shed her thick mitts and worked the camera out of the bag.
She took pictures of five dead coyotes dangling from a wooden frame like lynched outlaws in a Western, their hind legs lashed together. Noah explained that the provincial government had set a bounty on coyotes—“just a few measly dollars”—because they endangered other animals on the island, especially the caribou herds.
“What happened to their eyes?” she asked.
“Crows or gulls must’ve pecked them out.”
Lori turned away with a shudder.
The snowmobile had a sled for firewood in tow, with a chain saw and a rifle. Lori was relieved to discover that the barrel pointed to the rear. Polar bears crossed her mind, but she didn’t want to show any fear.
Probably a lot of people in Stormy Cove had hunting rifles.
Back in the high school library, she had quickly skimmed through her e-mails and casually remarked to the friendly librarian that Noah would be taking her to the Barrens. Just to be safe.
She hastily slipped her numb fingers into her mittens, mounted the machine, and Noah sped away. She held on tightly to the side grips so she wouldn’t be thrown off. The machine bounced over bumps and hollows; her back absorbed the thuds. She’d be stiff and sore and exhausted in bed that night.
“Everything OK?” Noah shouted back from time to time. Only the camera bag separated them.
They mounted the crest of a hill, and the houses of Stormy Cove fell out of sight. Noah followed a gently curving, well-traveled trail. The sun disappeared behind some clouds and a pale light fell on the plain before them, casting a unique enchantment over the barren landscape.
So those were the Barrens. Tundra. A swampy, high plateau with sparse vegetation—just as her guidebook had promised. So completely different from the lush rainforest on the West Coast.
Lori raised her visor to get a better look. But her eyes were used to mountains and forests; she couldn’t get her bearings on this flat terrain where the endless whiteness was only broken by the dark lines of stone ridges laid bare by the biting wind. Treetops poked out of the snow in several places, as if pleading for release from the snowdrifts threatening to bury them.
A merciless landscape. But Lori felt oddly moved—fascinated by that forbidding terrain she couldn’t define. She felt herself struggling to comprehend something important, but it kept eluding her.
The trails in the snow frequently crisscrossed, and Lori was mystified by how Noah knew the way. Twice, a snowmobile rose up out of nowhere with its own sled in tow. The drivers stopped for a moment, raised their helmets, had a brief, friendly chat that Lori couldn’t always follow because of the heavy Newfoundland accent. When eyes turned to Lori, names came up in the conversation that she found exotic: Wavey, Flossie, Vonnie, Effie, Nimrod, Alpheus, Eldon, Eliol, Wit.
Lori couldn’t resist the temptation to photograph an elderly couple on a snowmobile together, happily united by the chore of laying in wood for the winter. She got enthusiastic permission from both, along with a blend of pride and curiosity.
Before the couple left, the wife shouted to Lori, “Keep the bed nice and warm for him tonight!”
Lori looked at Noah. “Did she really say that?”
He pretended to be working on his helmet. “Probably. People say things like that. Doesn’t mean anything.”
Lori shook her head. “She looked like such a conservative old lady.”
Noah impatiently slapped the rear seat.
“It’s the way in these parts. Meant as a joke. We’ll certainly hear lots more of it. Come on, up there ahead, you can drive the thing yourself on the pond.”
For Newfoundlanders, Lori discovered, a pond meant not a small pool, but a lake. Lori crossed the smooth, frozen surface with relative ease, but cautiously, after Noah had explained the machine’s levers and switches. Because it was going so well, she made another circle around the pond, going faster
She took pictures of five dead coyotes dangling from a wooden frame like lynched outlaws in a Western, their hind legs lashed together. Noah explained that the provincial government had set a bounty on coyotes—“just a few measly dollars”—because they endangered other animals on the island, especially the caribou herds.
“What happened to their eyes?” she asked.
“Crows or gulls must’ve pecked them out.”
Lori turned away with a shudder.
The snowmobile had a sled for firewood in tow, with a chain saw and a rifle. Lori was relieved to discover that the barrel pointed to the rear. Polar bears crossed her mind, but she didn’t want to show any fear.
Probably a lot of people in Stormy Cove had hunting rifles.
Back in the high school library, she had quickly skimmed through her e-mails and casually remarked to the friendly librarian that Noah would be taking her to the Barrens. Just to be safe.
She hastily slipped her numb fingers into her mittens, mounted the machine, and Noah sped away. She held on tightly to the side grips so she wouldn’t be thrown off. The machine bounced over bumps and hollows; her back absorbed the thuds. She’d be stiff and sore and exhausted in bed that night.
“Everything OK?” Noah shouted back from time to time. Only the camera bag separated them.
They mounted the crest of a hill, and the houses of Stormy Cove fell out of sight. Noah followed a gently curving, well-traveled trail. The sun disappeared behind some clouds and a pale light fell on the plain before them, casting a unique enchantment over the barren landscape.
So those were the Barrens. Tundra. A swampy, high plateau with sparse vegetation—just as her guidebook had promised. So completely different from the lush rainforest on the West Coast.
Lori raised her visor to get a better look. But her eyes were used to mountains and forests; she couldn’t get her bearings on this flat terrain where the endless whiteness was only broken by the dark lines of stone ridges laid bare by the biting wind. Treetops poked out of the snow in several places, as if pleading for release from the snowdrifts threatening to bury them.
A merciless landscape. But Lori felt oddly moved—fascinated by that forbidding terrain she couldn’t define. She felt herself struggling to comprehend something important, but it kept eluding her.
The trails in the snow frequently crisscrossed, and Lori was mystified by how Noah knew the way. Twice, a snowmobile rose up out of nowhere with its own sled in tow. The drivers stopped for a moment, raised their helmets, had a brief, friendly chat that Lori couldn’t always follow because of the heavy Newfoundland accent. When eyes turned to Lori, names came up in the conversation that she found exotic: Wavey, Flossie, Vonnie, Effie, Nimrod, Alpheus, Eldon, Eliol, Wit.
Lori couldn’t resist the temptation to photograph an elderly couple on a snowmobile together, happily united by the chore of laying in wood for the winter. She got enthusiastic permission from both, along with a blend of pride and curiosity.
Before the couple left, the wife shouted to Lori, “Keep the bed nice and warm for him tonight!”
Lori looked at Noah. “Did she really say that?”
He pretended to be working on his helmet. “Probably. People say things like that. Doesn’t mean anything.”
Lori shook her head. “She looked like such a conservative old lady.”
Noah impatiently slapped the rear seat.
“It’s the way in these parts. Meant as a joke. We’ll certainly hear lots more of it. Come on, up there ahead, you can drive the thing yourself on the pond.”
For Newfoundlanders, Lori discovered, a pond meant not a small pool, but a lake. Lori crossed the smooth, frozen surface with relative ease, but cautiously, after Noah had explained the machine’s levers and switches. Because it was going so well, she made another circle around the pond, going faster
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