From Sept Iles to Labrador

There's more and more to write about. We have just come back to the hotel after a day's explorations along the Labrador Coastal Drive as far as the Pinware River, nearly to Red Bay, then back to Blanc-Sablon and off again about the same distance (40-50km) in the other direction. The road is unconnected to any other road system so one can only drive back and forth along it. It is wild, steep and full of bends, and the views round each bend sensational. My skull tonight would make a fascinating study for phrenologists, with all the bumps on it; they result from the blackfly bites, inflicted every time we got near grass. Apart from that one annoyance, we had the best of conditions today, the Labrador Straits a deep blue and the lumpy landscape of Newfoundland clearly visible on the far side 50 km away. Cloudberries are ripe in the undergrowth between the roadside and the stumpy coniferous trees (even fully grown, they're hardly taller than I am) growing amongst the lichen. I've eaten a "cloudberry square" and have bought two little pots of cloudberry jam.

Was it only Tuesday evening we were strolling along the boardwalks in Sept-Iles? The waterfront was full of people, including a few families from the native reservation, enjoying their evening out under the crescent moon. The volleyball courts were full of teenagers. The sports pub was full also. Waitresses kept passing us by saying "Ça ne sera pas long, Madame," but we gave up waiting for a table and found a casse-croûte in a hut on the pier selling panini and chips in a polystyrene box, instead. Another thing we found in a bouquinerie within another hut was, incredibly, a second-hand, hardback book, in English, by Chris' favourite novelist, J L Carr. However did that get there? we wondered. Carr's books are hard enough to find in England. And Chris had not read this one.

Next morning, 172 nautical miles to fly between CYZV and CYNA (Natashquan). On leaving the Sept Iles zone, PTN had to switch to the "Corridor Frequency" within the uncontrolled airspace east of that point. Over the mouth of the River Nipissis we were already a mile high, looking down at the swirls of sand under the water in its mouth. Then my wing was flying over the sea and Chris could see the coastline under his wing becoming rockier and rockier, the fair-weather cumulus leaving patches of shadow on the terrain inland. We were only grounding about 80 knots due to a headwind, Chris anticipating "a headwind all the way home, as well". What a pessimist. At Rivière du Tonnerre we spotted a (disused?) airfield not marked on the chart, so we have drawn it in, in case of emergencies to come. There was hardly any sea-faring traffic, only a cargo ship in the Détroit de Jacques Cartier. Then we flew up the Chenal de Mingan just off the shore, a national park where the islands are nature reserves. Half way to Natashquan we reported overhead Havre St Pierre to Sept Iles radio. The River Romaine flows into the sea here, so beautiful, wide, with sandbars, curves and waterfalls. From my bird's eye view, the harbour walls looked like arms embracing the little boats moored there. We could see Natashquan airport from 40 miles away, a sandy clearing in the bush behind the town, and began our descent over Aguanish with 18 miles to go. Chris did a "straight-in" to runway 14, a crosswind landing, having to use his flaps because we had approached rather too high.

The only person around at this airport was the lady who mans the Air Labrador desk, who told us it was a twenty-minute walk to the village, so we set off down the deserted road for lunch at a bistro on the shore near the galets, with an old boat abandoned on a sand dune at the gate. Inside they were playing first Quebec chansons as background music (maybe by Gilles Vigneault who came from here) and then Portuguese fado as background music. I ate Italian sausages with a Greek salad after soupe à la crême de broccoli et d'asperges. A handful of blueberries from the roadside for dessert! Puzzled by the clockfaces stuck to almost every house wall in Natashquan, I asked the "ramp rats" at the airport (in French) what was the point of these and their two faces broke into smiles as they told me about the TV programme about Natashquan that was to be broadcast that very evening (i.e. last night ... in fact we watched it here at the Auberge!), entitled La Petite Séduction: de temps en temps le temps s'arrête, this being a nudge in the ribs to the makers of the film La Grande Séduction, filmed further east, in Harrington Harbour, rather than Natashquan.

We decided that Blanc-Sablon was too far to reach, so using the public phone in the terminal I tried to get through to a hotel in Chevery to see if they'd have a bed for us there. No answer. I tried another place at Chevery, again no answer. I then tried the next possible landing place, St Augustin, and got through to a lady who said her place was full but her mother would put us up for the night and someone would fetch us across the river in a boat once we'd landed. That sounded more promising! All I had to do was ring her again from St Augustin airport.

Beyond Natashquan the landscape grew more and more unearthly. Below us, the (only) road reached a river bank and simply stopped. The flat coastal plain is pockmarked with irregular shaped ponds and patches of lichen. The little fishing community of Kegashka looked enticing, with a gravel runway next to it. "We should have gone there!" said Chris, but the next hundred miles were just as wonderful, untouched land and sea except for one or two huts and occasional tracks to dams in the rivers. The rocks were pink on the shore and pale green further above the water. I wrote in my notebook: cliffs, long shadows, crater holes, thin stretches of water crisscrossing the land. There was some mechanical turbulence to put up with but this abated as we began our descent at about 5:20 p.m. Or would it turn out to be 6:50 p.m., Newfoundland Time? We weren't sure. Anyhow there was nobody there to tell us. The airport telephone was inaccessible behind a locked door so we couldn't phone for rescue and there was no network coverage on our cellphones. Chris tried to pick the lock with a plastic card but wasn't experienced enough to succeed. Should we press the Emergency Button on our Spot Find Me device? we asked ourselves. The situation wasn't serious enough to warrant such extreme measures; blackflies notwithstanding, we could always camp, because we have the requisite equipment on board. I gave Chris two energy bars to keep his spirits up and he radioed to flight services in Quebec using the remote communications outlet on the field to see whether they could help. The girl at the end of the line phoned the B & B lady for us but told us the number was engaged. Therefore, as the sun was beginning to set and as Chris doesn't have a pilot's night-rating because of his colour-blindness, we couldn't mess about any longer: we filed for CYBX, Lourdes de Blanc-Sablon, another 43 minutes' away.

There were long shadows over the cliffs and islands as the sun went down and over the spit of land, where CYBX is, lay a long, low tongue of cloud. This place used to be called Long Point. The town and surrounding sea was spotlit by the last of the sun, a sight we'll never forget. As we came low towards the runway on our final approach I distracted Chris by exclaiming, "Look at the mountains!" but he didn't have time for more than a quick glance. Thank God, the airport door was still open and there were human beings about. One of them managed to book the last available hotel room for us and found us a ride in a van into town, where we had a really friendly welcome and the question: "Would you like cod with almonds or grilled veal for supper?" before we'd hardly stepped through the door.

I know I haven't described today yet, but think that's enough for now.