Newfoundland’s a land that doesn’t just whisper its stories—it sings them. And in Episode 5 of season one of Adventures Unknown, that song carried me from the bustling trails of Corner Brook to the raw, breath-stealing beauty of Gros Morne National Park. I didn’t just visit this place—I lived it. And b’ys, it changed me.
Let me take you along.
There’s places in this world that look like they were sketched out in a dream and dropped straight onto the Earth—and Gros Morne is one of ‘em.
When I first laid eyes on her, I knew I wasn’t just looking at another national park. I was looking at something ancient. Something vast. Something that don’t just sit pretty for your photos but reaches in and rearranges you.
Gros Morne National Park—she’s the crown jewel of Newfoundland’s west coast, and rightly so. A UNESCO World Heritage Site, if you don’t mind, carved by time, tectonics, and glacial patience. She’s got everything: towering fjords that rise like stone cathedrals, valleys painted with moss and wildflowers, bare orange mountains from a time before trees even existed, and quiet coves where the water’s so still it feels like it’s holding its breath.
She’s rugged, sure—but not in a way that keeps you out. She invites you in. Whispers to your boots to walk further, coaxes your lungs to breathe deeper, and dares your heart to stretch wider.
People come here from all over the world—to hike, to paddle, to stand on Tablelands rock that once sat deep inside the earth, now pushed up to where we mortals can lay a hand on it. They come for moose sightings, for alpine flowers, for the quiet of Ten Mile Pond or the wild echo of Western Brook Gorge. But what they really come for—even if they don’t know it yet—is to remember what it feels like to be small in the best kind of way.
So when Adventures Unknown brought me here, I knew I wasn’t just passin’ through—I was stepping into a story bigger than myself. And lucky for me, I had two of the best guides a fella could ask for.
Beckie and Alex—two local legends in their own right—were waiting for me on the edge of Bonne Bay, grins wide, energy sparkin’ like a campfire in the wind. And before I could ask what was next, we were zipping across the water in their Zodiac boat, heading straight into the wild heart of Gros Morne.
I left Corner Brook early that morning with a sense that something big was about to happen. The city faded behind me like a dream at first light, replaced by open sky and the slow, sweeping pull of the west coast highway. Every turn in the road felt like it was leading me somewhere sacred. And it was.
Because when I landed at the edge of Bonne Bay and met up with Beckie and Alex, the real journey began.
Now, let me tell ya about these two—if there’s such a thing as outdoor royalty in Newfoundland, Beckie and Alex wear the crown. They’re not just weekend wanderers. They’re wild-hearted explorers who’ve carved their lives into the rugged edge of this national treasure. They’ve paddled every bay, hiked every peak, and slept under stars most of us have only seen on postcards. They don’t visit the outdoors—they belong to it.
They greeted me with wide grins, wind-tangled hair, and the kind of light in their eyes that says they’ve seen things most people never even imagine. And behind them? A sleek Zodiac boat bobbin’ on the water like it couldn’t wait to go.
“We’re goin’ for a spin,” Alex said with a wink.
“Hope you brought your sense of adventure,” Beckie added.
And just like that, we were off.
The engine roared to life, and we slid across Bonne Bay, the bow slappin’ the waves, sea spray hittin’ us square in the face. It was cold, sharp, and perfect—like nature givin’ you a slap to say, “Wake up, b’y! This is the good stuff!”
The wind tugged at our jackets like a playful ghost tryin’ to steal us off the boat, and I couldn’t stop grinnin’. Gros Morne started risin’ up around us—massive fjord-like cliffs towerin’ over the water, their faces streaked with ancient scars and mossy secrets. The spruce-covered slopes rolled down like green velvet, touched by gold from the morning sun. It was like ridin’ through a live-action painting that some giant had made just to show off.
You don’t just see Gros Morne—you feel her. In your chest. In your bones. Like the land is hummin’ a tune older than time, and your heart somehow knows the words.
We zipped past the ghostly skeletons of long-abandoned outport communities—weathered docks, crumblin’ wharves, cabins with no doors but plenty of soul. You could almost hear the echo of boots on wood, the laughter of kids, the clang of fishin’ gear. These places may be empty now, but they’re not forgotten. They’re tucked into the land like old love letters, and Beckie pointed out every one like she was introducing us to family.
And then—just when I figured the day couldn’t possibly give us more—it did.
Out of nowhere, a great shimmering boil of water rose beside us. Then the surface broke, and there they were: dolphins. A whole pod of ‘em, maybe thirty strong, burst out of the bay like a curtain call. They jumped and twisted, dove and darted, sleek silver shapes dancing on the blue, ridin’ our wake like we’d been invited to their party.
