There was, however, the final push in Maine the emptying out of the land – the feel that stops could be done was worth the agony of everything up to then. I was also made aware of the distance.

The ride back told me that I am even able to do it alone – and stop – and not race – well until the Maine New Hampshire border.

With none of the urban stress after Edmonton, the outing to Dawson City could be a piece of cake and if i missed Newfoundland, I could always stop over in Fort McMurray