Vinland

Yesterday was real things; today was faux Vikings! We drove 200 miles north, this morning, up the Viking Trail, to St. Anthony.

We were at the northwest tip of Newfoundland, and could just make out misty Labrador across the strait.

As our guidebook said, "If Newfoundland even had a beaten track, St. Anthony would be off of it." The scenery between Gros Morne and St. Anthony was empty, but still gorgeous, with mile after mile of flat coastline, flat lakes, low trees, and a few colored houses.

At L'Anse Aux Meadows, we looked out on the same streams and coastline the Vikings saw in 1000 A.D., when they lived in this spot for four years. It was as desolate now as it was 1000 years ago.

The Norwegian Insteds, a husband/wife arheologist couple, searched the Newfoundland coast for years, looking for Vinland, which was described in Icelandic sagas. They proved the site was Norse by the style of the buildings and artifacts they unearthed, such as a distinctly Norse metal pin used to fasten a cloak.

We toured the recreated sod buildings, very dark, warm, and scented of the earth.

Inside, faux Norsemen tended fires, embroidered cloaks, and laid out furs.

Outside, faux Norsemen stretched caribou hides, built boats, and looked out to sea.

The Viking theme was all over town--even the lobby of our Vinland Motel had a Viking ship as decoration.

In the evening, we attended a Viking feast.

The buffet was of questionable Norse vintage, although we did eat with just a knife and spoon--no fork. We ate more cod and salmon, but also a few Newfoundland specialties we'd missed--Jiggs dinner (corned beef, potatoes and carrots), moose stew, and cod tongues (the tasty neck of the fish that includes "jelly" as well as flesh). The dessert was partridge berry cake with cloudberry sauce.

For the program, the audience acted as a Viking village council, deciding the fate of various criminals (fellow guests as actors and witnesses). We banged on the table to say "yes" and were perfectly silent to say "no." We also chatted with an interesting range of Canadian people at our table about such non-Norse topics as health care reform.

In addition to our Norse activities, we also visited the museum and home of Sir William Grenfel, a British doctor who devoted his life to saving the bodies and souls of Anglo fishermen and of natives on Labrador and northern Newfoundland. He built and staffed three hospitals and several more clinics up and down the coast long before electricity or paved roads reached St. Anthony.

We found Grenfel's home fascinating--a peculiarly British mix of Old England and the colonies. The house was decorated with a polar bear rug, a stuffed seal, snow shoes, a moose head, seal bones, and a double footwarmer to wear on a dogsled...

...but also geraniums in the window box, a tea set, and flowered wallpaper and lace curtains in the bedroom. That was all part of the mix of cultures leaving their mark on the north tip of Newfoundland--from Viking to Native American to very British.

Real Things

We've seen lots of fake things while traveling--fake Eiffel Towers and Empire State Buildings in Las Vegas, a fake Elvis Presley flashing rhinestones at a show in Honolulu, and a life-size fake Obama in the Chocolate Museum in Bruges. Today we saw real things--authentic, not staged, and true to their culture.

Elder Hunter and Elder Saunders were "the real thing," when we ate breakfast with them in Gander. They were upbeat, appreciative, and respectful without sugarcoating how hard it is to find Mormon converts in a town of 10,000 when most people belong to the Pentecostal Church or Salvation Army and you're inviting them to join a local congregation of (max) seven people. We treated the elders to eggs and sausage and then phone their parents to say what good sons they had.

We went hiking in Gros Morne National Park. We were awed by its natural beauty. We got beyond the guidebook descriptions and photos in slick brochures. We walked seven miles along the Green Garden Trail...

...over the hills and down to the sea.

We touched the ferns and moss and collected rocks.

And then we ate real, homecooked, locally harvested food at the Seaside Restaurant. The mussels, turbot, scallops, cod, calpin (smelts), and trout in our "captain's schoff" were all caught in Newfoundland. The pea soup we tasted is a tradition for cold weather Newfoundland suppers.

In the evening, Annie Best, a local musician, sang folk ballads at the Trout River Interpretive Center, in the less touristy section of the park.

Annie asked the group of 100 or so, how many were from outside of Newfoundland. Only five raised their hands. We sat on folding chairs and tapped our feet...

...as Annie's friend, Joe, played jigs and waltzes on fiddle and accordion.

"This feels like a car in a parking lot if nobody dances," Joe said. "You've got to get up and go." Several couples immediately stood up and danced.

Another of Annie's friends read from his book of essays about Newfoundland life, including a touching story of Christmas in St. John's during WWII. St. John's was a gathering place for navy men of all ranks and many countries. The author's father invited Norwegian naval officers and a boyish English midshipman to dinner at his house. He eased the class consciousness by saying, "I'm the skipper of this ship and everyone beneath me is of equal rank."

Then Annie asked, "Anyone know any jokes? We need a joke."

When no one offered one, she told the tale of a midwife delivering a baby on rural Cape St. Mary. It was a dark night and a difficult birth. The midwife sent the husband for a doctor and handed the woman's 7-year-old boy a lantern, telling him to light her work till she was done. When the baby was born, the midwife spanked the baby's bottom to get it crying and make its lungs work. "You did right to smack him," the 7-year-old piped up. "He went somewhere he shouldn't have been." At that earthy punchline, the audience exploded with laughter, those of us who needed to get to bed left, and the rest stayed to dance.

Even our motel room was "real." We stayed in one of the Gros Morne log cabins, ugly on the outside (this is the front view), but lined with pine inside, just like the ones my parents rented at Jackson Hold and Yellowstone when I was little.

There were patchwork quilts on the beds, with a card on the wall saying they were made by 81-year-old "Lillian," who also had quilts for sale at the gift store.

We'll return, soon enough, to Disneyland, movies that show fake times and places, and even fake wine for New Years toasts. For a day, it felt good to have real things.