Chapter 2: Labrador, Newfoundland, and Nova Scotia
Cartwright to Bar Harbor via wilderness and ferry routes — rugged solitude, kindness, tropical storms, and decommissioned rail beds.
The ride south from Cartwright began on gravel—a 100-kilometer spur road carved through lichen-covered rock, low spruce, and wide stretches of muskeg, surrounded by a gently rolling landscape of boreal forest. This road connected the isolated village to the paved Route 510, part of the Trans-Labrador Highway. It wasn’t the highway itself, but a hard link to it—built to tie Cartwright, at the road’s end in eastern Canada, to the rest of the continent. The surface was rough but dry, and the scenery often beautiful. Streams flowed with clear water, roadside pools glinted in the sun, and the land felt ancient and welcoming. Traffic was sparse and respectful.
From there I headed south toward many remote, coastal communities, camping along the way, eventually reaching the ferry at Blanc-Sablon, Quebec a few days later. The road wound along Labrador’s southern coast—paved, but quiet, and bordered by a intermingled boreal forest and low-lying, Arctic vegetation types, domed, granite ridgelines, and distant views of the sea. Towns were few, widely spaced, but deeply reliant on each other. The journey along this stretch was meditative, full of natural quiet and reminders to focus on the breath.
The ferry across the Strait of Belle Isle delivered me to St. Barbe on Newfoundland’s Northern Peninsula, the same peninsula where Norse explorers once came ashore. From there, I rode south through fishing villages, wide bays, and the sculpted terrain of Gros Morne National Park. I camped and stayed indoors, eventually working my way inland to Deer Lake.
Since the morning after departing St. Barbe, wind and rain from Tropical Storm Lee had battered the region, and I pressed forward beneath the remnants of the system. There were plenty of gifts along the way—quiet moments in the lee of the wind, protected stretches beneath sheltering trees, stops in local shops for coffee and food, and always the presence and scale of Newfoundland’s unspoiled landscapes.
From Deer Lake, I continued east. The more direct route south to Port aux Basques would have been shorter and simpler—paved and dirt roads with services along the way—but I had something else in mind. Earlier in the journey, I had reached out to an old friend from graduate school and made plans to visit him and his family in Glovertown, in central Newfoundland. Though I nearly canceled due to the relentless weather, I ultimately committed from Deer Lake—not only to the longer route to Argentia via Glovertown, but also to a difficult stretch of Newfoundland’s old “track road.” This rugged section of the former narrow-gauge railbed cut across highlands, dense forest, soft bog, and deep backcountry. It was a gamble, but it carried promise: a hard challenge with countless benefits, and the chance to reconnect with an old friend.
That decision also meant forsaking the short ferry to Nova Scotia and instead riding toward Argentia for the season’s final overnight crossing of the Cabot Strait—a second gamble, but one I was willing to make. Beyond Deer Lake, after a day that I won't soon forget, thrashed by the weather and the track road, I spent one night in a cabin, invited in by a generous local, along the track road, high in the Topsails, where Tropical Storm Lee reached its peak intensity. As I navigated a variety of surfaces, including deep sand and sharp gravel, towards that serendipitous cabin rendezvous, the rain lashed sideways, and the wind tore at everything. The weather was uncomfortable, but the experience felt like a privilege: raw, real, and remote. The following day, after nearly 85 miles on the railbed, I returned to pavement and made my way over the next two days to Glovertown, on and off the Trans-Canada Highway.
After three restorative nights with friends, I rode two more days to Argentia and reached the ferry terminal with plenty of time to board the final crossing of the year bound for North Sydney, Nova Scotia.
The ferry arrived in North Sydney late morning. I disembarked and headed inland, tracing a route across Cape Breton, past its palatial, interior seas, eventually crossing the Canso Causeway onto the mainland. At one point, on Cape Breton, I crashed hard on a gravel track—no serious injury but I did manage to bend my expensive, rear rack. Fortunately, I was able to bend the soft metal frame back to more or less its original shape using a long branch from the forest at my next campground. After the crash, I picked myself up, reset the bags as best I could, and continued south. But the damage wasn't the story. What prevailed in my mind was the quiet grace of the land—mixed forests indicating autumns approach, shifting skies, scattered farms set back from the road—and kind strangers I chanced upon along the way that shared water and stories and friendship.
The riding was straightforward—no extremes—but satisfying nonetheless: a landscape that told a story of glaciers, settlement, and deep time, all revealed at the pace of a bike rider carrying ambitious goals for the months ahead. The time I spent with friends near Annapolis Royal and Cape Saint Mary’s deeply enriched my experience of the Maritimes—moments of warmth, laughter, and shared meals that stood in contrast to the solitude of the road. Alongside my earlier visit in Glovertown, these reunions grounded the journey in connection as much as motion. By the time I neared Yarmouth, the journey through eastern Canada had left a beautiful, nurturing, and inspirational mark—my mind and body flourishing thanks to the accumulated kindnesses and the long, quiet stretches in between. I was ready for the next sea crossing and whatever lay ahead.
From there I headed south toward many remote, coastal communities, camping along the way, eventually reaching the ferry at Blanc-Sablon, Quebec a few days later. The road wound along Labrador’s southern coast—paved, but quiet, and bordered by a intermingled boreal forest and low-lying, Arctic vegetation types, domed, granite ridgelines, and distant views of the sea. Towns were few, widely spaced, but deeply reliant on each other. The journey along this stretch was meditative, full of natural quiet and reminders to focus on the breath.
The ferry across the Strait of Belle Isle delivered me to St. Barbe on Newfoundland’s Northern Peninsula, the same peninsula where Norse explorers once came ashore. From there, I rode south through fishing villages, wide bays, and the sculpted terrain of Gros Morne National Park. I camped and stayed indoors, eventually working my way inland to Deer Lake.
Since the morning after departing St. Barbe, wind and rain from Tropical Storm Lee had battered the region, and I pressed forward beneath the remnants of the system. There were plenty of gifts along the way—quiet moments in the lee of the wind, protected stretches beneath sheltering trees, stops in local shops for coffee and food, and always the presence and scale of Newfoundland’s unspoiled landscapes.
From Deer Lake, I continued east. The more direct route south to Port aux Basques would have been shorter and simpler—paved and dirt roads with services along the way—but I had something else in mind. Earlier in the journey, I had reached out to an old friend from graduate school and made plans to visit him and his family in Glovertown, in central Newfoundland. Though I nearly canceled due to the relentless weather, I ultimately committed from Deer Lake—not only to the longer route to Argentia via Glovertown, but also to a difficult stretch of Newfoundland’s old “track road.” This rugged section of the former narrow-gauge railbed cut across highlands, dense forest, soft bog, and deep backcountry. It was a gamble, but it carried promise: a hard challenge with countless benefits, and the chance to reconnect with an old friend.
That decision also meant forsaking the short ferry to Nova Scotia and instead riding toward Argentia for the season’s final overnight crossing of the Cabot Strait—a second gamble, but one I was willing to make. Beyond Deer Lake, after a day that I won't soon forget, thrashed by the weather and the track road, I spent one night in a cabin, invited in by a generous local, along the track road, high in the Topsails, where Tropical Storm Lee reached its peak intensity. As I navigated a variety of surfaces, including deep sand and sharp gravel, towards that serendipitous cabin rendezvous, the rain lashed sideways, and the wind tore at everything. The weather was uncomfortable, but the experience felt like a privilege: raw, real, and remote. The following day, after nearly 85 miles on the railbed, I returned to pavement and made my way over the next two days to Glovertown, on and off the Trans-Canada Highway.
After three restorative nights with friends, I rode two more days to Argentia and reached the ferry terminal with plenty of time to board the final crossing of the year bound for North Sydney, Nova Scotia.
The ferry arrived in North Sydney late morning. I disembarked and headed inland, tracing a route across Cape Breton, past its palatial, interior seas, eventually crossing the Canso Causeway onto the mainland. At one point, on Cape Breton, I crashed hard on a gravel track—no serious injury but I did manage to bend my expensive, rear rack. Fortunately, I was able to bend the soft metal frame back to more or less its original shape using a long branch from the forest at my next campground. After the crash, I picked myself up, reset the bags as best I could, and continued south. But the damage wasn't the story. What prevailed in my mind was the quiet grace of the land—mixed forests indicating autumns approach, shifting skies, scattered farms set back from the road—and kind strangers I chanced upon along the way that shared water and stories and friendship.
The riding was straightforward—no extremes—but satisfying nonetheless: a landscape that told a story of glaciers, settlement, and deep time, all revealed at the pace of a bike rider carrying ambitious goals for the months ahead. The time I spent with friends near Annapolis Royal and Cape Saint Mary’s deeply enriched my experience of the Maritimes—moments of warmth, laughter, and shared meals that stood in contrast to the solitude of the road. Alongside my earlier visit in Glovertown, these reunions grounded the journey in connection as much as motion. By the time I neared Yarmouth, the journey through eastern Canada had left a beautiful, nurturing, and inspirational mark—my mind and body flourishing thanks to the accumulated kindnesses and the long, quiet stretches in between. I was ready for the next sea crossing and whatever lay ahead.