Day 1 — Long Range Traverse, Gros Morne

Day 1: Trailhead Trial

Sometimes, just getting to the trailhead is an adventure. In this case, we had to lock horns with the park ranger, fork over some serious cash, beg for taxi service and count on good sightseeing weather just to get to square 1.

Rules of the ranger: Because there is no marked trail on the Long Range, park staff insisted we demonstrate map-and-compass skills before getting a backcountry permit. Without a permit, we wouldn't be allowed to depart from the Western Brook Pond boat tour, which is the only way to get to the trailhead short of swimming 15 K with a pack on. Though a moderately experienced 4-season expedition backpacker, Bogart had always relied on either marked trails or prior experience to navigate in the backcountry. What we intended to be an immersion in nature was suddenly turning into an examination reminiscent of high school.

As it turned out, 10 minutes of preparation (enough to learn how to take a bearing off a map and adjust for declination) was enough to satisfy the ranger. As it later turned out on the trek, this most basic of compass skills was barely enough to find our way home. Though the boots of many hikers had pounded a "trail" through this trail-less wilderness, it was criscrossed by the paths of many more moose. The ranger's advice was to walk the "trail" but not follow it, and it was the strangest and sagest advice of all.

Having the right map is, of course, a necessity. But contrary to our expectations, tracing the recommended route (see background) turned out to be immensely helpful, despite the fact it barely differed from the route we had imagined at home. This tried-and-true route as shown on the Visitor Center's map appears quite vague (proceeding in a straight line for several kilometers), but in fact it threads the needle at several key junctures where tuckamore, boulder slopes or cliffs can cost hours.

After a bit more obligatory poking around about preparations (yes, we have a water filter), the ranger finally allowed us the privilege of paying 70 dollars for our permit. The permit was issued with a small VHF telemetry unit that would help rescuers find us if we failed to return on time.

Short of the thumb: Like most trekkers, we arranged to leave our rental car at the Callaghan Trail parking lot, a few kilometers southwest of Gros Morne. Park staff recommended a taxi service that (they claimed) regularly transported backpackers 30 minutes north to the Western Brook Pond parking lot. We hurried to pack, fuel the camp stove and finish other chores (ignoring lunch) so we could make it to the Callaghan lot by 11 a.m. and meet our taxi. When it didn't show up by 11:20, Ava sped off to the nearby visitor center to make a wake-up call. They had forgotten us. We slipped their minds. We had seen many people hitchhiking along Route 430 near Rocky Harbour, but it was not an appropriate time for us to join them. By 11:30 we were in the taxi (an old unmarked minivan) and on our way. To drop some wallet weight, we tipped the driver our full complement of Canadian coins, including a two-toned two-dollar piece, a "loonie" or two (one dollar) and various quarters.

Fog in the fjord: Western Brook Pond is no longer a true fjord because it does not directly meet the sea. The rebounding of Newfoundland from the weight of the glaciers actually lifted the inlet above sea level, exposing several kilometers of sea-side bog that was once the ocean floor. The park had declined to maintain a road from shore to pond, requiring us to waddle over the bog in the company of dozens of lightweight, camera-toting sightseers.

The walk itself was refreshing, but it was darkened by a foreboding view: the cliffs above Western Brook Pond were shrouded in a stubborn fog that stuck to the highlands despite the wind. The logic of the weather was cruelly ironic for us hardier-than-thou backpackers: No view = No boat tour = No Long Range Traverse. Even after taking 66 dollars for our two tickets and boarding us, the boat staff warned us we might have to turn back. We sweated out 30 minutes of dizzying prognostication on the sociology of tourism before we finally got the good news: the boat would go on, and we would get off.

Black flies, rain and chatting: The trek's first night seemed more like car-camping than backpacking. We weren't dropped off at the trailhead until 2:30, and with a tough climb up the gorge ahaed of us, we settled in at the dock's campsite with a couple from Calgary who had departed with us. It is clear now that waiting for daybreak was the right decision, but it still left us standing in a steady rain for hours before dinner. Black flies swarmed from the thick, sheltered birch/softwood forest of the gorge, acquainting us immediately with our Off! Skintastic bug spray. Fortunately, our companions were friendly and talk of the days ahead kept us occupied, though not dry.

A walk back to the dock itself gave us a view of the next day's hike up the gorge. About three kilometers away, where the gorge narrowed and steepened, a cascade of water whitened a smooth granite slope for several hundred meters. We were yet eager to visit this beautiful, treacherous place.

Note: Unlike the other backcountry campsites, The Dock (unofficial name) has no tent pads or bear box.

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