Before Columbus there was Leif

 

Clayton Colbourne and the Viking mounds where he played as a child.

Clayton Colbourne and the Viking mounds where he played as a child.

Clayton Colbourne began fishing when he was seven years old. This was not your daddy’s fishing where you sit on a quiet lake slowly baking in the midday sun, and maybe you end up with a couple of pan fish.

Fishing in Newfoundland is serious business. When you fish in Newfoundland, you go out into the cold Atlantic for cod and other large fish that will be your family’s livelihood for the year ahead.

When Clayton began fishing perhaps 100 families lived in the tiny village of L’anse aux Meadows, which clings precariously to the shore at the far northern reaches of Newfoundland. This is a strange, remote, and rugged land, where snow may drift 30 feet high in winter.

As a child, Clayton and his pals (There were eleven children in the village) played on the irregular and almost unnoticeable mounds nearby. “We called them the Old Indian Camp because we thought the native people had made them.”

L'anse aux Meadows. The village only has 25 residents now. "It's only a matter of time, and this community will cease to exist," says Clayton.

L’anse aux Meadows clings precariously to the shore. The village now has only 25 residents. “It’s only a matter of time before this community ceases to exist,” says Clayton.

One day, a husband-and-wife team of archeologists, who also happened to be experts in ancient Norse civilization, arrived in town.  Following a hunch (based on a lifetime of study), they began excavating the mounds. They often stayed with people in the village as their guests.

Clayton remembers the excitement when the first unmistakeably Norse artifacts were pulled from the dirt: a brass cloak pin and a stone spindle. Eventually, the mounds were identified as the traditional Norse turf-and-peat homes.

From a village clinging to the edge of nowhere, tiny L’anse aux Meadows suddenly walked onto a global stage, blinking and bewildered. The site became the first, and only, authenticated landing site of the Vikings in the New World. It also became the first Canadian UNESCO World Heritage Site. Now, each year about 35,000 people travel to this end-of-the-world place to see where the Vikings landed.

Flags of Canada, Newfoundland and the United Nations fly over L'anse aux Meadows

Flags of Canada, Newfoundland and the United Nations fly over L’anse aux Meadows

Clayton is one of the interpreters, who shares both his booklearning about the Vikings as well as his own story of present-day life on this remote site. There is something perceptive, gentle, and unassuming about this person who grew up at earth’s end.

But there was nothing gentle about those first European visitors to L’anse aux Meadows. The stories of the Viking travels are recorded in the “sagas,” which were sustained by word of mouth for two centuries before being written down in the 13th century. Like anyone’s travelogues, they tended toward hyperbole, but they have also been an important source in figuring out where these intrepid Norsemen may have wandered in what eventually came to be called America.

 

Leif's long-lost relation?

Leif’s long-lost relation?

Nonetheless, Vikings landed at L’anse aux Meadows more than once–probably about four times in 1000A.D. They built houses, a forge, and four workshops. They didn’t actually settle here–L’anse aux Meadows was probably a refueling station where boats were repaired, refitted, or made. The roving Norse were more likely to be scouting for useful items, like fur, wood, or the grapes they loved so well, to take back home in Iceland and Greenland.

They probably also explored well beyond Newfoundland down along the Atlantic coast, but they left no trace.

Viking raised the craft of boatbuilding to a fine art. These large canoes were fast and strong. They held up under ocean storms but could be beached on land like canoes.

Viking raised the craft of boatbuilding to a fine art. These large canoes were fast and strong. They held up under ocean storms but could be beached on land.

Eventually, they stopped coming. The sagas describe hostile interactions with the skraelings, which is what the Vikings called the native people. Maybe they just gave up and went home, leaving behind tantalizing clues to their way of life in the New World.

Since the dirt mounds that Clayton played on are hard to appreciate for the more unimaginative among us, Parks Canada has rebuilt the Viking village in the old Norse way and peopled it with local folks who look every bit as rough and scary as the originals. When they converse in their native Newfoundlandish, they might as well be speaking Norse.

The peat-turf Viking longhouse, rebuilt by Parks Canada

The peat-turf Viking longhouse, reconstructed by Parks Canada

I have to say, those thick peat walls were mighty comfortable–dry, warm, and not a hint of draft.

Cozy and warm in the spacious longhouse. I'd live here!

Cozy and warm in the spacious longhouse. I’d live here!

Also worth a visit, I heard, is Norstead Village, a nonprofit organization 2 kilometers away that also features a reconstructed Norse settlement, including a life-size Viking ship, the Snorri. Apparently, there are reenactments and fireside storytelling and fortunetelling, all  authentic and entertaining.

