CHAPTER VIII
THE NORWAY OF THE NEW WORLD
By so many generations has Newfoundland been looked upon as an island of damp and dreary swamp that it will be many years before that erroneous impression is dispelled. And yet what a beautiful land it is! The inhabitants themselves do not fully appreciate the wealth of scenery with which Providence has so abundantly enriched them. It is true that one is not met by the garden-like scenery of England, to the making of which so many human hands have been devoted; but there is probably no country in the world that can present such a sublime panorama of natural scenery.
The massive rocks have been carved into myriads of picturesque angles by the merciless swish of the waves that for thousands of years have rolled and rolled across the broad Atlantic. The beauty of the velvet moss on the inland slopes of these rocks is best revealed when the play of the sea-wind creates on its surface a thousand ripples of light and shade. In the rich blue water below the outlines of the rocks are reflected, and a few yards out at sea a flock of gulls can usually be seen, either rising and falling with the movements of the waves or wheeling around one of the smaller rocks that only at intervals shows its head above the water.
If you were to stand upon the rocks near St. John’s Harbour in the early spring, you would catch a glimpse of the fishing-fleet off to the grounds on its annual expedition. Their white sails frolic in the breeze, and as they dip their bows in the troughs between the heaving billows they present a sight the enchantment of which is not readily forgotten. Or you may see the sealing-fleet, at the sight of which you wonder how many will return safely to port, and how many, alas! may be pounded to pieces by the great boulders of ice that race along with break-neck speed under the impetus of the Arctic current.
Probably the prettiest scenery is to be found in the region of the Humber River and Valley. The Humber River is on the west coast. It runs through a spacious area of forest, valley, and field. Under the shadow of the spruce-trees skirting the river the sensitive caribou may be seen taking their morning drink; or in the evening they may be seen on a treeless patch at the top of a hill, stretching their slender legs, between you and the setting sun. The banks of the river are flanked with clusters of azalea and blue-berry, and every twist of the stream introduces you to a new, alluring piece of scenery. Sometimes you are awed by the giant rocks towering above your head, their white granite ribs glimmering in the sunlight. Now it is an open space, through which a long procession of trees, bowing their tips to the east, extend a welcome to the fox, the bear, and the Arctic hare; now it is a wilderness of tree-stumps that stand motionless in a vast expanse of luxuriant undergrowth and infant trees struggling to maintain life in the company of their long-dead ancestors. By many tourists these remnants of forest fires are looked upon as disfigurements of the landscape; but they have a beauty that is peculiar to all dead things—the beauty of death.
How the angler loves to whip the water of the Humber River! He knows that the salmon will respond to his call. He also loves to hear the gentle dip of the oars, and every swish of his line is full of music. The wild-duck, the water-fowl, and the rock ptarmigan are his shy companions. And when meal-time arrives his appetite finds relief in a hearty meal cooked over a fire on the bank of the river.
Much of the inland scenery is also magnificent. A ramble through the forests on a summer day is a source of refreshment and inspiration. In the vicinity of Grand Falls, where the Exploits River goes tumbling to Notre Dame Bay, the landscapes are as picturesque as any that are to be seen in Wales. Since the erection there of large pulp and paper mills by Lord Northcliffe the district has become a hive of industry. The clang, clang of the woodman’s axe rings out through the forest, and the song of the logger can be heard in the distance as he hauls his logs to the water’s edge, to send them down the river, to be turned into paper at the mills.
There goes the woodman to the work of felling the timber. The path along which he trudges to his toil winds like a snake through labyrinths of trees, the soft colours of which are so restful to the eyes. The air is filled with the scent of the spruce-trees, and it clings to your lips like honey. Through these forests the Indians at one time hunted for game, and who shall say that their spirits do not linger still among their wild and much-loved haunts? The path is carpeted with moss that feels like a sponge beneath your feet. The greenish-grey tint of the lichen clinging to the trees is most effective when it stands in the shadows a little removed from the pathway. The larch, the pine, and the birch lift their proud heads above the spruce-trees, the white of the pine glimmering like silver in the sunlight. If the stillness of the woods is broken at all, it is by the thud of the woodman’s axe, the sound of falling water, or the weird, haunting note of the woodpecker.
Apart from the scenery that is observable when standing on land, there is the majestic scenery observable from the steamer as you take a sea-trip from, let us say, St. John’s to Notre Dame Bay. The steamers usually call at places of interest and beauty in Conception Bay, Trinity Bay, and the Fogo Islands on the east coast, as well as Fortune Bay on the south coast and Bay of Islands on the west coast. The coasts of Newfoundland are indented by so many bays, harbours, coves, and tickles that the scene is continually changing. In fact, so enchanting are the coasts viewed from the sea that if the weather is fine it is impossible to spend a monotonous moment on deck.