The Viking Trail: Stories of the Great Northern Peninsula

By Adrian Payne

Adrian Payne spent more than fifty years guiding and hunting on the Great Northern Peninsula. The Vikings, who came to the shores of Newfoundland in the 11th century, hunted caribou and trapped fur-bearing animals in this rugged, untamed wilderness. Generations later, outfitters like Adrian Payne believe they are walking in the footsteps of these legendary Norsemen, and here he pays homage to them with stories of adventure and daring rescue in the wild.

When the Vikings overwintered in the New World, specifically in Newfoundland, they had truly found paradise. The ocean was full of cod and other species, and the rivers teemed with salmon and trout. The forest was full of fur-bearing animals. There were shiploads of timber to take back to their homeland, and the mountains were plentiful with thousands of caribou.

Why the Vikings didn't stay in Vinland, as they called the island of Newfoundland, is anyone's guess. The decision to leave may have been influenced by the natives, who continually attacked them while they slept. It is believed by many that some of them stayed behind and married into the Innu and Inuit cultures in Labrador.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Flanker Press
• Release date: Sep 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9781774571606

Adrian Payne

Adrian Payne was born in Parson’s Pond on the Great Northern Peninsula on November 11, 1940. His parents were Jack (John H.) Payne and Lucy Keough. He lived there until the age of four when his parents moved the family to Hawke’s Bay, where his father was employed with the Corner Brook Pulp and Paper Company. In the 1950s they moved to his father’s hometown, Cow Head. Except for living in Toronto for just four years, Adrian has resided in Cow Head, where he remains today with his wife, Carol (Darrigan) Payne, of fifty-five years. Adrian Payne entered the workforce as a logger with the Corner Brook Pulp and Paper Company at the tender age of fifteen. Upon his return from Toronto, he engaged in the fishery and spent the next thirty-five years as a commercial fisherman. While he was still a fisherman, he became an outfitter catering to non-resident big game hunters for nearly twenty-five years. In 2009, he and his wife retired.

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Cover image: The Viking Trail: Stories of the Great NOrthern Peninsula by Adrian Payne. A aerial photograph showing the L'Anse Aux Meadows Historic Site.

Contents

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Title page

Copyright

Introduction

Boyhood Memories

It’s Only a Dream

Aliens from Outer Space

A Walk in Their Boots: Two Men and the Mountains

The Appalachian Trail to Harbour Deep

Along the Viking Trail

Where I Longed to Be:The Ghosts of the Vikings

The Vikings in Vinland

The Vikings’ Final Voyages to Newfoundland

The Next Generations of Vikings in the New World

A Word from the Author

About the Author

The Viking Trail: Stories of the Great Northern Peninsula

Adrian Payne

Flanker Press Limited

St. John’s

Copyright

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Title: The Viking trail : stories of the Great Northern Peninsula / Adrian Payne.

Names: Payne, Adrian, 1940- author.

Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 2023050163X | Canadiana (ebook) 20230501745 | ISBN 9781774571590 (softcover) | ISBN 9781774571606 (EPUB) | ISBN 9781774571613 (PDF)

Subjects: LCSH: Vikings—Newfoundland and Labrador—Great Northern Peninsula. | LCSH: Great Northern Peninsula (N.L.)—History.

Classification: LCC E105 .P39 2023 | DDC 970.01/3—dc23

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© 2023 by Adrian Payne

all rights reserved.

No part of the work covered by the copyright hereon may be reproduced or used in any form or by any means—graphic, electronic or mechanical—without the written permission of the publisher. Any request for photocopying, recording, taping, or information storage and retrieval systems of any part of this book shall be directed to Access Copyright, The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 800, Toronto, ON M5E 1E5. This applies to classroom use as well. For an Access Copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll-free to 1-800-893-5777.

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We acknowledge the [financial] support of the Government of Canada. Nous reconnaissons l’appui [financier] du gouvernement du Canada. We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts, which last year invested $153 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country. Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. L’an dernier, le Conseil a investi 153 millions de dollars pour mettre de l’art dans la vie des Canadiennes et des Canadiens de tout le pays. We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Newfoundland and Labrador, Department of Tourism, Culture, Arts and Recreation for our publishing activities.

