The large, ten-deck-high car ferry Ala’suinu—whose name translates to "Traveler" in Mi’kmaq—operates daily routes between the Marine Atlantic terminal in North Sydney, Cape Breton, and Port-aux-Basques on the southwestern coast of Newfoundland. Spanning the 110-mile channel at the mouth of the Saint Lawrence River, the voyage cuts through rain, stiff winds, and dark skies, connecting one bleak port to another across waters steeped in maritime history.
For travelers looking to explore Canada’s easternmost reaches, the journey to Newfoundland typically begins with this maritime crossing. Known in geography and folklore as a vast, asymmetrical island cut through by deep bays and inlets, Newfoundland features a landscape scarred by ancient glaciers. The movement of these ice sheets left distinct glacial striations, grooves, and gouges across its exposed granite face. Historically celebrated for its rich folklore, ghost stories, eccentric characters, abundant fisheries, and the legendary warmth of its inhabitants, the island remains a distinct cultural enclave. Yet, casual conversations with locals in New Brunswick and Nova Scotia about upcoming travel plans to the province often elicit surprising responses. When asked if they have ever visited Newfoundland, the common reply is an unequivocal "Never." In contrast, when asked about destinations like Florida, many of those same individuals report having visited numerous times.
Negotiating the clammy back streets of the port at North Sydney, marked by scruffy bars and battered storefronts, the business of securing a ticket for both passenger and vehicle introduces a familiar type of travel friction. Unlike the seamless experiences found across much of Canada, this preliminary bureaucratic delay recalls the routine tedium often associated with international travel elsewhere. For the most part, traveling within Canada offers a marked absence of major inconveniences, threats, or severe uncertainties. Visitors rarely encounter armed youths, risky detours, demands for bribes, or infuriating systemic obstructions, finding instead a reliable welcome that often feels like a traveler’s dream.
Because the ferry does not depart until late evening and early check-ins are restricted, arriving in daylight leaves travelers with several hours to fill. Following a common local routine, visitors often find a corner table at the nearest Tim Hortons, sipping coffee among other waiting travelers. By mid-evening, drivers head to the ferry port, where efficient staff direct vehicles into designated lanes. Passengers wait in the terminal until the call is given to drive up the ramp and into the cavernous lower decks of the ship.
On this particular crossing, traditional berths and cabins are unavailable. Passengers pay a modest fare for a reclining seat in the sealed-off saloon section, sharing the space with children, pets, and weary travelers wrapped in the ambient sounds of snoring and the distinct scent of unshoed feet. This traditional, laborious style of travel explains why many locals in Nova Scotia rarely make the trip to Newfoundland. Below decks, the cargo consists largely of big rig trucks and workmen’s vans rather than tourist vehicles. A route chart posted on an upper deck illustrates the straight-line trajectory across the gaping estuary of the Saint Lawrence River, depicting Newfoundland as if it were detached and slowly drifting out into the open sea.
Despite the austere accommodations, passengers remain remarkably patient. Dressed in rumpled clothing, the crowd includes fat shaggy men, women in woolly hats, handsome boys, and winsome girls. They resemble a vast gathering of commuters heading to work—a reality for many on board, who include manual workers, students, truckers, and returning residents such as farmers, fishermen, and nurses. Approximately eight hours later, under gray daylight, a bilingual announcement directs passengers back to their vehicles. The ferry docks smoothly, allowing drivers to roll off the ramp and directly into Port-aux-Basques for breakfast.
Upon arrival, the visible aftermath of natural disasters is immediately apparent. At the Hotel Port aux Basques, manager Cathy Lomond notes the severe local impact of Hurricane Fiona, which struck in September 2022 and stands on record as the worst tropical storm ever to hit Canada.
"We lost a hundred and thirty houses to Fiona," Lomond explains, describing the ruinous look of parts of the town.
Months later, the town retains a windswept and scoured appearance. Simple saltbox houses and white-framed bungalows stand exposed against the elements, interspersed with a few shredded trees, the entire settlement anchored to a headland of striated granite.
"But we’re used to storms," Lomond says. "That was a bad one, but we got through it. Port aux Basques has community spirit, we know how to rebuild."
Lomond, the owner and general manager of the hotel, embodies a spirited and civic-minded local resilience. Standing roughly the height of her upright .270 caliber Remington rifle, she is both an energetic innkeeper and a passionate hunter. Each year, she applies for a Newfoundland and Labrador big-game license through a competitive lottery system that permits successful applicants to hunt black bears, caribou, and moose.
Offering a taste of slow-cooked moose meat in gravy, Lomond remarks, "Moose is delicious." Sampling the animal for the first time, visitors often find themselves recalling Henry David Thoreau’s assessment in The Maine Woods, where he described moose meat as tasting "like tender beef, with perhaps more flavor—sometimes like veal."
Throughout conversations with locals, a recurring theme is the unique cultural identity of Newfoundland. While residents of neighboring Prince Edward Island claim a similarly distinct heritage, Newfoundlanders have endured a history marked by profound isolation and hardship, shaping a landscape and a people unlike any other found in the rest of Canada. The province retains its own linguistic rhythms, with peculiar accents varying distinctly from one district to another. Having remained a British colony until it joined Confederation in 1949, the province holds a living memory of British rule, inspiring mixed sentiments ranging from resentment of its imperiousness to a lingering nostalgia for its absence.
Newfoundland’s ecology is equally singular, featuring its own distinct folklore, culinary traditions, and wildlife distributions. Raccoons, skunks, and porcupines are entirely unknown on the island. While the rest of Canada is home to various rattlesnakes and vipers, Newfoundland hosts no snakes at all, save for the harmless garter snake. Tree-dwelling rodents like red squirrels—sometimes locally termed "tree rats"—were only introduced as recently as the 1960s, and the island has no native deer population.
"Newfies are special people," Lomond says, summarizing the local ethos. "The land is special too."
