海角大神

Halfway up Route 430, on the northern tip of Newfoundland, the tiny town of Port au Choix is postcard perfect. Caribou graze at sunset at the Point Riche lighthouse, a pepper shaker-like structure that has been guiding ships through the area since the late 1800s.聽

Waves from the Gulf of St. Lawrence gnaw incessantly at the craggy coastline. Whales frolic in the cobalt waters, while seabirds flit in the salt winds overhead. In the town itself, barnacled shrimp boats bob in a protected harbor, and brightly colored houses cling to barrens that have witnessed 6,000 years of human history. It is a sonnet of rock and sea.聽

For the people who live here, self-reliance is a fact of life. Locals forage for berries and fish in the summer. They hunt moose that鈥檚 stored in freezers through the winter. No one panics if the power goes out for days 鈥� a not-infrequent occurrence.聽

But that resourcefulness has been tested to the limits over the years. Ever since the Canadian government banned cod fishing in 1992, the story of the province of Newfoundland and Labrador has been one of out-migration, decades of locals leaving their fishing communities for high-paying jobs, often to the tar sands of Alberta. Here the population has seen a nearly 40% decline in three decades. If once there were plenty of jobs and services to support a bustling workforce, now residents accept hourslong drives for basic care and know that if a showerhead breaks, they are on their own to fix it.聽

鈥淧eople here are good at surviving; they are not good at understanding how to thrive,鈥� says Rachel Atkins, who lives in Port au Choix. 鈥淭here has to be a cultural shift to make that happen.鈥�

And that鈥檚 why she has joined a group of residents building a regional collective for communities that will offer a range of services, from massage and acupuncture to community kitchens and community radio. It鈥檚 an effort to draw in residents and keep others here 鈥� and counter the narrative that these aging communities don鈥檛 have the resilience to adapt. It鈥檚 a rebellion against the idea that a centuries-old way of life is destined to disappear.聽

鈥淲e need to stop this doom and gloom we hear about our communities dying,鈥� says Joanie Cranston, a local leader fostering rural resilience across what鈥檚 called the Great Northern Peninsula (GNP) of Newfoundland. 鈥淭hat narrative gives everyone an excuse to not invest. 鈥極h well, it鈥檚 dying,鈥� they say. 鈥榃hy would you invest?鈥� We can create strong hubs that can reach others, and keep these communities strong.鈥�

The work the collective and other grassroots groups are doing across the GNP could hold lessons for regions around the world facing a hollowing out of populations and economies. From small towns in the American Midwest to rural parts of Europe, many places face demographic shifts that are making depopulation a pressing issue in the 21st century. The question is whether the people of this isolated but beguilingly beautiful slice of Canada have found some novel ways to combat the decline.

鈥淲e鈥檙e a canary in the coal mine when it comes to our rural areas,鈥� says Jamie Ward, manager of the regional analytics laboratory at the Harris Centre at Memorial University of Newfoundland in St. John鈥檚. 鈥淩ural areas everywhere are old and getting older, and struggle with out-migration. But we鈥檙e a little bit older. We鈥檙e a few years ahead. So a lot of people are watching to see how this pans out here.鈥�

The mood across the province is what Rob Greenwood, director of the Harris Centre, describes as 鈥渧ery conflicted,鈥� given how the fortunes of the region have undulated over the years.聽

The province was growing during the heyday of cod fishing, and after the moratorium led to a sudden exodus of workers, Newfoundland and Labrador saw another economic turnaround, with the offshore oil boom of the late 1990s and early 2000s. Then came the plunge in energy prices. The province faced deep fiscal challenges, exacerbated by mismanagement of a controversial mega-hydroelectric project at Muskrat Falls in Labrador.

Still, those in St. John鈥檚, the quaint provincial capital, are now feeling the dynamism of a new tech boom, Dr. Greenwood says. The mining sector is thriving, too. And most Newfoundlanders appreciate the singular beauty of the land and the freedom inherent in the local lifestyle, especially those who are retired and don鈥檛 have to worry about earning a living.聽

And yet, the province struggles to provide services to communities along its isolated coasts as the population ages and the number of people in the workforce who can support those on the public dole shrinks. Indeed, according to federal statistics, 30% of the province鈥檚 residents will be over age 65 by 2043, the most of any Canadian province. At the same time, Newfoundland and Labrador鈥檚 fertility rate in 2019 was the lowest in the country. Within the province, the GNP is suffering the greatest demographic challenges 鈥� a 2016 study found it could lose 39% of its population by 2036.聽

This summer the provincial government unveiled a new $8 million (Canadian; U.S.$6.3 million) plan to attract 5,100 immigrants each year through 2026 to help increase the population.

