ON THE PATH OF THE VOYAGEURS: THE END OF THE ROAD IN LABRADOR by Thomas C. Jamrog (published in Motorcycle Tour and Travel, May 1994, pages 50-53) Wrap your motorcycle fairing with a layer of carpet padding, vinyl, and duct tape and there can be only one destination- Alaska! Wrong! Some of us in the Northeast have discovered a wilderness motorcycling experience closer to home. Three riders and machines recently left Maine to spend 9 remarkable days and 2200 miles circumnavigating Labrador. We were all riding BMW's. Alan was on his vinyl-nosed R80RT. Pete was on his road-warrior R100S, with a black and battered 9 gallon tank that once saw service on the deserts of Africa. I was eager for the dirt on my R100GS. Alan and I had reached southern Labrador on motorcycles in the summer of 1991. We had both been inspired to return to the primitive north by "Great Heart" by Davidson and Rugge. The book detailed the failed 1903 Hubbard-Wallace canoe expedition. Our goal was reaching the town of North West River, the most northern point accessible by road in eastern North America. Our trip was made possible by the recent completion of the Trans Labrador Highway, linking Churchill Falls and Goose Bay with the rest of Canada. Until last year, it was impossible to reach Goose Bay by road from the U.S. We found much misinformation in various publications that we studied in preparation for our trip. First, the road is now open all year round. There is gas between the stretch between Baie Comeau, Quebec and Labrador City. The reported "half-again as high as the Niagara" Churchill Falls are no more. The water is now diverted to the incredible Churchill Falls hydroelectric project, which at one time was the largest civil engineering project in North America, employing a workforce of 30,000. There are impressive tours available that are not to be missed. Finally, it is a demanding trip, both from a lack of easily accessible facilities, and from the strain of extensive travel on gravel roads. Labrador is an attractive motorcycling destination. It is the last great wilderness in North America, with a population of just 30,000 people occupying 180,000 square miles. The land still has a primal quality, including 500 miles of gravel road. There are intermittent services, and while gas is available according to the fill-up schedule of a motorcycle (roughly 190 miles), any emergencies or side trips dictate the wisdom of carrying a two gallon can of gas. Another major draw is the remarkable Labrador people. We would not have met many of our friends if we were in a four wheeled vehicle, as it is the stark simplicity of a motorcycle that often moves normally reserved people to come up and talk to the strangers from away. Whether is was Emil, the lone motorcycle rider from Wabush who ended up accompanying us to breakfast at a local hotel, or the young couple from Happy Valley that gave us hot showers, cold beer, pizza, and caribou steaks, we found quick friends and good times. Folks were excited about seeing us, and approached us with none of the wariness and "cool" that is standard protocol in the States. Our touring style is spartan. We carried tents, sleeping bags and groundpads in waterproof canoe bags. Camping in Labrador was "au sauvage"- free and unserviced. In this part of the world, it is wise to pack some ready-to-prepare meals. It's so much easier to choose a campsite at the end of a day when you don't have to find a store and shop for food. There are also days when no supermarkets will appear, because there may be no towns. A travel tip is to top off a canteen of water at your last gas stop, so that you can boil water for supper. Most nights out were spent cooking over small backpacking stoves, and our biggest lodging expense was the $10 we spent in Fundy National Park in New Brunswick on our last night from home. Part of Labrador tradition is the "boil-up". Its a pull-off-the-road, build-a-cooking fire, hot drink and quick meal good time. For two nights we received as gifts caribou steaks, which were surprisingly ungamey, tasting much like lamb. Breakfasts were the best value for our 27 percent exchange rate Canadian dollars. One particular meal was immortalized in the following exchange about the "Buccaneer Brunch". "Let's hear about that plate, Pete." "There were potatoes, there was that little meat pie, there was a rolled up crepe, there was French toast, sausage, bacon, ham, a couple of fried eggs, and a little slice of orange." "Toast, wasn't there toast?" "Yeah, a couple of big fat toasts. . ." "And then anything your heart desires to spread on that toast." "Yeah." "What did they have there, Cheez Wiz?" "Oh, many different kinds of jams, Cheez Wiz, peanut butter, honey, and that thick toast was already buttered." "Yum." The road from the northern shore of the St. Lawrence River to Goose Bay can be thought of in three sections. Route 389 in Quebec runs 360 miles north from Baie Comeau to Labrador City. It is partially paved, and in serviceable condition. For the electrical and engineering buffs, a tour of the large hydroelectric project at the Manic V dam is recommended. The second section is 175 miles from Labrador City to Churchill Falls. My Destination Labrador booklet describes this road as "good gravel construction, and is given a class A maintainence grade. Approximate travel time is three hours." Not! In fact, it was on this section of road that we had our first tragedy in the history of these yearly northern adventures. Pete's accident occurred on a newly graded section of road that required careful steering and slower speeds