I swear, time stopped. We all let out this involuntary cheer, like little kids who’d just spotted magic for the first time. And honestly? That’s what it felt like. Like magic. Like joy got loose in the water and turned into dolphins just to remind us what it means to feel alive.
One of ‘em came up close—real close—locked eyes with me, and I swear on Nan’s raisin buns, that dolphin winked. Whether it did or not, I don’t care. I felt it.
The sun caught the spray and turned it to gold. The cliffs glowed. The whole bay held its breath. And me? I just stood there holdin’ the rope, heart racin’, thinkin’ how lucky I was to be part of this moment, this day, this wild corner of the world that keeps on givin’ when you least expect it.
After our wild ride around Bonne Bay—dolphins, wind, waves, and wonder—you’d think the day had already peaked. But Newfoundland’s got this funny way of keepin’ the good times rollin’. And in Gros Morne, every moment seems to fold into the next like the pages of your favourite book—one you never want to end.
Back on land, Beckie and Alex led me down a little footpath that curved through windswept grass and opened up onto their oceanfront stage. A place that smells like salt, cedar, and whatever’s cooking on the grill. The view stretched out like a living postcard—mountains draped in spruce, cliffs standing guard, and the sea glitterin’ like it knew all your secrets.
They passed me a big, steaming enamel mug of strong, black tea, and let me tell ya—after a few hours of saltwater and sea spray, that first sip felt like a hug from the inside out. Not just warmth, but comfort. The kind that sinks into your bones and tells you you’re exactly where you need to be.
We sat down on benches worn smooth from stories, and for a little while, we didn’t say much. Just sipped, smiled, and soaked in the stillness. The wind rattled the spruce branches overhead, the water lapped gently at the rocks, and a gull gave us a half-hearted squawk from the shoreline.
Then, over another cup, Beckie leaned in and said, “Can you imagine what life was like for the fishermen out here a hundred years ago?”
And just like that, the tea turned into time travel.
We started talking—really talking—about the old days. About the men who rose with the ice in their beards and rowed into the grey dawn, haulin’ traps, mending nets, and livin’ by the tide. About the women who kept the fires goin’, salted the catch, and held the homes together through storms and silence.
Alex said, “It’s wild to think how much they endured—and how little they had—but they still laughed, sang, and shared everything they owned.”
I nodded, feelin’ the tea settle in me chest like a prayer. “Hard life,” I said. “But maybe a richer one, in ways we’ve forgotten.”
We stared out at the same stretch of sea those old fishers once knew by heart, and I swear, for a second, I felt them there with us—watchin’, noddin’, passin’ the teapot.
Now, a good cup of tea is one thing. But what came next? That was art.
Lunch was more than a meal. It was a celebration of everything Newfoundland has to offer—wild, fresh, thoughtful, and made with hands that understand the land.
First up: moose burger sliders. Juicy, rich, and grilled to perfection, stacked on fresh buns with tangy slaw and a smear of horseradish mayo that kicked like a caplin on the line. One bite and I was hooked. The kind of bite that makes you close your eyes and go mmm without even meaning to.
Then came the showstopper surprise: mussel pizza, straight from their stone oven, topped with plump, briny mussels and a wild drizzle of local honey that shouldn’t have worked—but did. Oh, b’ys, did it ever. Sweet met savoury, land met sea, and my taste buds just sat back and clapped.
And just when I thought I couldn’t eat another bite—out came dessert.
Toutons, golden and crispy on the outside, pillowy soft on the inside, stacked high and slathered with blueberry jam and blackstrap molasses. I nearly wept. That sweet-sticky combo hit like a memory of childhood Sunday mornings and warm kitchens full of laughter. I took one bite, then another, then forgot my manners entirely.
Beckie laughed and said, “You okay there, Donny?”
I just nodded, cheeks full, grinning like a stunned cod. “I’m more than okay,” I said. “This might be the best day of my life.”
And I wasn’t kidding.
Stuffed full from our seaside feast—still dreamin’ of moose sliders and sticky toutons—Alex turned to me with that glint in his eye that always means trouble… or treasure.
“Wanna see a hole in the ground that’ll knock the socks off ya?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. Next thing I knew, we were tearin’ through the tangled wilds of Gros Morne in his Polaris side-by-side, tires throwin’ up mud and moss, the engine screamin’ like a banshee in the trees. Wind howlin’, branches whippin’, and me hangin’ on with one hand and trying not to lose me lunch with the other. It was a ride and a half, b’ys—and that was before we even got there.
Now, I’d heard about the Loman Sinkhole before. But nothing—and I mean nothing—prepared me for what I saw when we pulled up to the edge.
It wasn’t just a hole.
It was a void.
A monstrous, gaping wound in the earth, torn open by time and tectonic fury, droppin’ away like the throat of the world itself. The air around it was different—colder, charged, like nature was holding its breath.
And then I heard it.
The roar.
