It’s a long, long solo drive from York, Pa., to North Sydney. Straight through, it’s about 22 hours and 1200 miles, actually. And from there, jump on the seven-hour ferry to finally reach Newfoundland.

But I always felt it was worth the drive. Thanks for being there.

The main reason for my initial Newfoundland visit was partly business, partly pleasure. A newspaper photographer by profession, as a hobbyist I’ve been shooting America’s Old West "golden" ghost towns for decades. Later on, I headed to the Yukon, canoeing 400 miles (twice) to see historic and genuine Klondike Gold Rush towns.

In looking for Canadian ghost towns, one internet search engine led me to the Newfoundland relocation of the 1970s. Recent ghost towns, I thought. The research began, and I quickly found there was more to Newfoundland than the old settlements.

Now, after six trips to Newfoundland and Labrador, I still haven’t seen any of the relocated towns. While that’s still on my bucket list, there is too much, too many other things to discover.

On top of that list is the Newfoundland people. They are an amazingly friendly bunch, and the stories could go on forever.

On one trip, while I was photographing an old Avalon homestead, a man stopped to explain that he grew up in that house. He described its history in fascinating detail, and then invited us to sleep in his office instead of our van. “Gonna rain tonight. Might be chilly,” he said. “Just pull the door shut when you leave.”

Or how, while attending the Brigus Blueberry Festival breakfast, we sat across from a very patient couple who explained - rather tastefully, I might add - fish and brewis, cod tongues and cod jerky. They invited us back to their home for dinner that evening.

Having visited Newfoundland in all its seasons, I prefer winter and all its magic. Unfortunately, because of time constraints on that winter trip, I never got far from the western shore. Still, nearly everything looks brighter, happier, with a fresh coating of white. At water’s edge, brightly-coloured fishing sheds match the hues of a first grader’s finger paints, contrasting sharply with the wide open blue sky and ocean water.

Moose and caribou wander over the whiteness while truckers zoom past, their truck’s radiator protected from the creatures by chrome-covered hose the size of sewer pipe.

The mountains of Gros Morne tower over the western shore, looking like the Rockies at less than a quarter of the height. Skiing is rarely better.

But there are no crowds here - or anywhere, for that matter. A cover of snow muffles all, and searching for the perfect photo - which I will never capture - is peaceful, calming and unhurried.

I can’t imagine anywhere I’d rather be.

  Submitted By: bil bowden