for 30 miles, due to 3-4 inches of loose rock coating. Alan and I were ahead of him by several miles, so we never saw the accident and Pete doesn't to this day remember what happened. His bike did two complete sideways flips and slid off the road down the embankment. He was found in shock. His helmet was cracked, with the impact pulling it off his head. Several sport fishermen arrived at the scene and put his motorcycle on their boat trailer and drove him the hundred miles back to Labrador City. Pete was treated and released, returning home by plane. His motorcycle arrived home much later, after lengthy arbitration at customs. The final section to Goose Bay is 200 miles of pit gravel surfaced road. After an hour's travel we were shocked by the carnage of caribou legs and heads that lined the road for the next 15 miles. What we assumed was the work of poachers turned out to be the legitimate remains of the winter Caribou hunt. Residents are allowed two legal kills, which are harvested from the Georges River herd, numbering 400,000. With the advent of the year round road, it is now more convenient to gut and prep your game roadside, leaving the remains behind. Thus another unanticipated ecological change brought about by technological advancement. The road deteriorated the closer we got to Goose Bay. The ruts were more pronounced, the terrain grew more treacherous, and the heat worsened. On one steep downhill, we had to move to the side to avoid a huge tractor trailer truck that was being pulled up a section of road by a front-end loader. The roadbed was very soft and sandy, consisting of beach sand. In places, there were craters a foot deep and 5 to 10 foot wide. We lurched and wobbled when we reached them, but keeping up throttle speed and sticking our legs out helped us balance through. I shudder to think of what a mudsucking quagmire this road would become in heavy rain. In Goose Bay, the center of activity and employment is the air base, used as a low level jet flight training center for military pilots from Germany, The Netherlands, Great Britain. It's an open base, with no guard at the gate, so you are free to explore most of the area, and sit aside any of the three runways to watch the parade of jets lifting off all day long. There is a great deal of pressure from the native Innu tribes to terminate the practice of flying screaming jet aircraft 50 feet above the tops of the blackpines. Unless you really want to turn around and drive over the same 500 miles of dirt road to begin your return home, it is very important to call ahead and secure reservations for the ferry from Goose Bay to Lewisporte, Newfoundland. We didn't, and ended up spending several hours and three separate trips to the C.N. Marine ticket office before we successfully schemed and charmed our way onto the Tuesday midnight departure. The ferry only makes two runs per week in the summer. In the winter there is no ferry, as the ocean freezes up solidly to the depth of twenty five feet along the coast. Most winter commuting is done on snowmobiles, often pulling large sleds called komatics. The snowmobiles replaced the dogteams, but the plywood covered komatics remain largely unchanged from their traditional Innuit form. The cost of the 36 hour ferry ride for one motorcycle and rider was $108 (U.S.). We spent one night from hell trying to sleep in the nonsmoking television lounge. There were several seriously loud drunkards who occupied a rented berth that was only ten feet away. Loud guitar noise, clouds of cigarette smoke, and a lot of arguing spewed forth from the ever open door until 4:00 in the morning. If that wasn't enough, there was a sick baby four rows behind us that cried on and off for four hours. Sleep was fitful, either sprawled out on the carpeted floor, or reclined back on the lounge chair. The next morning we were lucky to run into Wayne, a familiar face from Goose Bay who offered us two empty bunks in his berth for the second night. We each threw $15 at him as fast as we could and secured keys for ourselves and proceeded to let the lulling ship rock us to slumber. On deck, it was cloudy, foggy, and cold but occasionally land could be spotted. Against the bare, stark shoreline we watched several large icebergs float south, probably originating their journey when they fell into the sea from glaciers on western Greenland. They were streaked with hues of green and blue, with the largest housesized ones generating their own mini-stratus clouds visible from hundreds of yards away. Forty dramamine-laden hours later, we docked at Lewisporte, Newfoundland at 3:30 in the afternoon, and immediately launched into a full bore 340 mile traverse of the island. It is mandatory that you own a good rain suit if you hope to survive motorcycle travel in Atlantic Canada. The night was very dark, and the cold wind and rain were about as severe as it gets. The last 130 miles approaching the dock at Port-Aux-Basques were particularly grim, with our inner driving force the hope of securing tickets for the midnight ferry departure to Sydney, Nova Scotia. The cost of the 6 hour ride was $32 each. We adopted a more leisurely pace as we meandered home for the next two days. If you've dreamed of wilderness motorcycle travel you should strongly consider pointing your bike to the northeast. Labrador will reward you with a fresh perspective on what it means to live on the North American frontier. The raw beauty of the land, the rich heritage of exploration, and its relative accessibility establish this Canadian Province as the next major adventure motorcycle destination.