鈥淥ur government has really put a push on [immigration] because we need to see a huge influx of people from everywhere else come here,鈥� says Andrew Parsons, minister of industry, energy, and technology for Newfoundland and Labrador. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 the only way we鈥檙e going to be able to save our province.鈥�

That might work if you live in vibrant St. John鈥檚, with its colorful row houses pitched on rocky cliffs. It easily draws newcomers, especially since the pandemic, from international students to remote professional workers.聽

Take the case of Kay Naji. She decided to uproot her life in Brampton, a densely populated city outside Toronto, to move to St. John鈥檚 with her two sisters after she lost her job as a flight attendant with Air Canada. The three now own Figs & Fromage, which offers picnic charcuterie boxes. Aside from the wind, she says she loves her new life in Newfoundland.

鈥淚 really feel a huge difference in the fact that there鈥檚 a very big sense of community here, especially with the business,鈥� she says. 鈥淲e have so many people that support us so much as a local business.鈥�

But newcomers don鈥檛 tend to settle in the rural areas that need them the most, the places where ways of life are built upon generations of a distinct kind of settlement.聽

The remoteness of the towns in the province is partly a quirk of history. In the 1600s, as Newfoundland was emerging as a prodigious fishing center, the British monarchy banned women from venturing to this part of the New World. It didn鈥檛 want permanent settlements taking root that could compete with its own fishing industry. It wanted to keep Newfoundland a fishing colony.聽

So families hid in isolated enclaves in the bays. The scattered settlements created a culture of self-sufficiency and stoicism, celebrated in song and oral history.

Over the centuries, as fishing techniques advanced, the stocks of cod and other species eventually declined. At the same time, fertility rates dropped as education levels advanced.聽

These twin forces have beset the province ever since it first became an official part of Canada in 1949. The first premier of Newfoundland and Labrador, Joey Smallwood, instituted a far-reaching and controversial policy to try to deal with declining rural populations and modernize the province. He relocated thousands of fishing families from remote communities to a handful of 鈥済rowth centers.鈥� The idea was to establish a few thriving cities rather than have to service hundreds of fading 鈥渙utports,鈥� as they were called.

This official 鈥渞esettlement policy,鈥� which started in the 1950s, saw 28,000 people moved from 307 communities by the time it ended in the mid-1970s, according to the Maritime History Archive. Resettlement has been so emotive that one doesn鈥檛 have to go far to find a novel or poem penned about it. (On the one evening this reporter could attend a production at the summer Rising Tide theater festival in the town of Trinity, the offering was a production of Al Pittman鈥檚 鈥淲est Moon,鈥� a haunting story of a community鈥檚 relocation.)

Those passions remain raw to this day. Driving from the east to west coast of Newfoundland, one passes Arnold鈥檚 Cove, off the Trans-Canada Highway. Cecil Penney was 16 years old when his community of Tack鈥檚 Beach, on an island in the middle of Placentia Bay, was relocated across the water to this small town, which to his eyes seemed like a megalopolis. He worked his first job on the barges that transported entire houses 鈥� including his family鈥檚.

In all, more than 100 homes were transported to Arnold鈥檚 Cove, says Edna Penney, a town councilor and historian, who met her husband, Cecil, after he relocated. She recalls the population tripling while she was in elementary school, from about 300 to 900. The town had to build new schools to accommodate the influx. It鈥檚 such a classic story of Newfoundland resettlement that Ms. Penney helped design a walking tour about the experience. Even though it鈥檚 been more than 50 years since Mr. Penney reluctantly left his quiet enclave, the retired fisherman still tears up when he talks about Tack鈥檚 Beach.聽

鈥淚t鈥檚 so peaceful,鈥� he says. 鈥淭here鈥檚 no cars, no nothing. More home is up there. It鈥檚 just the way I feel.鈥澛�

Resettlement is a term that politicians no longer dare utter. But there remains an official 鈥渃ommunity relocation policy,鈥� under which residents in small towns that have become too expensive to service can vote to relocate with a government payout. Several communities have. Two years ago, the town of Little Bay Islands, connected to the mainland via a 30-minute ferry ride, made international news as residents left the enclave in Notre Dame Bay off central Newfoundland.

