JOURNEY THROUGH
LABRADOR
by Bernie Howgate ( Chapter 3 ) FEBRUARY 12th, 1992 The 'Barrens' are an intimidating place
at the best of time. Being the highest point on the trail to
Goose Bay, this 30 km. stretch of bald hills between Red Bay
and Mary's Harbor offers spectacular views of the
surrounding countryside, but little protection from its'
elements. To the north west the smoothed curved
coastal hills look like white pin cushions and to the east,
the occasional window of color opens to views of a steaming
Atlantic boiling under the frigid cold. On the trail, lone
twisted trees hide behind boulders and a few stunted ones
cling to life in its shallow ridges. Here the wind always
blows and surface snow is constantly moving. That morning, I woke at 6:00 am. My
thermometer read -28 degrees Celsius, but felt much colder.
This time before sunrise was always the worst. The first
task was to smelt snow. Lighting a stove under candle light
is an art in itself. But doing it with only nylon gloves for
protection is a painful one, and packing up camp wearing
heavy mitts was a lesson in slow motion. Every item had its
place. A good start was essential for peace of mind. To
search for something while on the trail would at the very
least be frustrating and at worst lead to frost
bite. Items not essential during the day were
packed away in two large duffel bags. Extra clothes,
sleeping bag and toiletries in one, tent, thermal mats,
stove and extra boots in the other. Both were secured under
canvas with a cord on the sled while a third bag containing
food provisions, spare stove, thermos flask and gun was
secured on top with bunjis for easy access. I was pulling
over 120 pounds, but on a wind swept icy surface of the
barrens it was no problem to pull. That morning the sky looked sickly. Low
clouds hid the sun. The forecast called for strong northeast
winds and a windchill warning was in effect. By 8:00 am. I was on the snowmobile
trail, but by 9:00 am. I was lost. Stopping to readjust
cords on the sled. I had taken off my heavy mitts only to
watch helplessly as one blew away. First I had to unhook
myself from the sled harness, then put on my snow shoes and
by the time I had retrieved it, I had lost sight of the next
marker. These snowmobile trail markers were my life lines
and came in all shapes and sizes. Pyramids of wood marked
the high land, painted boulders the low. Wood nailed to
trees, old gas tanks strung from branches and anything
reflective the rest. I had with me a compass and 1:50,000
topographical maps of the area, but they were only as good
as the person reading them. At this elevation one hill looks
very much like the next and with few trees, all pond
definition was lost to a white carpet.. At first I thought
this would make good practice, but after ten minutes of
futile compass readings my fingers felt like lead weights on
string. I sat down for five minutes beating them across my
shoulders and putting them under my armpits, but most of all
I took this time to clear my head. Fear is your worst enemy
when you travel alone. Small mistakes, if not checked lead,
to fatal ones. You can't make allowances for acts of God,
but you can for human ones.I climbed a ridge, took out my
binoculars, and immediately spotted a mound of stones: I was
back on track. By noon I had travelled eight kilometers.
I was approaching Chateau Pond, the last obstacle before my
descent of the 'barrens' and back into the relative shelter
of a wooded area. Here I found snowmobile trails going in
all directions. I had been told this one-and-one-half
kilometer long pond was notorious for 'wipe-outs' and many a
local I had been told, had been lost for hours crossing
it. I spent some time searching the opposite
shoreline for a diamond marker, but couldn't see it. My map
showed a creek to the northeast were I knew the trail left
the pond, so I set my compass and headed out on its
bearing. I'd not gone far when I heard a roaring
noise. I looked up, but saw no plane. In front the shoreline
was still clear. I took out my compass, checked my
direction, then returned it to my pocket. All this time the
noise got louder. Visibility was still excellent, then a
tell-tale burst of wind changed everything. To the north a
curtain of white hid all outlines. The wind had no obstacles
crossing the pond. There was nothing I could do but brace
myself. A cloud of snow was heading in my direction and
within seconds my vision shut down. Everything turned a
foggy white. Snow like dust was everywhere, it got in my
eyes, up my nose and down my throat. The only thing I knew
for certain was that my feet were on the ground. I dug deep
into my pocket for my compass. I only had my mitts off for a
second, but my fingers immediately froze. My eyes were
watering and soon my left eye froze shut. For the next
twenty minutes. I crawled along on automatic pilot. I don't
know if it was naivete or the compass reading that made me
feel secure, but moments after the wind died and I saw the
diamond snowmobile marker, I was crying
uncontrollably