Most people visit both L’anse aux Meadows and Norstead. For me, the UNESCO site was enough for a day.

Check out my wanderingnotlost.org FB page for more photos of L’anse aux Meadows and the surrounding area.

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Where the Vikings landed

 

Sunny day; long road

Sunny day; long road

It was a perfect day for a road trip: bright sun on an azure ocean reflecting a cerulean sky. A day like this is not to be taken lightly in soggy Newfoundland.

Julia and I had started early from Cow Head campground at the north end of Gros Morne National Park. We were heading up the Viking Trail to where the road ends in the cold Atlantic at L’anse aux Meadows.

This is the only place in North America that is an authentic, bona fide, expert-approved spot where the Vikings landed in the New World 500 years before Columbus. Thus, it is also a UNESCO World Heritage site at the north end of the Viking Trail. Since Gros Morne is the UNESCO site at the south end, travelers on the Viking Trail get a two-fer.

I had informed my friends, who were traveling with us, that I probably couldn’t make the trip to L’anse aux Meadows in a day.

“But it’s only 200 miles,” they said, slightly dumbfounded.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m saying. Two hundred miles. Can’t make it in a day.”

“Really, it won’t be that hard. You can do it.”

“Not so sure.”

So they took off, promising to save us a campsite for whenever we showed up, and my daughter was stuck traveling, once again, at a tortoise pace.

The Viking Trail runs the length of Newfoundland’s Great Northern Peninsula, mostly hugging the coast. The road turns inland eventually, branching into tiny arteries that reach most of the tiny coves and bays scattered along the island’s northernmost coast. (The rest are only accessible by boat.)

L’anse aux Meadows is at the very tip, above St. Anthony

This stretch of highway is quintessential Newfoundland, just like I imagined it. The Long Range Mountains to the east aren’t spectacular, but they have a certain lumpy beauty with their feet in the bog and their heads in the mist–like some people. Tiny villages that still live precariously by what they catch or what they scrounge are strung along the coast: Flower’s Cove. River of Ponds. Deadmans Cove. Nameless Cove. On and on.

River of Ponds. A village by the sea.

River of Ponds. A village by the sea.

Fishing shanties (called "stages") are everywhere.

Fishing shanties (called “stages”) are everywhere.

Firewood in all stages of readiness is stacked along the highway. Each family has its own pile, and pilfering is unthinkable—the ultimate act of betrayal, like stealing your widowed mother’s wedding ring. Firewood for the following year is gathered in the winter on sledges pulled by snowmobiles. Newfoundland has no hardwoods forests, and the fir is spindly–no splitting required. I imagine the stuff burns fast with lots of creosote. If you wander into a village on a chilly morning (even in August), the air is redolent with woodsmoke.

A family's winter firewood. Uncut logs are stacked to dry. The sleighs are the criblike boxes in the background.

A family’s winter firewood. Uncut logs are stacked to dry. The sleighs are the criblike boxes in the background.

In some places trees are becoming scarce, which means folks have to travel farther to find firewood, and gas is obscenely expensive in Newfoundland. So, life is as it has always been on the island—between a rock and a hard place.

I also began to see the ditch gardens. These are small garden plots beside the road that are fenced against the critters and planted mostly in root vegetables. While the island is rampantly green, a proper garden is hard to come by, what with the peaty soil and short, foggy summers. I never saw a tomato or sweet corn plant in all of Newfoundland.

Ditch garden--fenced and planted in potatoes

Ditch garden–fenced and planted in potatoes

Another common (and scary)  roadside attraction. Moose love to feed beside the road.

Another common (and scary) roadside attraction. Moose like this bad boy love to feed beside the road.

We made it to our provincial campground late in the afternoon. It had been an easy drive. And that’s unfortunate because you tend to blast by the little villages and coves since the destination is so alluringly close. But it’s also possible that, aside from their quaint-ish appearance, the villages don’t offer much to stop for.

Gassing up and blasting by. This was one pierced and pleasant gal, however.

Gassing up and blasting by. This was one pierced and pleasant gal, however.

We pulled into Pistolet Provincial Park with that delicious tired-but-refreshed feeling of a good day on the road. As with all Canadian parks, provincial or national, Pistolet is delightful and perfectly positioned to explore the tip of the peninsula.

We backed into our campsite without issue or incident, and I sauntered over to our friends.

“I wish you’d told me this would be such an easy drive,” I said.

 

Next: Before Columbus there was Leif.

