Newfoundland

Newfoundland Trip Report

On September 5th I awoke at 5am, shivering in the v-berth of the fishing boat Royal Oak. Through the companionway I could make out the outline of two men methodically loading bait up on deck. George and Ron Fudge, the captain and first mate of the boat, would act as our liaison officers throughout our time in Newfoundland. These kind men had agreed to taxi us to Cape La Hune Bay, with the understanding that we would be dropped off after they had first set all 1,200 feet of line they had on deck. We were thankful for their kindness and excited to witness some north Atlantic commercial fishing up close.

When I heard the Royal Oak’s 250hp marine diesel turn over, I fell back asleep in my safe haven below deck. When I awoke again, we had turned north toward the gut of Cape La Hune Bay, about 25 miles west of Francois, Newfoundland. Francois, the village in which both George and Ron were born and raised, is a small fishing “outport” of less than 130 inhabitants. Truly remote, no road of any kind comes anywhere near this tiny town.

To get to Francois one must first drive to Burgeo on the southwest coast of Newfoundland. From there, a rugged passenger ferry, the Marine Voyager, traverses this wild coast almost due east for four to six hours – the time depends on the sea conditions – to reach a sheltered bay where Francois clings to a rocky hillside. The people here, as one would imagine, are about as genuine as it gets. Cod fishing has been central to their way of life since the outport was first settled. However, in 1994, the Canadian government issued a moratorium on the entire cod fishery, abruptly bringing an entire industry -- and the livelihoods of most of Francois’s residents -- to a halt. Now, fourteen years later, it’s one of the few places in Atlantic Canada that is allowed to fish for cod. Unfortunately, the effects of large-scale fishing by foreign factory ships still linger and Newfoundland fishermen simply “ain’t catching what we use to.”

Despite the hardships they’ve endured, the people of Francois remain some of the friendliest people I’ve met; George and Ron are two classic examples of “Newfie” hard work and hospitality. George, the Captain and owner of Royal Oak for the last forty-one years, stands almost one full head higher than my five feet and ten inches. Even at sixty-one, with hip problems that cause a pronounced limp, George moves as efficiently as any fisherman on Francois’ wharf -- save for Ron. Picture a wicked gritty energizer bunny with a thick accent and an even thicker mustache and you have an idea of Ron Fudge. This happy-go-lucky workhorse seemed perpetually fueled by his curiosity toward us and our plans to climb the area’s unexplored walls. Our opposing worlds came together on our voyage from Francois to Cape La Hune and it provided us a glimpse of the Newfie way of life and the history of this rugged island.

Our plan was to explore and climb in three different bays, moving from west to east. We would begin in Cape La Hune Bay, then move to Ron Contre West Bay -- both of which were unexplored by climbers -- and would conclude our trip in Devil’s Bay, the home of Blow-Me-Down, a 1,400 foot sea cliff which now hosts over 20 routes. This big wall above the sea was first climbed in 1994 by fellow New Englanders Joe Terrevecchia, Jeff Butterfield and Chris Kane.

The relentless swells of the north Atlantic eased as we turned north into the protection of Cape La Hune Bay. This barren fjord runs for miles with granite walls on all sides. The sun had just risen as we stood on deck, jumping up and down, eyeing line after line of what looked to be immaculate granite running into the sea. We were like kids in a candy shop, staring up at the bay’s steep sides, eager to get a taste of what lay ahead. George and Ron didn’t quite understand our excitement and thought we were absolutely nuts as we examined every wall and hummed with excitement. We eyed a potential base camp at the mouth of a stream in an area known by the locals as “Dead Man’s Cove”. Royal Oak steamed towards our new home as we readied our gear and Delmar, our 14-foot aluminum canoe that would be our mode of water travel after Royal Oak sailed away. After we shuttled our gear to shore, we arranged a pickup time and thanked our new friends for all their help. We watched as they headed off to check their fishing gear and return to their families in Francois.

Pete and I set up camp a hundred yards up from the beach and a few feet from a clear stream. It was now just us and Delmar. The landscape surrounding our camp was unlike anything I had seen. There was not a sign of human life in any direction for as far as the eye could see and we were now hundreds of miles from the closest road. The only other inhabitants on this windswept coast were caribou, moose and the elusive snowshoe rabbit.

As soon as our camp was established, we slid on our harnesses and headed to the closest feature: an unclimbed, unnamed, sweeping 800 foot wall, just inches from our camp. The first 300 feet of this wall was a clean slab split in the middle by a single finger crack. As we swapped leads on our first route, the rock quality began to deteriorate just as quickly as the weather. By the sixth pitch we were completely engulfed in a thick wet fog and the climb had changed from perfect granite to what Pete described as “kitty litter, run out, death gardening.” After some 650 feet, we stood behind a crumbling chimney, cold wet and scared. This was day one and we were already in over our heads. We descended using sketchy terrain rappels and scary down-climbing. We arrived back on the ground amazed at how fast both our beautiful day and our climb had changed. Our first route Touch My Caribou was our rough and tumble introduction to climbing virgin Newfie granite, but we kept a positive attitude and waited for our next weather window.

