Thursday, July 31st 2003

Clear skies, light wind, moderate swell from the Southwest.

The early morning air is bright and fresh. I am filled with the simple pleasure of being alone looking at the quiet sea, with only the sounds of nature filling the silence! I tidy up the beach. The high water mark is covered in sea weeds tangled with pieces of ropes, plastic bottles and assorted flotsam. I make a neat pile above the high tide level in the hope that a passing boat will carry it away. There was not a lot of garbage but the small pebble beach lined with dried kelp seems cleaner now... Good morning, blue sky!

Time for breakfast. The well practiced ritual is repeated every morning. Three or four large flat stones will become our table and kitchen counters, preferably in a sunny sheltered spot, carefully chosen for the presence of natural backrests! The most stable surface is reserved for our little camping stove over which I bring about 1/2 litre of water to a boil. As the stove roars like a jet engine, I pour myself two doses of instant porridge (one regular and one maple sugar) in a bowl. In Marie's cup, I pour one little bag of her preferred instant coffee (which I buy on my occasional trips to France, chosen for its taste and for the way it's packaged in easy to pack stick-like packets - pure luxury!). As soon as the water is boiling, I mix half of it in the porridge which MUST be left to settle for 5-10 minutes in order to reach the perfect consistency. The rest of the water goes into the coffee. Marie appears just in time to toast a couple of slices of strong tasting and nutritious black bread. Sitting in the morning sun, away from the wind, we enjoy the moment - until a few black flies appear! Before shutting the stove off, we warm a little bit of water for the dishes and a minimalist morning wash. As Marie cleans up, I pack the tent and load the kayaks. No wonder it takes rarely less than 90 minutes to leave camp in the morning.

No record will be broken today : we paddle off at 10:20. The jagged shoreline is rocky and brown cliffs rise from the the foamy white line that separates land and sea. Caves and deep cracks would deserve a full day of exploration - another time... A few miles away, to the South, Ramea Island's dark profile breaks the horizon. A fog horn can be heard distinctly, wailing off its Eastern point.

As we paddle on, I make a mental note about a nice little bay with a possible camp site at Caplin Cove.

At about 1 pm, we turn North to find a sheltered landing spot behind Woody Island, near the entrance to White Bear Bay where we stop for a snack. A little pebble beach is squeezed between the water and an embankment covered with moss, lichens and small spruce. A driftwood log offers us a lunch seat in the shade. At 2, we leave the beach, circling around the back of Bear Island. Like many so-called bays on the South Shore, White Bear Bay is really a narrow fjord entering deep into the rocky highlands. The fjord entrance channels a thermal wind rising into the fjord to the rocky hills. Although the sea is calm, we find ourselves paddling upwind for a kilometer, until we emerge from the bay and the wind disappears.

As we paddle by, we notice several sheltered camping sites on Deer Island, at the Northern tip of Bear Island.

The dark rocks of Bear Head mark the East side of White Bear Bay. We leave them behind as we paddle on towards Fox Island. Fox Island was home to a small fishing community resettled around the time Newfoundland joined Canada in 1949. Its location provides a small well sheltered harbour, between the island and the coast. Two cabins, still used occasionally, and the two cemeteries are the most visible relics from the time when this outpost was home to a dozen families. Several of their descendants still live in Ramea and Burgeo and a few come back here, witness a stack of nearly new lobster traps. It's 4 pm by the time we pull up our kayaks and set our tent. We take advantage of the late sun to explore some more before supper.

A motorboat zips by on the inside passage between us the coast, with a couple waving towards us before disappearing. We will meet them again tomorrow in Grey River!

Nestled on the North side of the island, this is the small community of Fox Island
with its cemetery on the rocky knoll and the two cabins still standing
(in the foreground and near the wharf).

Back at Sandbanks Provincial Park, in Burgeo, we had met a young park employee who told us about his grandparents growing up on Fox Island. On top of the knoll just beyond our tent, a few tombstones are scattered through the moss. One of them bears his family name : Elizabeth Ann Rose died here at age 54 in 1923. His great great grand mother, maybe? Later in our trip, we are told of another cemetery located farther up on the island.