pushing on

headwind

ˈhɛdwɪnd/

noun

noun: headwind; plural noun: headwinds

1. a wind blowing from directly in front, opposing forward motion.

If you look at a map of Newfoundland you will see that there aren't many roads. The main highway running across the island goes from St. John's on the east coast and curves in a big arc across the north and down to the south west corner to Port Aux Basques.  You might also see that there are plenty of settlements all around the coastline.  The island is a little smaller than England but has less than 1% of the population.  We are heading towards St. John's and setting off from Deer Lake we are now on that main highway.  It is a long and very straight and fairly flat road.  It is hell.  We are riding into a headwind.  We are frustrated.  Today we thought we'd knock off a big chunk of the kilometres we need to ride.  There are only 635, according to the road sign on the way out of town.  But after an exhausting hour we have cycled only 9.  We take a break behind one of those mobile phone huts that are plonked beside the road with every mast.

We're not team cyclists - we don't ride in a co-ordinated way, wheel-to-wheel, like professional cyclists.  We're not even sure we are cyclists.  We think we're travellers on bikes.  But today we will have to be cyclists.  We agree to ride together in our battle with the wind.  It's a long day.

there's trees in them thar hills

Happily by mid-afternoon the road gets a kink in it and we are suddenly riding with the wind on our backs.  We cruise past some large lakes and some very large caravan parks.  The road is built for the big trucks that pass by, with long gentle climbs and swooping descents.  All day we are surrounded by fir trees.  It looks like primeval forest.  At the end of the day we are in the middle of nowhere and end up camping on a rise above the road, right on the forest edge.  We are not in any drivers' sightlines up here so we don't worry that we may be spotted.  Everyone is just cruising that big road to somewhere else.
In the night we hear a crashing noise coming from the forest.  There is one large mammal heading towards us.  It is not creeping stealthily, it is literally crashing through the trees.  We put our headtorches on and make a bit of noise.  Is it a bear?  Or is it a moose?  After a while we hear nothing.  And then a blast from a truck's air horn. A prolonged blast of the airhorn.  We imagine a moose caught on the road.  But we don't look.  Satisfied nothing is coming to get our chocolate stash, we nod off.

who's watching who?

It's greatly disappointing to discover the town we have been aiming for, for lunch, turns out to be off on a side road.  Well off - too far off.  So instead we settle for a garage and a little visitor centre with a bench on the porch.  The visitor centres across Newfoundland turn out to be safe havens for us.  They're nearly always on the main road and provide us with the three w's: water, wi-fi and washing.  

Newfoundland is famous for it's lousy weather

Further down the road we get to South Brook, a deceptively small place.  We have almost passed through this hamlet when we decide to stop for water for cooking later on.  Happily we knock on a door and a woman can fill our 4-litre bag.  That 4 kilo bag then hangs off my bike as we start an endless uphill section that brings us to a highpoint with a view of the hilltop Gaff Topsail.  The hill is on the rail trail we forewent - a reminder of the shortcut that never was.  We end the day after riding along what feels like a high plateau full of small lakes.  It's a Saturday afternoon and we pass another caravan park that's funfair noisy.  Out of earshot we find some cleared land up for sale and we camp behind bushes.  Just ahead is the town of Badger.  

"Look as if you're having fun" Gayle shouts

 I tie our food up away from the tent for the first time.  We've only been in Canada seven weeks. It's about time we started doing this wild camping thing properly.

lots of water in these parts