Route Map   Weather Map   Daily Journal         Q & A   Special Reports   Education Section           The Game Click here to send the Viking adventurers your questions		Labrador at last! Date: Sunday, August 16, 1998 Author: John Abbott Lat/Lon: 59.47 N, 64.03 W Location: False Bay, Labrador! Weather: 40 degrees F and overcast, no wind Sightings: Murres, pilot whales & polar bear! Click on the pictures below to view enlargements. A pair of ringed seals, a gaggle of diving murres and an overly inquisitive polar bear (swimming toward us with purpose) bore witness to our arrival back in North America earlier this evening. While technically Baffin Island is part of the North American continent, Rob Stevens deftly observed that, having landed in Labrador, we could hitchhike back to New England now, should anything go afoul with Snorri. Terry, Rob and Doug look toward our first anchorage in continental North America. The Tourngat Mountains rise in the background.   Having sailed for 36 hours, covering close to 150 miles since leaving the Kane Channel on Baffin Island yesterday morning, Snorri seems no worse for the wear. The rudder seems to be functioning well and has withstood consistent - and erratic - swell vectors during our meeting with the tidal rush into Hudson Bay last night. Loathed by seafarers for centuries, the mouth of the Hudson presents tidal flows near 7 knots, and rough navigating when traveling with oppositional winds. While we were tossed a good bit, this tidal flow helped speed us along on our southerly course. Snorri all aclutter after our unexpected all-night crossing of the Hudson Strait. Time to dry out.   The mood onboard this afternoon was celebratory, as the sun appeared at intervals to light the black-lichened buttresses and massifs of the Northern Labrador coastal mountain range towering over our soon-to-be anchorage in False Bay. The Tourngat Mountains are characterized by smooth and rolling peaks worn by past glacial advances, some peaks rising to nearly 6,000 feet above the sea. Down their steep flanks run deeply gouged runnels peppered with blocky granite. Fields of scree and moraine empty finally to the sea and valleys below. Slide paths from avalanches resulting from deep winter's snow are evident everywhere. As with Baffin Island, this inhospitable appearance is both vexing and attractive to the eye and the imagination. Save for the encouraging populations of walrus, seal and polar bear that roam these waters, these barren scapes look plainly mysterious. Haunting, clouded peaks stand like defiant ancients until warmed by rays of scattered sun...or the brilliant orange/rosy skies that fade to indigos and greens upon setting. In a few of the leeward valleys, grasses fight to grow. These were not encouraging signs for Vikings in search of timber and farmland. The crew was discussing the number of milestones we've reached over the past two days as we've crossed into the 50-degree parallel of latitude for the first time since our departure from Brattahild last July. Hodding believes we are likely the first Viking ship to have visited the shores of Baffin Island in the past 800 years. While we fancy that it's our teamwork that has allowed for successful crossings, Erik seems to feel otherwise. "Relax, God is in control" adorns the shoulders of his Mustang suit. While endlessly waiting for winds and weather during our two summers aboard Snorri, this proclamation sure put some perspective on time (as well as why the Greenlandic Vikings chose not to return to settle). We also celebrated (with two clips of chocolate Hob Nobs...boy, we're living now!) the fact that we have the crossing of the Davis and Hudson Straits - two of the most ominous sailing parts of our journey - behind us now. Lastly, as I sit here in the dark with the northern lights gathering green steam in the clear and starry sky overhead, we find ourselves more than 2/3 of the way toward our goal of reaching the shores of Vinland - 600 miles to the south as a crow flies. While we are in no way looking forward to the end of the number of incredible experiences and places we've shared, (with people, animals and each other) it is encouraging that we are now able to sail more predictably and make progress in larger steps. The quiet that exists here in the Canadian Arctic is remarkable, and brings with it a calmness that welcomes us to each bay and inlet we explore. Rob spoke this afternoon of the Labrador Sea in its heyday during the 17th century, when the Basque whalers would roam these waters each summer for bowhead and right whales, thousands of miles from their homes in Portugal. 1,400 whaling ships would converge in a single season in these waters, hoping to reap the harvest of riches: oil, ambergris and baleen. Tonight, all is quiet. The northern lights have shimmered and faded. I've got to wake up Homer for anchor watch and happily report that our bear friends are sleeping on shore as deeply as I will be. Top of page