Cold it a relative thing.
To anyone living south of the Canadian border, Newfoundland’s climate could be compared to that of a meat locker. But to adventurer Captain Bob Bartlett – who enabled Admiral Robert Peary to be the first man to reach the North Pole exactly a century ago — Newfoundland represented the last warm glow of civilization before making the big push towards the Arctic Circle.
The tiny coastal hamlet of Brigus (where birdhouses surely outnumber homes two to one) seems like an odd place for a stopover for an expedition of global significance. Even today less than 800 people call this paradise home. But, as I wander along a path, strewn with summer wildflowers I discover Bartlett’s real motivation: a home cooked meal.
Bartlett grew up in Brigus but left when he was 21 to seek fame and fortune. He conducted more than 40 polar voyages throughout his life and stopped in to see mom each time. His house (now a museum) has been left as if he might return at any moment: oddments of furniture and maps still fill the bedrooms. One wall of the lounge is covered with accolades from storied institutions and presidents past, but it’s the “Friendly Order of the Original Bad Eggs” awards that gets my attention.
It turns out Bartlett was quite a ham. A Crocodile Hunter of polar waters, he often filmed his arctic voyages. Upstairs in the multimedia room they play on endless loop. This is among the earliest exploration footage on earth and has the odd feel of watching Columbus host his discovery of America. I settle into a chair as Bartlett blithely narrates the harpooning of a narwhale (his exhibition relied on seals and whales for both food and finance) but the most extraordinary footage is yet to come. Bartlett collected many samples of unusual creatures for zoos all over the world and the cameras were rolling when he spotted a polar bear (later named Miss Carmichael) drifting on an iceberg. It took the entire crew to haul the reluctant creature on board, at which time it made a desperate break for freedom, attempting to jump overboard. In what is possibly the most outrageous example of he-followed-me-home-can-I-keep-him Bartlett brought the animals (bears, walruses, musk oxes…the works) to Brigus and let them roam free in his parents yard.
While strolling the grounds (now mercifully devoid of predators) I hear talk of two icebergs crowding the waters around Corner Brook further north. “If you’re there at exactly the right time you’ll hear them explode,” swears a local. Like an ice cube in a glass of lemonade, they make an audible crack before dissolving into the sea.
I drive north, keen to discover by car the coast that Bartlett surveyed by boat. Road trips are a relatively new phenomenon in Newfoundland. It took until 1975 (roughly 365 years after the first settlement in 1610) for a road system to link all the villages together. Towns like Keels, Heart’s Desire and (the aptly named) Come By Chance were left to develop in splendid isolation.
I make a wide loop of Trinity Bay scanning the horizon for floating snowcapped peaks but find nothing (it’s mid Summer and the soft warmth has coaxed flowers from even the rockiest crevice). In Cupids I happen upon Bill Gilbert, chief archeologist charged with the task of unearthing the home of founding father John Guy. Gilbert and his team have amassed more than 138,000 artifacts: everything from pipes to coins dating back to 1560 to Bellamine jars (beer mugs on which the face of a tee-totaling Cardinal Bellamine was emblazoned) now line the walls of the local museum.
Finally I land in Port Rexton and rest my bones at Fishers’ Loft. It’s here that I see my first iceberg. The following morning with local fisherman/guide Bruce Miller at the helm, we weave through the mist over rocks hidden by inky waters. The air turns cold then the mist parts dramatically. “Iceberg dead ahead!” I call. It had been sculpted expertly by wind and waves and glows an unearthly turquoise at the waterline. I feel I have discovered a gigantic gem. It’s absolutely mesmerizing. I want to wait until it detonates or until the sun shrinks it small enough to pop in my mouth. Immediately Captain Bartlett’s obsession with ice makes perfect sense.
Words and images by Adam McCulloch. Originally published in AAA Horizons. The format has been altered to suit Tumblr.