Unbeknownst to us, the inclement weather we were experiencing was the beginning of hurricane Hannah. Twenty-eight hours later, after weathering the worst of the storm in our little four-season tent, the skies finally began to show signs of clearing. We peered out of the vestibule and for the first time we could see all the way across the bay. Through the clouds we could see the Tote, a beautiful granite dome with a 400-foot southeast face. We decided this was our next objective and we quickly readied Delmar for her maiden voyage across the icy waters of Cape La Hune bay.

With two ropes and a double rack, Pete and I -- two crazy Mainers -- began another journey with nervous anticipation. At first, the mile-long crossing seemed reasonable, with adequate visibility and calm seas. But as we reached the middle of the bay, the wind suddenly freshened from the south, kicking up a steady swell. Thick fog appeared, accompanied by a light but persistent rain. Disoriented in the fog and without navigational aids, the pucker factor increased exponentially, as did the cadence of our paddle strokes in the direction we prayed was due west. After what felt like an eternity, we spotted the rocky coastline dead ahead. With heart rates returning to normal, we followed the desolate coast until we found a spot to set up our advanced camp. Once ashore we sat in the fog, wondering what the wall above us in the clouds would reveal.

After a long night of high winds and heavy rain, a brilliant sunrise welcomed us and began to dry the shimmering granite that loomed above our camp. In full foul weather gear we racked up and headed to the base of the wall. With our spotting scope, we had eyed a potential route: A thin hand crack splitting the tallest portion of the cliff. When we arrived at the base, however, the splitter crack turned out to be a closed-out seam. Despite more rain clouds that had suddenly appeared on the horizon, we moved over to the cliff’s most defining feature, a right-leaning crack system that split the cliff in half.

Easy fifth-class terrain led to several long pitches of fun 5.9 crack climbing. As we approached the top of the cliff, we were once again enveloped by a heavy fog and it began to rain. Pete burled through the last lead up the final corner system in a heavy down pour. We descended in the clouds back to our camp and arrived safely; wet, hungry, and happy. Our route Boat n’ Tote was on great rock with enjoyable climbing on the bay’s most impressive feature.

The bad weather persisted, so we busied ourselves as hunter-gatherers. We set a dozen rabbit snares, but, from a lack of patience, checked them so frequently we scared away all the rabbits. We unsuccessfully attempted to catch lobsters with a spear (Pete did manage to get a crab), and even fashioned a few homemade traps. At low tide, we found success gathering urchins and mussels for a maritime feast, and in the fields we found berries for our pancakes. This closeness to the land was a refreshing change from our life as climbing guides in the bustling tourist town of Bar Harbor, Maine.

A week after our arrival in Cape La Hune Bay, we heard the light hum of a diesel engine, and soon we could see Royal Oak steaming toward us in the distance. We hurriedly broke down our camp and carried our gear down to the beach. Ron and George seemed happy to see us and after we had settled onboard, they peppered us with questions about our adventures. Our time in Cape La Hune Bay, despite the poor weather, had been amazing. Now we were excited to explore yet another bay, so we headed for Ron Contre West to check out our main objective for the trip: St. Albans, a 1,400 foot unclimbed sea cliff we hoped would be a gem.

As George steered Royal Oak beneath the hulking wall of St. Albans, our anticipation melted into disgust. The rock quality was horrendous. More precisely, the term “petrified dinosaur shit” came to mind. George and Ron could sense our disappointment, but urged us to quickly make a decision, for they had fishing to do. Should we attempt a route up Dinoshitville or do we head farther east to Devil Bay’s Blow-Me-Down? Ron interrupted our pouting to point out St. Elias, a 600-foot wall farther down the fjord. Ron and George agreed to take us to the base of this wall for some reconnaissance and as we neared the cliff, we could see its superior rock quality and countless cracks systems. Smiles returned to our faces and we once again readied Delmar and our gear for a new home. After being deposited on the shore, we chose to set up our camp a few hundred feet from the cliff’s base, where an idyllic stream fed into the bay. Ron waved us farewell as Royal Oak headed back out to sea and we were again alone in the solitude of this rugged coastline.

