Hiking for the very dim

As I was hauling myself up a rope along a vertical muddy path covered in fresh moose poop, it occurred to me that I should have told someone where I was going before I headed out on a hike by myself. The Walk of Hope trail next to the 20 foot statue of the kaiju Virgin Mary had seemed like a nice safe little old lady path, for no other reason than its cute name and obvious churchiness. I forgot about Catholicism. Catholics go hard with suffering. This was the Walk of Hope-you-ever-find-civilization-again trail. The Walk of Hope-a-moose-doesn’t-kill-you-before-you-find-your-car trail. And don’t we have bears? I’m pretty sure we have bears. 

One of the side trails led to a large pond covered in lily pads, and the water rippled and plunked and honked in alarm as I got to the landing. After a quiet moment, dozens of little frog faces rose out of the water, meeping at one another. More frogs swam under the surface of the water, some kicking long legs and some swishing late tadpole tails. Dragonflies landed on my arms as I leaned on the railing. It was absolutely charming.

I finally made it back to my car, and looked at the bin of walking sticks at the entrance to the trail. I am learning that this is a sign: if there are walking sticks to borrow, you are in trouble.

The day before, I decided to walk up to Cook’s Lookout, and ignored the walking sticks hung on pegs by the entrance sign. I’d seen the photos online, and there were wooden walkways and stairs all the way to the top of the hill. I did not see the parts you had to climb to get to and from the stairs. Or appreciate how those stairs kept going up for a mile, always looking like the top was just a few staircases up, only to find yourself looking at them dipping down into a valley before going straight up again. Jeans, I cursed myself. You wore jeans and a cardigan on a goddamn mountain hike.

I had learned my lesson and wore yoga pants for the second hike, but I was still too dumb to choose ones with pockets, so my phone was tucked into my waistband and accidentally taking a 20-minute video of me crunching along rocks, breathing like a Clydesdale, and singing like a muppet until I remembered about the bears and shut up. 

For today’s adventure, maybe I’ll just go down to Smuggler’s Cove and eat chicken wings while the band plays.

Foggy morning drive down to the bay near my house:

hike to Cook's Lookout:

"this is easy" 

FIRST SET OF STAIRS

One of the things I love about Newfoundland are the ponds absolutely everywhere, at any elevation, with no waterfalls leading from one to another, just sitting anywhere they like with no regard to sea level or gravity

see?

 

very wow, with the fog in the distance

 

the endangered carnivorous Newfoundland pitcher plant, 

growing everywhere like tulips in the Netherlands up here on Cook's Lookout

 

RIP whoever this is who didn't want to walk all the way back down those stairs 

 

Walk of Hope:

 

see that rope in the corner? It goes STRAIGHT DOWN. 

...Where is my car? 

 

moose poopies 

 

FROG 

 

MORE FROG 

 

imagine little burping noises in all directions 

 

borp borp borp borp 

 

path that led to rope and mooses 

there were flowers and blueberries everywhere (not ripe yet, but I will be back) 

Misc:

 

painted dining room blue 

 getting mad at flowers again

 

Not pictured: the night I decided to have a beer, accidentally bought an IPA, poisoned myself (one can), and was up sick all night. I don't know what kind of hops they use for those, but my body rejects it wholeheartedly. 

 

Also I finally got my broken tooth fixed, and found out my dental insurance was cut off for summer, so it cost $500. Goddamn. Still cheaper than if I had gotten it done back in Hawaii on insurance.

 

I'm having a really nice time, teeth and hops notwithstanding. Worrying about going back in a week.