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.