Yesterday morning I went on a bit of an excursion with the intent to shoot some video in the wilderness. I packed up my bag, put on a video-worthy outfit overtop my hiking clothes and made my way to Buckley’s Cove, a 3km hike near Salton’s in Terra Nova National Park. I didn’t walk the entire trail but I figure I must have done about half of it. Starting off at the parking lot of the Visitor Interpretation Centre, I followed a trail that lead along the boggy shore of the fresh/saltwater beach near the Centre. On an overcast day sometimes the clouds drop low enough that they brush against the trees of the opposite hills. On a beautiful day like yesterday, the water gingerly laps the shoreline and tiny seabirds balance on the surface on little rafts of seaweed. That close to the water there aren’t many flies but the water is much too cold to dip your toes in.
This is the intertidal zone, far away from open sea. In this spot in particular it is fairly quiet but by no means isolated. School groups walk along the trails and park interpreters give lectures on edible plants and the hazards of red squirrels. It’s very difficult to be completely isolated in the Park. I mean, the Trans Canada Highway is its major artery. There is no real difference in noise level between my cabin and my apartment in Montreal–in both cases I am just 200m from a major highway and every 30 seconds I either hear the warning signal of a pickup truck in reverse or the echo of a semi speeding down the TCH. Even in Montreal I hear squirrels chirping in the tree outside my bedroom window, just the same as I do here.
The whole idea of a National Park is a strange one. I heard a discussion on the radio a few days ago about how the industrial revolution created the opportunity for city dwellers to reconnect with the natural world but most people had/have no knowledge of the Canadian wilds. Species of bird, types of trees, when and when not to be afraid. Sometimes I wonder about the authenticity of the Park. I mean, yes it’s preserving ecological environments and that’s a really great thing, but I’m more curious about how visitors are expected to react to such a place. How am I expected to react? I come in from Montreal, an island city of a couple million people, to this beautiful natural place and I’m supposed to feel awed, refreshed, connected to nature. I feel like I am expected to say how much of a relief it is to be here, away from the constant noise of Sherbrooke West and the crammed Metro stations and a language I just barely understand. Truth is, I’m sitting in a space not much larger than my studio and I am working the same way that I always have–watching movies, listening to music, sitting by myself. My studio at Concordia is actually quieter than this place, oddly enough. And in certain situations I still can’t understand what people are saying (English dialects are thick and varied here, just as French is in Quebec).
I’m a little uncomfortable here. This place makes me itchy and restless. And I’m not just talking about the Park, but Newfoundland in general. On the radio a Newfoundland singer/songwriter was being interviewed about living abroad and the journalist asked if she will ever move back to Newfoundland to which the singer responded, “Probably not. But I always love coming back.” How many people who are about my age have moved away and have the exact same sentiments? I don’t think I’d move back. Even visiting is a little uncomfortable, like I’m not living up to my own expectations. I’m supposed to feel connected to this place, to slide into it like a worn pair of jeans but something is off.
Places change just as people do. St. John’s is growing exponentially, suburbs sprawling like rippling water. The big controversy a few weeks ago was the proposed plan to build eight new luxury townhomes on Signal Hill near Deadman’s Pond. The houses would creep up the rock-faced cliffs, clinging on like shrubby trees blown crooked by the sea. The entire thing feels so perverse and wrong. I realize that Newfoundland was settled by people who did so illegally, that this place wasn’t supposed to be permanent. I always used to look at the landscape, at the architecture, as evidence of people digging their heels in, of a stubbornness of will, but not really any more. In St. John’s, the city feels like it has lost touch with itself or maybe I’ve just lost touch with it and it with me.
Now I don’t want to put off the impression that I am miserable here because I’m not! It’s quite the opposite. It’s the landscape that stays with me and what I crave whenever I come back. People are fleeting but this place is quite literally an impenetrable rock. I think this is why I’ve been so upset about seeing the landscape change in front of me with suburban sprawl. This is the place of my dreams, the place I return to again and again when I daydream. It is magic to me and I loathe the idea of it changing. I want it to stay just as it always has been, but I know that’s a pretty ridiculous request to make.
I think I’m going to stop this post with a few more photos since I can tell I’m about to cross that line into the super-rambly. Here are some pictures of Signal Hill as viewed from Fort Amherst I took over the weekend:
