Making It Up As I Go Along #416

Off to Botwood
There are too many memories of my trips to my Grandparent’s place in Botwood. Too many to tell a story of. But I’ll share thoughts of the Botwood milestones. That is, the spots there and along the way that stand out.

When leaving the city, the long weekend which often comes with a Botwood trip is recognized by a desolate land. In university days, I learned that the land just outside St. John’s is formed by glacial action. Great rolling mounds and hills dotted with ponds and peppered with boulders. Boulders as much as a story or two high. Hardly a tree is seen and you look out at the landscape and feel like pulling the car over, packing up, and trekking across the barrens. It looks like you could go for a hundred miles. And you could bring a rod, set up a tent in the shelter of a boulder, and live off the land.

Further along, there’s the isthmus of the Avalon Peninsula. This is the foggiest place on earth. Some amount of fog is seen here more than three hundred days of the year. And often, the drive through this area is a slow, dreamy one. Where stunted trees are shadows a hundred yards off the road and cliffs loom out of the fog, surrounding the highway with walls of rock. Pictures are on the internet of this place. It’s where winter storms have buried transport trucks. But on those days when the fog stays clear, this drive is almost wondrous. An unknown landscape that’s been traveled many times but rarely seen. Coastal islands can be seen in the distance as the sea glistens.

Clarenville comes next. A town I’ve only been in a few times but skirted along the highway hundreds. You drive a winding bit of highway along the cliffs, catching glimpses of the town when the road winds right. And then you know you’re there when the Irving gas station comes along. Most trips are timed to reach this place at meal time. Be it lunch or supper, often a break comes here for soup or the most amazing burgers a gas station could offer. In fact, the burgers at the Clarenville Irving are in the top five I’ve had. Even when the stop has to be brief, we’ll usually order a meal to go. Once we hit a pothole after grabbing our food. My head hit the ceiling of our Caravan... my fries with gravy flipped in my lap. And as I rubbed my possibly broken neck and felt the burn of gravy upon my lap, dad looked back in the rear view mirror... and proclaimed “there better not be any mess on the van!”

Terra Nova follows Clarenville. The great park of inlets, hills, forests, and wildlife. A sign at the front of the park tells you how many moose/vehicle accidents have occurred in the park this year. On a long weekend, you could drive to Botwood and see the number of accidents here at sixteen. And drive back two days later to see the number climbed to eighteen. Two long weekends not as pleasant as ours. Resulting in insurance dealings back in town... or funeral arrangements. Terra Nova always force you to take it easy. Be it to take in the scenery as you drive along, or the line of traffic trailing a great camper trailer that can barely make it up the larger hills. A lack of passing lanes within the park makes for a caravan of vehicles crossing the land. We’d sometimes stop at a roadside picnic area. Along a river, tucked below the highway. You’d look at trout in the river and feed Gray Jays coming for bits of bread.

Gander is the place for a gas stop. Stocking up on bars and drinks for the final hour to Botwood. It’s a place of dropping off and picking up. We stopped at the airport in Gander once to see Edena off to England. My first long time apart from my sister. I lay awake in bed that night, listening for the distant sound of an overhead jet... and guessing “that one’s probably hers... bye bye sissy”. Another time, it was in Gander where I met dad at the gas station. He coming from St. John’s and me from the west coast field school. Exhausted, I drag my stuff off the university van, say my goodbyes to the crew I lived with for the previous few weeks, and carried on with dad on a trip to the coast, and Fogo.

The bridge at the Exploits River tells us we’re there. Only about ten or fifteen minutes away, we get off the main highway just after the bridge. Crossing the bridge, you look out at the river... searching for salmon fishermen standing along side a gully. I often think of the story I heard of tragedy on this bridge. Of a van of nuns, crossing the bridge but realizing they left some item behind. One of those times when you feel you can’t go on another second without going back to get it. And if you don’t think it through, you may turn around right there to do just that. They did, there on the bridge, and while they were maneuvering the van to face back towards the way they just came, a transport truck crossed the bridge and t-boned them. All the nuns died, and the item remained left behind.

The final road to Botwood is a small highway. The trees along each side being an endless sea of birch... a treat for those from town, where conifers are much more prevalent. The soil and rock in this area is almost purple in colour. So much so that the road itself is paved in purple. We pass the gas station where soft serve ice cream helps get you through warm summer days and turn into the town shortly after there.

Botwood seems to always be in the sun. The birch leaves glisten as the rustle in the breeze, homes seem vibrant, and the water in the bay shimmers.

At my grandparent’s house, the pulse drops as soon as you exit the car. You linger on the front lawn for a moment as the dog sniffs about and looks for a place to pee. And then, before going for the bags, you wander into the house, climb the stairs, and stroll in on the main floor. Soup simmers on the stove as my grandmother casually greets us in the hall. There is no rushing here, but hugs do come. Sometimes she’s given a bit of a start, as we arrive earlier than expected. “Oh, I thought you were Jim” she’d say as she turns to great my uncle from across the street. When my grandfather was still alive, he’d either be just getting up from his chair in the living room, or snoozing on the sofa, slowly waking with our arrival. Or sometimes he may come up the stairs behind us, having been in his workshop when we arrived.

I can think of only one time when my first action wasn’t hugging my grandmother. That’s when I made the four and a half hour drive needing to go to the bathroom the whole time. On the road, I used the bladder pressure as a way of staying awake (having driven by myself after a day of work). My grandmother met me in the hall, awaiting her hug, but I passed by, making the straight line from the top of the steps to the bathroom, and as I shut the door I said “Be right with you!” as I heard her gentle laugh.

The home in Botwood is where cares drifted away. From the back, you look out at the bay. Seeing the hills across the way and the gentle sea bridging the distance. The greatest sunrises occur here. Although my most memorable one was the morning my grandmother died. Mom called us before the sun came up, I laid in bed with my heart sinking as I heard dad answer, and we stood for a while after, looking out at the purple and rose coloured sky bringing a start to the day.

In the front of the house, was the biggest window I knew of as a child. A great window that made up a wall of the living room. Sometimes you’d just want to sit and look out. Being a kid, I’d kneel in the chair and lean against the back of it, our dog (Sparky in the early years and Schokee in the later) would climb up on the chair with me, I’d scratch the dog’s back as we both watched the Botwood world go by.

Across the road and over the hill would be a maze of pathways into the hills and trees. An old car wreck lay near the beginning of the paths. At my youngest, trips over the hills would have me stop at the car wreck to play for a bit. As years went by, and the wreck slowly decomposed into the shrubs, play gave way to exploration of the rust.

The hills were full of blueberries. Miles of berries to be consumed or picked. If I went with my parents and grandparents, beef buckets are carried in empty and lugged out full. If the journey was made with my friend, Greg, no buckets were needed. We’d explore for berries as if they were gold. And every now and then, one would call out to the other... “I found the mother load over here!” And the other would abandon everything to scurry over and join in the feast.

Evenings would have blueberries with milk and sugar as a treat and cards on the dining room table. Tea, with cheese and crackers would be as the Zamboni at a hockey game... bringing the intermission to the card playing. My grandmother would play her cards gently, softly putting out her card to win a trick while chuckling quietly. My grandfather would slam his winning cards down with a great thumb of his knuckle on the wood of the table. I’d hurt my knuckle trying to match the echo. And my grandfather’s snack would often include a doctor prescribed banana, laid out for him by my grandmother as he’d mutter “I’m going to turn into a God Damn monkey”.

Driving back on Sunday was done with sadness. Usually the trip would occur after a big lunch. I remember once we made the drive in the early morning. I was tucked into the old Volkswagen camper in a sleeping bag. The early departure being necessary so we could get by Gambo (about three hours from Botwood towards St. John’s) before the day’s heat would re-ignite the forest fire there. We drove along the highway with the forest devastated. Blackened wood, nothing green, with smoke hovering over the land. Years of Botwood trips after that time enabled us to view the regrowth of nature. Today, a visitor to the region would never know where that fire occurred.

And back in St. John’s. Knowing you’re home by the billboards along the highway, some fifteen miles out. In the early trips, we’d come back to town via Kenmount Road. Starting with a line of traffic in the early evening dusk... a line of red from the rear lights of those cars ahead of us. And then the drive across town to get back to Wedgewood Park, all rimmed in trees. In later trips back, Kenmount Road is bipassed thanks to the Ring Road. And the city is barely seen as we cross to the east end, where Wedgewood Park has become a forestless suburb. No more lines of red lights heading into town either. Divided highway right to Torbay Road, and minutes from home have taken care of that.

And, where in Botwood, we’d linger in the sun before venturing into the house for gentle hugs and the aroma of soup, in St. John’s, we huddle at the back of the van, getting loaded down with bags, shoes and jackets, hoping to rush all of our stuff from the car to the house in one trip, so we can avoid going back out into the cold, foggy drizzle of home.

MONDAY...
— Physio killing me. About two and a half hours with my first round of treadmill to finish it off. I can last five minutes doing that contraption.
— Work is ok. But I leave early... gone at 8:00 to beat it home and watch the Hab game on PVR (about an hour behind live). Great game, and now the series is tied going in to game seven Wednesday.
— Groceries bought after the game.

TUESDAY...
— Bye Bye Canucks. 5-1 is disappointing. But the defense was too battered to hold it together in the end.

WEDNESDAY...
— Physio goes well. Treadmill even goes well with a half hour no problem.
— Work is fine. Short shift, as I take the evening off, and just filing... an easy job.
— Meet Geoff and get burgers from the works and beer from the beer store and watch game seven of Montreal vs. Pittsburgh at home. Montreal wins 5-2 and we’re floored with happiness.

THURSDAY...
— Longest work day in a long time. Eight hour shift felt like twenty-four hours. Numbers are fine but I’m going off the walls by the end of it.

FRIDAY...
— Physio is good... I kill a bird on the way to work. Poor thing on the side of the road, goes to fly as I drive by, bam!
— Apple Crisp and Chinese food at work. Thanks to Roz for the Apple Crisp.

SATURDAY...
— House day. Some napping and some TV. Hurt Locker is really quite good. Not sure if it’s the best movie of last year or not... but quite good.