A waterfall—a massive one—crashin’ down from the upper rim of the sinkhole to the shadowy depths below, poundin’ against rock with a fury that shook the very ledge we stood on. Water hurled itself over the cliff like it had a vendetta, slammin’ into the ancient stone with the force of a thousand hammers. Mist rose like smoke, the sound was deafening, and my whole body felt like it was vibrating in tune with the land.
We looked at each other. No words. Just that grin again from Alex—the “follow me if ya dare” kind.
Down we went.
We scrambled and slid, grabbing onto roots and jagged outcroppings, our boots slippin’ on damp lichen and loose shale. It wasn’t just a climb—it was a battle. A raw, thrilling, bone-rattlin’ descent into the raw heart of Newfoundland.
Halfway down, I put my weight on the wrong rock—it dislodged and tumbled past Alex’s head with a crash that echoed off the walls like cannon fire. Missed him by inches.
He just looked up, smilin’. “Bit close, buddy.”
But we kept going, the thunder of the falls growing louder with every step, ‘til finally—we hit bottom.
And b’ys, let me tell ya… I’ve never felt so small.
The waterfall was a wall of white fury, screaming down from the heavens and exploding into a pool of shattered light and foam. The spray soaked us instantly, cold and pure, and the rocks around us trembled under the weight of that eternal plunge. Water hit stone, and stone stood its ground—like two ancient gods locked in an endless brawl.
And there we were—two specs of dust watching the show.
The air was thick with mist and magic, and the ground smelled of soaked moss, crushed fern, and secrets older than speech. It wasn’t peaceful—it was powerful. This was nature yellin’ at the top of her lungs, telling us, “I am here, I am wild, and I do not wait for you.”
And yet… there was beauty.
Boisterous, brutal, breath-stealing beauty.
I stood there, soakin’ wet and completely humbled, feelin’ the ancient heartbeat of the land pulsing through my boots. Alex and I didn’t talk much down there—we didn’t need to. The earth was doin’ the talkin’.
And all I could think was—this is why we adventure. Not for photos. Not for braggin’ rights. But to stand in places like this, where the world strips you bare and hands you wonder.
After surviving the wild descent into the Loman Sinkhole and shaking off the waterfall mist like a half-drowned puffin, Alex gave me a grin, pointed up the trail, and said, “Time for a different kind of adventure.”
He dropped me off at a cabin so hidden in the woods it might’ve been built by fairies—or by some woodsman with a strong back and no interest in being found. It was a crooked little gem with moss on the roof, smoke curling from the stovepipe, and trees so thick around it they felt like they were keeping secrets from the wind. The kind of place that disappears off maps and shows up in dreams.
No electricity. No Wi-Fi. No distractions. Just a cot, a kettle, and a big ol’ sky full of possibility.
And as if the universe wanted to make sure I didn’t get lonely, this lanky stray dog trotted into camp like he owned the deed to the property. Skinny legs, big ears—one of ‘em bent sideways like he’d been in a scrap or two—and eyes that looked straight into your soul, then winked like, “Alright, what’s for supper?”
I named him Jemmy, because of course I did. And from that moment on, he was my sidekick, shadow, trail scout, and occasionally, my therapist.
Now here’s the thing: we spend most of our lives scrolling, rushing, checking things off lists that never end. But here? At this little cabin, deep in the bones of Gros Morne? Time slowed to a crawl—and for once, I didn’t fight it. And for the first time in many years I found my way back to that beautiful feeling of boredom. It was magnificent!
I woke up with the birds, and let me tell ya, there were a lot of ‘em. Jays, robins, warblers I couldn’t name but admired just the same. I sat on the cabin step with a tin mug of tea, watching them flit through the trees like notes on a music sheet only nature knows how to read. Every once in a while, one would land close and look me over like, “You’re not from ‘round here, are ya?”
Jemmy the dog, of course, had no time for quiet contemplation. The second I sat still, he’d bolt into the woods like his tail was on fire—and I’d chase him, laughin’ and crashin’ through the underbrush like a full-grown fool with a full heart. We played tag with the squirrels. We tried (and failed) to sneak up on a rabbit. We lay in the moss and watched the clouds till they turned to stars.
Midday, I’d make lunch over the fire. Just bread and some boiled-up tea. Alex had left me some moose stew that stuck to my ribs and soothed my soul, cooked low and slow in a battered tin pot that smelled like five seasons of memories.
Evenings were my favourite.
The pond at the edge of the woods sat there like a mirror to heaven, barely a ripple on its surface. I slid the old kayak off the bank and let it glide out into the stillness, Jemmy watching me from shore like a lifeguard with paws. I floated through lily pads and into dusk, until I was feeling the world fall away.
No cars. No buzz. No pings or dings. Just the soft dip of my paddle, the loon’s call in the distance, and the slow realization that this—this total stillness—was what I’d been chasing all along.