Introduction

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Along the Viking Trail

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I was walking in my sleep counting troubles

Instead of counting sheep

Where the years went, I can’t say

I just turned around and they’ve gone away.

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This is the first verse of Across the Great Divide by Kate Wolf. This song grabbed me as soon as I heard it, and it fits my life very well. It reminds me of both my life while guiding on the Long Range Mountains for over fifty years and my childhood in the shadow of those mountains. I was a fairly happy boy while growing up, until I was about the age of ten or twelve, when I fell and hit my head on ice. That caused a bad concussion that lasted until I was twenty-one years old, which I’ll explain later on. That incident changed my life completely. It was one of many troubles I was counting in my sleep.

I guess my point here is that there are some things in life over which we have no control. Often, we keep fighting these things that happen, whether they be accidents or everyday events in our lives, like trying to get a better-paying job, the loss of a loved one, a better home for you and your family, family problems, and the list go on.

Sometimes it’s not until we’ve lived the better part of our lives that we accept these events and move on. We finally realize that we were fighting a losing battle on most things, that it really wasn’t worth the fight, anyway, and that our energies could have been put to better use.

Yet, there’s a very simple solution, although I don’t always practice what I preach. The only things you can change in life are yourself and your way of thinking. As I have often said, lucky is the person who realizes this when they are young. We must learn in life to accept the things that happen to us and deal with them in a positive manner. We, ourselves, more often than not, are the problem, but we are also the solution.

It took me the better half of my life to realize this and admit to myself that I was creating my own problems for the most part. Instead of concentrating on the positive, I was concentrating on the negative, and I was just making matters worse. If I had concentrated on the little things in my life that made me happy, it would have helped me overcome the negative thoughts, and perhaps helped me become a much better and happier person.

It’s like my wife said to me one time, it’s not what life throws at you but how you handle it. My youngest son also said to me when I was very unhappy because I wasn’t getting anywhere as mayor, Dad, if I am doing something that makes me unhappy, I don’t do it. I finally took their advice. There is always help out there somewhere from family and friends if we look for it.

Sometimes it takes a long time to change old habits, whether they are smoking, drinking, or even how you usually react to life’s challenges. If you encounter tragedies in your life, there is always hope to encourage you on. If you are a religious person, you have your faith to sustain you. To me, hope and faith are one and the same. No matter how difficult life becomes, I have always had the will to change things and will always find a way.

Many people turn to the following prayer for patience and peace. I turn to these words to inspire me to keep a positive outlook. I also recognize how essential it is—through these stories of life—searching for and often experiencing happiness, and finding peace.

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The Serenity Prayer

God grant me the serenity

to accept the things I cannot change,

courage to change the things I can,

and the wisdom to know the difference.

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This kind of wisdom has allowed me to find another book’s worth of stories within myself. Some of these stories contain more imagination than my previous works, but they are still based on my life growing up and living on the Northern Peninsula of Newfoundland. I still find myself on the mountainside; it’s where the rivers change direction across the great divide.

Boyhood Memories

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It was Sunday morning, and I awoke to a beautiful sunny day. When I came downstairs to the kitchen, Mom already had my breakfast cooked. As soon as I finished eating, I grabbed my cap and headed for the door. She asked where I was going in such a rush.

I am going over to Mr. Brown’s to meet up with Buck and my friends.

Okay. Just make sure you are home for Sunday dinner, she reminded me.

Yes, Mom, I love you, Mom, I said.

You too, son, she answered.

Away I went over to Mr. Brown’s. Dickey and John were already there and eager to begin the day, as was the norm for us boys on the weekend.

Good morning, my little blond-headed boy, Mrs. Brown greeted me. I felt embarrassed in front of my friends, and I wished she wouldn’t call me that. I would be turning eleven in November, and I felt I wasn’t a little boy anymore, but Mrs. Brown was always nice to me, so I quickly forgave her. Have you had your breakfast? she asked.

Yes, ma’am, I did, I replied. Thank you!

As we were leaving, she gave us her usual warning about staying clear of Rex’s Rock and the Crow’s Nest up in the cliffs.

