Crossing the Gulf: A Journey to the Rugged Frontier of Newfoundland

The Ala’suinu—a name meaning “Traveler” in the Mi’kmaw language—is a vessel of significant presence. A ten-deck-high car ferry of immense proportions, it serves as the vital maritime link between North Sydney, Nova Scotia, and Port-aux-Basques on the southwestern coast of Newfoundland. Day after day, it cuts across the 110-mile channel that marks the mouth of the Saint Lawrence River, traversing a stretch of water often characterized by biting winds, grey rain, and the vast, unforgiving expanse of a dark northern sky. For those embarking on this voyage, the transit is more than a mere commute; it is a passage from the familiar bustle of the mainland into the isolated, storied, and often rugged geography of Canada’s easternmost province.

My own motivation for this trip was rooted in a long-held ambition: to navigate the length of Newfoundland by car, eventually reaching the northernmost tip to visit L’Anse aux Meadows, the site of a thousand-year-old Viking settlement. To look at a map of Newfoundland is to see a landmass that defies symmetry. It is an island cloven by deep bays and jagged inlets, its coastline appearing as though it were carved by the slow, grinding passage of ancient glaciers. These forces left behind permanent scars—striations, grooves, and deep gouges etched into the island’s granite face—that give the province its distinct, weathered character. Traditionally, the island has been associated with a certain kind of mythology: a land of ghosts and folktales, marked by the eccentricity of its people, the abundance of its fisheries, and a reputation for profound friendliness.

Before setting out, I made a point of asking various people I encountered during my travels through New Brunswick and Nova Scotia if they had ever ventured across the Gulf to Newfoundland. The response was almost universally the same: "Never." When I countered by asking how many of them had traveled to Florida, the answer was just as consistently the opposite: "Many times." This discrepancy spoke volumes about the nature of travel in North America, where the pull of the familiar and the warm often outweighs the allure of the rugged and the unknown.

The logistics of reaching the ferry terminal in North Sydney—navigating the clammy, rain-slicked streets, passing scruffy bars and storefronts that had clearly seen better days—brought home the reality of travel. Securing a ticket and waiting for the departure provided a rare moment of tedium, a sensation I had largely avoided throughout my time in Canada. In my experience across the country, I had rarely felt inconvenienced, menaced, or plagued by the uncertainty that often defines international travel. There were no armed youths to worry about, no risky detours, no need for bribes, and no infuriating bureaucratic obstructions. Canada had felt, for the most part, like a traveler’s dream, making the minor frustrations of the North Sydney terminal stand out all the more sharply.

Because the ferry was not scheduled to depart until 11:15 p.m., and early check-in was not an option, I found myself with six hours to kill. I did what a local might do in such a situation: I retreated to a corner table at the nearest Tim Hortons, sipping coffee while watching a steady stream of yawning idlers pass through. By 9:00 p.m., I made my way to the port, where I was greeted with surprising efficiency and directed into a staging lane. From there, it was a waiting game in the terminal until the call came to drive up the ramp and into the cavernous, metallic bowels of the Ala’suinu.

There were no cabins or berths available for this crossing. For $23, I secured a reclining seat in a sealed-off saloon. As the departure time arrived, the ferry let out a hoot and pulled away from the dock, sliding into the pitch-black night. With the sky obscured by dense, low-hanging clouds, the ship felt as if it were gliding through a vacuum, the only light provided by the vessel’s own running lamps. I spent the night in the saloon, surrounded by a mix of children, sleeping dogs, and fellow travelers, all of us enveloped in the unmistakable, heavy air of a shared, cramped space. It became clear why many Nova Scotians rarely made the trip; it was travel in the old, laborious sense of the word. Below deck, the cargo hold was filled not just with tourist vehicles, but with a steady stream of eighteen-wheelers and work vans, signaling that this was not a cruise, but a vital supply chain in motion.

On an upper deck, a chart displayed our route, highlighting the straight line of our crossing. Looking at the map, one could see the western shore of Newfoundland facing the gaping estuary of the Saint Lawrence. It appeared almost as if the island were a piece of land that had detached from the continent and was slowly drifting out into the Atlantic. Despite the lack of comfort, there were no complaints from the passengers. The crowd—composed of shaggy men, women in woolly hats, and a mix of students, nurses, farmers, and fishermen—carried themselves with the patient, rumpled air of a daily commute. Eight hours later, as grey daylight broke, an announcement in both English and French signaled our arrival. We returned to our vehicles and drove off the ramp, emerging into the crisp, morning light of Port-aux-Basques.

The town, however, bore the marks of a recent, violent history. Upon checking into the Hotel Port aux Basques, I spoke with the owner and general manager, Cathy Lomond. When I remarked on the ruinous state of certain parts of the town, she did not mince words. "We lost a hundred and thirty houses to Fiona," she explained. Hurricane Fiona, which struck in September 2022, is on record as the most severe tropical storm to ever hit Canada, and its impact on the town was devastating.

Even months later, the area maintained a windswept, scoured appearance. The simple saltbox houses and white-framed bungalows looked fragile against the backdrop of the headland’s striated granite, and the few remaining trees stood shredded and bare. Yet, there was an unmistakable resilience in Cathy’s tone. "But we’re used to storms," she said. "That was a bad one, but we got through it. Port aux Basques has community spirit, we know how to rebuild."

Cathy herself was a figure of that same rugged determination. Spirited and civic-minded, she carried herself with an energy that seemed to mirror the harsh landscape. She was also an avid hunter, participating in the provincial lottery for big game licenses, which allowed for the legal hunting of black bears, caribou, and moose. During our conversation, she offered me a sample of slow-cooked moose meat in gravy. It was my first time eating the animal, and I found the flavor to be exactly as Henry David Thoreau described in his book The Maine Woods: it tasted like tender beef, perhaps with a bit more depth—sometimes reminiscent of veal.

As we spoke, it became clear that Newfoundland occupies a unique space in the Canadian consciousness. While residents of Prince Edward Island often claim a distinct culture of their own, Newfoundlanders have navigated a history defined by profound isolation and economic hardship. The landscape and the people here possess a quality that is difficult to find anywhere else in the country. The island’s linguistic landscape is a tapestry of peculiar, distinct accents that shift from district to district, a relic of its history as a British colony—a status it maintained until joining Canada in 1949. Some residents still carry the memory of that era, harboring either a lingering resentment for imperial overreach or a quiet lament for its passing.

The natural world of Newfoundland is equally distinctive. The island lacks many of the creatures found on the mainland; there are no raccoons, skunks, or porcupines to be found here. While the rest of Canada is home to various snakes, the only serpent found in Newfoundland is the harmless garter snake. Even the squirrel population is a modern introduction, with red squirrels—often dubbed "tree rats"—only appearing in the 1960s. There are no deer, and the flora and fauna remain as singular as the human culture that inhabits the island.

"Newfies are special people," Cathy said as I prepared to continue my journey further into the island. "The land is special, too." It was a sentiment that felt entirely justified. As I looked out at the striated granite and the vast, gray Atlantic, it was clear that Newfoundland was not just another province; it was a world unto itself, shaped by the sea, the storm, and a stubborn, enduring spirit.