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My run-in with the Mexican police

 

This week, I’m interrupting our romp through Newfoundland for a little story that was prompted by this post from a well-known travel blogger. These folks are living in Mexico, and were stopped several times by the police for what they thought was la mordida –the little bribery “bite.” You can read their story on your own, but it reminded me of my own run-in with the Mexican police some years ago.

*      *    *

For a week I’d been camping with my family in a sweet spot by the ocean just south of Ensenada in Baja. This is the peninsula south of California in Mexico. We’d been rambling around  for several weeks and had recently driven across the peninsula to this mid-sized town about 60 miles (100 km) south of Tijuana.

Winter break was ending for my college-age son, and Ensenada was our point of departure for an end run to the San Diego airport. From there, we would continue on down the Baja for the winter, and Luke would return to school in Michigan.

This drive involved:

  • Finding my way through Ensenada to Highway 1
  • Grazing Tijuana and navigating the border crossing. (The busiest in the world.)
  • Getting to the San Diego airport in time for my son’s flight
  • Picking up supplies for the rest of our stay in Baja
  • Reversing course, recrossing the border, and getting back to the campground before dark

Not to mention that I was driving our massive Ford duallie (those pick-up trucks with four rear wheels), which doubled as a tow vehicle for the 30-foot trailer that was home to our family of four. Plus the dog.

So far, my time in Mexico had given me deep respect for the haphazard signage, uncertain roads, and the mantra to never, ever drive at night. Also for the speed bumps (topes) that might randomly appear in the middle of a dirt road and that could wipe out your suspension.

I had also learned that a duallie truck on unfamiliar Mexican roads is like fitting the glass slipper on the step-sister. It just doesn’t work.

So, I was terrified.

I grilled Patty and Norm, our campground neighbors from southern California. We drew little maps, which I memorized. Norm’s final warnings were burned into my psyche:

“There’s a tricky turn on Mex 1 just as you’re getting into Tijuana. Be ready to make a quick left, almost an about-face, to get to the border crossing. If you miss it, you’ll be heading into Tijuana.”

And: “If a Mexican cop pulls you over, just hand him twenty dollars. It’ll save you a lot of grief.”

Roger that, Norm.

We leave early in the morning, driving through Ensenada, following the tiny signs, and easily make it to Mex 1, the only road that runs the length of Baja. This northern stretch is a smooth, modern highway that parallels the ocean. We roll merrily along, enjoying the view in a haze of relief and overconfidence.

See? No problem. What’s the big deal?

The road narrows and becomes more congested as we near Tijuana. I am in the fast lane looking for the turn.

There!

Wait. Is that it? That break in the guardrail?

Yes!

Damn! I missed it!

Now I am hurtling along the freeway toward Tijuana, the last place in the world I want to be. Luke is stone silent, which I’ve come to learn is fear. He was silent like this when we almost drove off a mountain, too.

I am weaving unsteadily into the slow lane, looking I’m sure, like I am drunk.

Almost immediately, lights flash behind me, and a cop is on my bumper.

What else could go wrong? I have to get my son to the airport. I’m lost, and now I’m going to lose twenty bucks, too.

“Luke, hand me the money.”

I watch the cop approach in the rearview mirror. The twenty-dollar bill is a damp wad crumpled in my sweaty palm.

The guy is very serious. His uniform is crisp. I can’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses.

In broken English, he says, “Can I help you? Are you lost?”

Cautious relief begins to flood my overtaxed limbic system. But wait. Is this a trick to make the sucker let down his guard? After all, Mexican cops are the bogeymen, right?

Then, with difficulty, he tries to make me understand which exit I must take in order to reach the border. He tells me (or I think he’s telling me) that not every exit will be big enough to accommodate my truck.

“OK? Está bien?”

He still hadn’t asked for money, and I am limp from relief and gratitude. I’d like to have given him money, and maybe he’d have taken it. But honestly, money seemed misplaced and even insulting. This guy had given me a gift. An apparently free gift. After a gift like this, you owe the universe big time.

“Adios,” he said and walked back to his car.

At the border, burly American guards with mirrored sunglasses and German shepherds straining against short leashes stalk among the lines of cars waiting to cross. (Wait. Remind me–who’s the bogeyman?) Because I have the right look and the right passport, I am waved through without incident.

At the end of that very long day, I made it back to our little paradise on the ocean.

Before dark.

So, while stereotypes may carry some general truth, real human beings often act in surprising ways. Or maybe we tend to believe what fits the stereotype and filter out what doesn’t.

Whatever.

I only know that my debt to the universe involves throwing a monkey wrench into our stereotype of the Mexican police.

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