As young boys, we really didn’t like breaking the rules that our mothers gave us, but boys will be boys. So, we swore to secrecy and headed out. With our arms around each other, we voiced our usual code of honour when we arrived at Rex’s Rock: Cross our hearts and hope to die, keep our secrets so our mothers won’t cry.

Once we were all on top of the rock, we looked down to the Big Field belonging to my grandfather, and who should we see but this fellow known as Bull with a couple of his friends.

Hurry, boys! Let’s get down before he sees us coming, I whispered.

When we got off the rock, we took off running out the Light House Trail, then on to the Old Path In and out to the Point of the Head. As a young boy, I was always fascinated with mountains—not to climb them, but to explore them in a different way. I always wanted to see what was over the next hill or in the next river valley. At this time, my good friends and I were around ten to twelve years old. We certainly tried our hand at rock climbing. Buck, Dick, John, and I were always together and always had our eyes on girls our age. The boys named me Captain, and I became the gang leader of the bunch. I used my middle name, James, after my grandfather.

There was another group of older boys in town well into their teenage years. Their leader, Andrew, was big and strong like an ox—he was the one everybody called Bull. He was the bully of the town, and we stayed clear of him whenever we could. Bull was always trying to pressure us into stealing cigarettes from the stores for him and would threaten to beat us up if we didn’t.

During one particular day, my buddies and I had gone trout fishing. We had caught fifteen or twenty nice trout in the Eastern Arm Brook. We were about to leave when we heard someone coming. We thought it was the river Guardian—the Department of Fisheries and Oceans name for Warden. This guardian was also a war veteran. Because we were up the river, inside the marks where we weren’t supposed to fish, we didn’t want to get caught.

To be certain it wasn’t the river Guardian, we took off and hid in the woods. While we peered out through the bushes, lo and behold, we saw that it was Bull and two of his friends. We came out of the woods but kept our distance from them.

Well, Bull said, thanks for the nice trout you guys caught for us.

We picked up our rods where we had dropped them before hiding in the woods. I said, These are not your trout. Give them back to us.

No, he said, we want three cigarettes besides the trout.

I said, We don’t have any, and if we did, you wouldn’t be getting them, anyway. Now, give us our trout so we can go home.

In the meantime, we were keeping our distance. If we had to run, we would have a head start and were pretty sure they wouldn’t catch us. We knew he wasn’t giving up the trout.

Get lost, he said.

I spat out the roughest insults I could muster as an eleven-year-old. Give us our trout, you overgrown big d___head. You’re like a big ox, and you have a big tail sticking out of your ass, you sh__bag.

This made him mad, and they ran toward us. We took off, and it wasn’t long before they gave up the chase. Yet Bull seemed to find us wherever we went. He was a real downer for us and only picked on people smaller than himself.

Out on The Head, there was a large rock which we called Rex’s Rock. It stood about twenty-five feet high, and because it was very smooth, it was more difficult to climb, but we always managed to make it to the top. As young boys, this was where you would probably find us on a Sunday afternoon. Otherwise, we might be giving our older brothers and their girlfriends a hard time. They were fourteen and fifteen years old. We would spend hours dogging (tormenting) our older brothers and their girlfriends. We would hide in the woods and behind the old barns.

Some of the fields might have a lean-to built near the woods where we could watch them smooching. We enjoyed hiding in the nearby woods where they couldn’t see us. We made sure there was no hanky-panky going on.

There was always something that we could blackmail them with, and we’d threaten to tell our parents if they didn’t comply. For our silence we would ask for a draw from a cigarette, or sometimes we’d demand a full cigarette for each of us.

When we would ask for a smoke, they’d first say, Get lost, you little squirts.

We’d answer, Well, we are telling our parents you were kissing and sucking face with the girls. If that didn’t work, we would up the ante a bit. Well, I am telling Mom that you had your right hand on Jenny’s tit.

If nothing else worked, we would wait around some corner at a distance with our pockets full of rocks. Then we would let them fly!

Buck was the quiet one in our group, but he was big and strong. We could count on him—he always had our backs if we got in trouble. He was tough—and deadly with rock and fist alike. Whenever we ran into our older brothers, we’d always ask them for a smoke. I guess this would really irritate them, but we didn’t care. Out came the pack, and they’d throw a full cigarette or two on the ground.