I’d sit in that kayak in the middle of the pond until the sun slipped behind the treetops and painted the sky with a hundred shades of fire and blush. Then I’d paddle back slowly, Jemmy waggin’ at the dock, and we’d sit by the fire as the stars came out—real stars, not the kind that get lost in city light. Stars that actually twinkle.
I’d talk to Jemmy like he was a person. He’d tilt his head and listen like one. And sometimes, I’d fall asleep still wearing my boots, fire burnin’ low, heart wide open.
What I found out there wasn’t boredom—not really.
What I found was peace.
A kind of peace you can’t buy, can’t schedule, can’t even explain. You have to go out there and live it. And I did.
And b’ys, I’ll never be the same.
After a couple nights off the grid—tea in the tin cup, stars overhead, Jemmy snoring at my feet—I figured I’d found all the stillness and wonder a man could ask for – for now anyways. But Gros Morne wasn’t finished with me.
I started feeling it one morning. A tug. A whisper in the bones.
“Donny,” it said, quiet but clear. “You ain’t done yet.”
And that whisper had a name: The Tablelands.
You don’t just look at the Tablelands—you feel them. They rise in the distance like the spine of a sleeping giant, a burnt orange wasteland that doesn’t match the rest of Newfoundland’s green patchwork. It’s like someone dropped a chunk of Mars right in the middle of the West Coast. No trees. No softness. Just raw, rust-coloured rock scorched by time, carved by fire and ice, and older than the Atlantic itself.
The Tablelands aren’t pretty in the traditional way. They’re powerful. Stark. Honest. They don’t pander. They demand.
And I had to go.
Jemmy escorted me part of the way out of the woods—then he gave me the side-eye about it, we both knew this was a walk I had to do alone.
Right off the bat, I knew this wasn’t gonna be a casual Sunday stroll. The trail is loose and uneven, with sharp climbs that bite into your legs, and long exposed ridgelines where the wind comes at you sideways like it’s got somethin’ to prove. There’s no shade. No comfort. No guardrails.
Just you and the bones of the planet.
Every step was a test—ankles rollin’, sweat pourin’, lungs burnin’. But the pain made it real. The silence up there is the kind that echoes. Not empty—just honest. It’s the kind of silence that strips the clutter from your mind, one thought at a time, until all that’s left is your breath, your footsteps, and the steady, ancient voice of the Earth sayin’:
“You’re walkin’ on my soul.”
I paused often—not just to catch my breath, though Lord knows I needed to—but to feel it. To run my hand over the serpentinite rock, its surface the colour of old copper and iron, dry and dusty like it hadn’t seen rain in a thousand years. This rock came from deep inside the Earth’s mantle—ripped from the underworld and thrust into the sky. It’s not just geology. It’s a story. A fight. A reminder that even the strongest things break—and that sometimes, from the breakin’ comes beauty.
The higher I climbed, the smaller I felt. But not in a bad way. In the best way. Like I was being put back in my place—in the lineup of time, of scale, of wonder.
And then, after hours of strain, sweat, and stumblin’, I reached the summit.
And I’ll never forget what I saw.
Below me, Gros Morne unfolded like a sacred scroll. Valleys dipped and stretched into the horizon. Bonne Bay glittered far off, where dolphins had danced just days before. The Long Range Mountains rolled like waves frozen in time. The sea kissed the sky at the edges, and the wind—oh b’y, the wind—screamed and whispered all at once, runnin’ its fingers through my hair and across the stones like it was proud of me for makin’ it.
I stood there, alone, arms wide, feelin’ like I’d made it to the roof of Newfoundland.
And for a moment—I wasn’t thinking about cameras or episodes or shotlists.
I was thinking about how far I’d come.
Not just today, but in life. From noisy cities and crowded schedules, from worry and noise and the endless tick of time. I’d chased a feeling—and I’d found it. Right there on the Tablelands, where the Earth shows its bones and dares you to listen.
I stayed there a long while. Wind in my face. Heart overflowing—from something deeper. Something real.
And when I finally turned to make my way down, I knew I was carrying more than memories.
I was carrying a piece of this land in my soul.
I came to Gros Morne lookin’ for adventure. What I found was more than cliffs, more than dolphins, more than a sinkhole or a tableland summit.
I found space.
Space to breathe, to think, to feel. Space to get lost and find pieces of myself I didn’t know were missing. Space to remember that not all silence is empty. Some of it is everything.
Thank you, Gros Morne. Thank you, Beckie and Alex. Thank you, Jemmy.
Catch ya on the next one,
Donny Love
Forever a little smaller, and a little more whole, thanks to Gros Morne.
Full Episode: By Donny Love | Adventures Unknown | Season 1, Episode 5