With clear skies finally overhead, we went to work. Potential lines were everywhere, we were back in the candy shop. For our first route, we chose a very aesthetic looking line and battled through the tuckamore to reach its base. It required extensive gardening and a few pendulums, but overall it was a fabulous five-pitch route, the first on St. Elias. Delmar’s Nose Job 5.10 A0 130m was the beginning of a very successful stint in Ron Contre West Bay. Over the next three days, our days were spent putting up new routes on great rock, and in the evenings we caught brook trout from the stream near our camp. Three more routes were put up on this immaculate wall. What’s a Bunny, a three pitch off-width chimney on the northern flank of the cliff. Royal Oak, a 140m wide-hands crack in a dihedral. And the jewel of the cliff, Rose’s Cantina, III 5.10 A1 200m. This route follows wide cracks through the middle of the cliff’s south-east face, the tallest aspect of the cliff.

After returning from Rose’s Cantina we contacted George with our satellite phone and requested a pick-up for the following day. By mid-morning, we heard the now familiar hum of Royal Oak as it entered the bay. The once-stressful task of shuttling our gear to the boat was now a well-practiced ritual filled with laughter and excitement. We told George that we had named a route after his boat and his contagious smile seemed to grow with pride.

Two bays down and one to go. Next, we headed east to Devil’s Bay, where lies Newfoundland’s most well-know big wall, Blow-Me-Down (Jabo, as it’s known to locals). Upon our arrival, we set up our base camp and began to set up fixed lines across 600 feet of slab that provides access to the main part of the cliff. The next day, we climbed Central Pillar of Aestheticism IV 5.10 A2, the cliff’s first route, established in 1994 by Jeff Butterfield, Chris Kane and Joe Terrevecchia. Although the climbing went smoothly, it ended in typical Newfie fashion in thick fog and a driving rain. But by now we were well accustomed to Newfie weather, so we topped out without incident.

As we descended back to camp, we discussed what to climb next. Our initial plan had been to attempt the unrepeated route Heart of the Matter V 5.10 A3, put up in 1995 by Jeff Butterfield and Chris Kane. But as we sat and looked over the cliff, we realized that there were several possibilities for new routes. So, after a day of rest and scoping our options, we decided upon a line. The route we chose followed a prominent, right-arching roof that ran the height of the cliff; a feature that essentially split the cliff in half. At dawn on September 19th, armed with ropes, rack, runners, a double ledge, food, water, and our much-used foul weather gear, we started climbing.

The first four pitches followed discontinuous cracks and corners linked by short sections of steep, poorly protected slab. The climbing was of great quality and went free at 5.10. At the top of the fourth pitch we shared a two-bolt anchor with the top of the Central Pillar of Aestheticism’s fifth pitch. This anchor and the 30 feet of climbing above it would be the only non-independent part of our new route. From this anchor the right-arching roof system of our line continued for another 100 meters. It was here, under the protection of the roof, where we spent our first night on the wall. After wrestling with our ledge in the dark and settling in, we discovered we would also need to wrestle with our food: we had forgotten a can opener and most of our food was canned. Fortunately, as seasoned aid climbers we knew that an A5 beak is an “almost” perfect substitute for the job. I fell asleep with the sounds of waves crashing beneath me, smelling terribly of spilled tuna juice and beef stew.

As soon as the sun rose we went back to work. Pete had the first block of the day, but partway up his first pitch he injured his ankle when he pulled a piece and hit a ledge in a swinging fall. I took over the leading duties and for the next couple of pitches, followed the roof to its apex. An improbable seam resulted in a 12-hour lead of scary aid and slow progress, but when I finally pulled over the apex of the roof I discovered a protected corner. We set up the ledge here for our second night on the wall and as soon as I was horizontal I was asleep.

We woke tired, sore and surrounded by thick fog. Pete wrapped his ankle and began what would be our final block to the summit. The last 400 feet of the climb followed beautiful wide cracks with perfect belay stances. Jugging the final pitch I noticed core shots in both our lead and haul lines; a scary thing to jug pass but scarier to lead on. Just after noon we arrived at the summit. With smiles the size of boomerangs we stood together, 1,300 hundred feet above the sea, tired and sore, but happy and proud.

The Seal Harvest V 5.10 A3 was a rewarding route that followed the cliff’s most defining feature. With great free climbing as well as intricate aid, it not only put our technical skills to the test, but also our will and perseverance.

The three and a half weeks Pete Fasoldt and I spent in Newfoundland in September 2008 was the most amazing trip of my life. The remote beauty of this forgotten coast was truly remarkable. The people we met were genuine, helpful and warm. They invited us into their homes and taught us about their local history. The climbing as a whole was spectacular; clean, untouched granite as far as the eye could see.

I would like to thank George Fudge, Ron Fudge, Kim Courtney, and all the other wonderful Newfies we met along the way. I also want to thank Pete Fasoldt for being a great friend and climbing partner; and the American Alpine Club and its Mountain Fellowship fund, for all their generous support.

Eli Simon - Hope, Maine