Hiking the Long Range Traverse

The Alaska of the East. Stephen Jermanok, Backpacker, October 2003.

Whoever said everything's bigger in Texas hasn't been to Gros Morne National Park. Here on the western edge of Newfoundland, a 3-hour flight from New York and Boston, the land is rugged enough to give Alaska - never mind the Lone Star State - a run for its money.

Case in point: At the outset from my trek across the Long Range Mountains, I'm greeted by Western Brook Pond, a 10-mile long glacial lake where waterfalls shoot furiously down narrow cliff walls into deep, blue waters. The tallest falls are four times higher than Niagara. Skidding across the surface by boat to the trailhead, I experience what the locals term a summer shower. Dark clouds unleash a brief but violent rainstorm that pelts my body, thumps against my pack, and causes the pond to froth.

Caribou on the Long Range Mountains Brimming with a combination of quartzite rock and boggy, wildlife rich wetlands, the Long Range Mountains are one of the last remnants of pristine wilderness on the East Coast. No roads, no power lines. The only signs of humanity I'll see for 4 days are the dock and the two little used lean-tos.

The Long Range Traverse is a 22-mile semicircular route of unmanicured trails that requires freshly tuned map and compass skills. Here's why: Woodland caribou and moose so far outnumber backpackers that their paths have created a confusing web of look-alike trails. You'll find your way though - or get joyously lost exploring an ancient route - but I've put my trust in Bob Hicks. A local guide with years of experience, Bob leads the way when trails fan out like spokes on a bike. And he knows Gros Morne's secrets: the best campsites and overlooks, and the hidden detours to glacier-carved fjords where more waterfalls tumble down and the views extend forever.

From Western Brook Pond, we climb 2,000 feet to the cliff top where the waterfalls roar so loudly, we think the reverberation might shake us off the edge. Before long, we stand in a patch of shoulder-high ferns and segues into a glen as green as billiard felt.

Up top, we catch our first glimpse of the rain-soaked terrain we'll cross over the next few days: a mix of rolling hillside carpeted with peaty moss and glacial bowls that fill with water to create pond after anonymous pond. Bone tired, neither of us can resist the chance to jump into one of these ponds and refresh our weary muscles.

Scouting the best camp, we follow a young caribou that seems to wait for us before sprinting away. At another pass, 20-some caribou huddle together on a snow bank, warming in the sun. Looking around at the lush landscape - impossible greens and blues- we feel like wilderness gold rushers who've hit the jackpot of the East: as lush as any northwestern rainforest, as awe-inspiring as Alaska, and nearly as quiet, yet only a short trip from one of the biggest population centers in North America. I'd say it was too good to be true if I hadn't seen it myself.

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