View from the Hill

I may be city slicker to some, but I’m also one determined homesteader with a stubborn streak the likes of which can only come from my Newfoundland genetics, and said streak stood me in good stead today.

My partner is down (and I mean down) with what we genuinely suspect is the Norfolk virus. Yesterday he was in bad shape, but this morning saw him completely out of the game. And so that left yours truly at the helm.

If it were only a matter of standing on the bridge, it wouldn’t be a problem, but captaining this ship means tackling unenviable tasks like chopping wood and servicing the generator. But hey, I signed on as second in command, so after lighting the morning fire, I headed for the woodpile.

It took me several goes before I got into the ‘swing’ of things. Splitting hardwood is like splitting concrete if you don’t hit the grain right; this I immediately discovered…the axe simply bounces right back at you. That is, if you manage to hit the wood in the first place. I admit to missing completely on the first few tries, which left me stumbling under my own momentum. It also really pissed me off. Bested by a piece of dead wood? I don’t think so.

I attacked with a new level of determination.

When the first junk finally came apart, I realized how very empowering chopping wood can be. There’s something infinitely satisfying in the sound of wood giving way beneath the axe, the clinking sound of a split breaking free, the clunk of the axe as it bites into the block. And there’s something comfortably reassuring in being able to chop the wood that gives us heat and sustains life. After thirty minutes or so I had a stack of hardwood splits and a fine sense of personal accomplishment.

Now for the engine that powers the ark. I located the dip stick, checked the oil and topped it up. It took two hands to lift the gas can, and the quivering of my arm muscles would have measured on the Richter scale, but I managed to get it gassed up. Of course our generator wouldn’t be a key start model—nothing so easy—so I was fairly hopping up and down with glee when she rumbled to life on the first pull. Power to the people!

And power to me.

After today I’m assured that if I ever have to sail the ship by myself (heaven forbid), I’ll be all right. There’s nothing that a good dose of Newfoundland pluck can’t accomplish, even for a city slicker.

So can I chop wood? Can I start a generator? Can I move a mountain? Of course I can, I’m a Newfie!

We’ve never known people like the people here. To begin with, they’re unbelievably friendly and unfailingly kind-hearted. When we first arrived on the hill, we were gifted with everything from work clothes to free welding. Our mailbox post was a gift, as was the roof bracket that secures our stovepipe, and oftentimes our dinner was compliments of a kind neighbour. When we ran out of wood our first winter, a team of snowmobiles arrived, firewood in tow, driven by concerned individuals who, like everyone here it seems, expected nothing in return for their quite substantial efforts.

Simply amazing…an experience so rare as to be priceless in our city-dwelling existence. And I have to say that in the face of such kindness and generosity, I was—and am—filled with great pride to be able to stand up and say “I am a Newfoundlander”.

We have learned that life can be very harsh in rural Newfoundland. The weather is extreme, the land itself is untamed and the living is often difficult. Yet, though they have known the hardest of conditions, Newfoundlanders are an easy-going lot, quick to laugh and always ready to celebrate life. And while they are fiercely proud and protective of a distinct culture that is theirs alone, they nonetheless welcome the stranger as a friend.

Perhaps it’s the longstanding need to pull together for survival that engenders such spontaneity and acceptance and the willingness to lend a hand. Or perhaps it’s got to do with being surrounded by water and more or less forgotten by the world. Whatever the reason, the inhabitants of this island are a breed apart

We’re thrilled to be counted among them.