Here, you little bastards, take that before I ram it down your throats and make you puke. I hope when you get home that our mom will smell cigarette smoke on you and wash your mouth out with soap, you wimp. You guys keep this up and we are going to kill the four of you little bastards or get Bull to beat up all of you.

Ha, you can’t catch us, Dickey sang out.

And if you don’t stop bugging me, Captain Crunch, the next time I catch you on the wharf cutting out cod tongues, I’m going to get the town bully to beat you up. Then we’ll throw you and your cod tongues over the wharf! I will stand there and beat you on the fingers as you’re climbing up the ladder. I’ll continue to do this until you tell me you’re sorry and that you won’t do it again.

About two weeks later, on a Saturday, a bunch of us boys were cutting out cod tongues on the fisherman’s wharf when Clayton, my older brother, and Bull snuck up behind me. Clayton said, Will you apologize to me and say you won’t do it again?

I said, No, I won’t. I backed up, but there was nowhere to go except over the wharf. Bull grabbed me and easily threw me over. My bucket of cod tongues followed me.

I gave a deep sigh as I hit the cold water. When I could get my breath, I began to swear on them. You goddamn bastards! I hate the two of you! But that didn’t help my case.

That only had to happen once. I thought they were going to drown me. My older brother was true to his word, and as I climbed up the ladder, he hit me on the fingers, and down I went into the freezing water again. I told him I was going to tell Mom that he tried to drown me, but he didn’t relent. I was stubborn and didn’t want to give in, but I had no choice. I told him I was sorry and would not do it again. As we became a little older and they had thrown a few good scares into us, we decided to mend our ways a little and did things to attract the girls instead.

There was a path on the Head that was named the Old Path In, which led to the lighthouse. At that time, Jack Payne was the lighthouse keeper. My father’s name was also Jack Payne, so to distinguish between the two, they had nicknames: Lighthouse Jack and Stylish Jack. There were also two Gordon Paynes—one was Big Gordon, and the other, Little Gordon.

Just beyond the lighthouse, there was a cliff about a hundred feet high. From the ocean to the top, it was nearly upright. Approximately ten feet below the top, there was a ledge. The ledge extended out from the cliff about three feet and was about five feet in length. This place was called the Crow’s Nest and was tucked under the overhang.

Out at the Point of the Head there was another upright cliff that we boys liked to climb, but the most challenging for us to climb was the Crow’s Nest. Also, we’d try to climb there because the boys who could make it to the top were the ones who got the most attention from the girls, and we wanted to impress them.

Climbing the Crow’s Nest was a well-kept secret from our parents. As my mother would say, Now, I’m forewarning you boys, stay clear of the cliff! As you know, one poor man met his end when he fell over it. Yes, we did remember hearing about that tragedy. I believe the man’s name was Bill Parsons. As you can imagine, our next big challenge after getting past our parents was to climb up to the Crow’s Nest. We were very anxious to impress the girls and, of course, the older boys. Buck, being the boldest of our gang, volunteered to go first.

The rest of us watched every step he took while at the same time holding our breath. If Buck fell, it would be sure death on the rocks below! With this outcome strongly on my mind, I instructed Winky to take the piece of rope that he had picked up earlier, go back around to the Old Path In, and come out around to the top of the cliff. Then, Winky was to tie the rope to one of the trees and throw the other end down to the Crow’s Nest, so Buck would have a safety line up the steepest part of the climb. My last words to Winky were, Hurry up and run!

Buck was moving up nicely toward the Crow’s Nest. Winky wasn’t there yet. Dick asked, Where in the heck is Winky? He has been gone twenty minutes. As he spoke, Winky crawled out above us and looked down over the cliff. He threw the end of the rope down just before Buck reached the ledge.

When Buck reached the ledge, he stood up and waved to us as an old crow flew out of the nest. I shouted up at him as he looked in the nest. Great climb, Buck! Are there any eggs in the nest? He turned around and held up four fingers.

Before he left to go over the top, he took the four eggs and began throwing them down at us. Dickey caught one in his hand, but it splattered all over the front of his shirt