the end

---

Well the trip was pretty much over by this point. But there were still interesting experiences to be had.
Francois was beautiful, huddled up against massive, hunched over cliffs at the head of its own small fiord. It somehow managed to be completely different from Grey River. There was more room, the houses were brightly painted and connected by a series of well maintained walkways. The people were incredibly friendly and welcomed us right away. They even had a campsite behind town to which we were readily escorted by a teenager on a 4x4. The wharf was lively and full of friendly folks.

All this was tempered by us learning that the ferry didn't go to hermitage on tuesday, and it was further than we thought, and there was bad weather coming in about two days. We were waking up at 6 for the ferry then.

Even up to the point when we had Fully on deck i found myself clinging to a strange and desperate hope that the trip wasn't over. That we'd keep going somehow and never have to return to Toronto, to everything that meant.
Rob and the shipcrew managed to hoist fully up out of the water, fold her up, and tie her down to the front deck. She looked like a bird that had been stolen her wings.
It was somehow intensely sad to motor out of the fiord in the big red ferry, with some tourists from Corner Brook taking pictures and chattering loudly about the scenery, the scenery that had so much more meaning for us. The ship swallowed the distance to Grey River, doing in two hours what had taken us about eight. I did a lot of thinking about what this means.

We got a ride to the Transcanada from the mayor of Ramea and his friend, who kept up a steady stream of local lore and friendly banter. The road from Burgeo to the Transcanada was incredible. Completely devoid of towns, gas stations, other cars, trees for much of the way... we really got a sense of how isolated we'd been on that coastline. Hitchhiking on the Transcanada turned out to be damn hard though. We found out later there'd been an advertising campaign telling people not to pick hitchhikers up, especially those who were heading for Port Aux Basques (potentially to escape to the mainland), as they may be criminals. We didn't look like criminals, but we certainly didn't look like Newfoundlanders. To be honest, we looked pretty scruffy at this point. We got a ride from an odd guy who took us twenty miles, then from some fishery inspectors who took us another twenty or so, then we waited for at least an hour before two guys who worked in Port Aux Basques picked us up. We managed to catch a ride to Burnt Island just before then sun went down, and then made it the last 10k with this neat French couple in their outfitted for travel van. So... we met a lot of people. We finally had our car, and now we had to drive the three-four hours back to Burgeo. Once we turned off the Transcanada i had to go about sixty as it was foggy, forested, and several moose leapt in front of us. We made it to the marina and collapsed in the car. Then in the morning, we put Fully on the trailer, and drove home. Heartbreaking. Cape Breton seemed overly well lit and built over with roads to me, after where we'd been. By the time we hit the three lanes of dead stop traffic in the middle of the afternoon on the 401 we were pretty low. But hell. At least we'd gotten away for a while.
For me, to have gotten away for so long and so far and in such a manner was a rare and inexplicable gift. And to have had the pleasure of getting to know Newfoundland in such a manner, hitherto unknown to me... this also was something i'd long dreamed of. But then leaving Newfoundland the familiar feeling returned, that i'd never know Newfoundland, that there is something about it that remains out of reach, unknowable. Perhaps this is romanticised. But perhaps it is the other idea that is romanticised, the thought that travel, in whatever manner allows one to know a place in any real way.

---