And many see hints of resettlement in an economic recovery report released this year called the 鈥淭he Big Reset鈥� to address the province鈥檚 debt. A paragraph in the executive summary underscores the enormity of the challenge facing the government: 鈥淩unning this sparsely populated province and maintaining its infrastructure is expensive. An abundance of government-run infrastructure is spread across significant geography, including 259 schools, over 180 health care sites, 12 ferry routes, 20 airstrips, over 9,000 kilometres of highway, 1,300 bridges, 12,000 kilometres of forest access roads, over 800 government buildings and structures, and thousands of kilometres of electricity transmission and distribution lines. All of this for a relatively small population of 522,000 people.鈥�

For Yolande Pottie-Sherman, an associate professor in the department of geography at Memorial University, the report could lead to more cuts that make rural life untenable, such as reducing ferry services. 鈥淭he reality is, if you do restructure ferry services, that鈥檚 a form of passive resettlement, even if you鈥檙e not saying, 鈥楾his community should relocate,鈥欌�� says Dr. Pottie-Sherman, who co-edited a collection of essays titled 鈥淩esettlement: Uprooting and Rebuilding Communities in Newfoundland and Labrador and Beyond.鈥� 鈥淚f you slowly remove services, you undermine people鈥檚 mobility, justice, rights, their access to be able to get around and get places. They鈥檙e not formally resettlement policies, but it鈥檚 all connected.鈥�

The enduring resettlement talk is the inevitable outcome of demographic change. Consider, for instance, the view from Jim Larkin鈥檚 house in a town called Cook鈥檚 Harbour at the tip of the GNP. The former fisherman turns in a circle pointing out all the empty dwellings around him.聽

鈥淣obody live in that one. Nobody live in that one. Nobody live in that one,鈥� he says. 鈥淭his used to be a real busy town. After the moratorium, everything went downhill. Now she鈥檚 gone to the bottom.鈥�

Mr. Larkin鈥檚 daughter moved away two years ago to St. Anthony because her son was the only teenager in the town, and she wanted him to be around friends. If relocation came up for a vote, Mr. Larkin says, he wouldn鈥檛 hesitate to move. 鈥淭his community is pretty well finished.鈥�

Carolyn Lavers in Port au Choix understands that sentiment 鈥� her son has left for a job as an electrician in Alberta 鈥� but she refuses to accept that leaving is the answer. In the 1980s, she was working as a hairdresser in Toronto when she decided to set up a bakery as a side business to help her mother in Port au Choix. Within a few years they were baking bread for all the fishing fleets in town, so she moved home to expand the business. Then the moratorium hit three years later. 鈥淥h, Lord, have mercy. It鈥檚 like Pluto and Earth,鈥� says Ms. Lavers of the town before and after the suspension.聽

She still runs the bakery, but it is now open only one day a week. Out of that slowdown, though, has come another epiphany. A friend of Ms. Lavers鈥�, Ms. Cranston, the rural resilience leader, asked if she could use the washing machine at Ms. Lavers鈥� house, where the bakery is located, on a day when the business was closed. Ms. Cranston, a physiotherapist, regularly travels to see patients and wanted to use it to launder sheets. This led to another idea: Why not open a place where all kinds of social services could be provided under one roof?

Ms. Cranston had already started a similar center in Norris Point. Called the Old Cottage Hospital, it houses wellness services, performance art space, a public library, community radio station, a greenhouse, and a hostel in a former rural hospital.聽

It is now part of the Great Northern Peninsula Research Collective, an academic-community partnership designed to foster development across the region. The collective is trying to create community hubs in heritage spaces 鈥� places that are historic anchors in towns, says Ms. Cranston.

In Port au Choix, the group recently purchased an empty building facing the town鈥檚 harbor that was once a teen hangout called 鈥渢he parlor.鈥� They plan to turn it into the GNP Community Place, which will offer massage, physiotherapy, and space for a community kitchen and events. The center will be linked to one under development in St. Anthony, which Mr. Larkin and his neighbors in Cook鈥檚 Harbour can access.

Kelly Vodden, who supports projects in rural resilience at Memorial University鈥檚 Grenfell campus, says that fishing, mostly shrimp and crab, remains integral to the area but only employs a fraction of the people it once did. (Unemployment in Port au Choix and the surrounding area stands at 38%.) Many efforts are underway to boost long-term sustainability, such as fish cooperatives and community gardens. Fishing families have also pivoted to other jobs, such as giving tours of Viking settlements and icebergs and running whale-watching trips.聽

Adaptability has been key to the region鈥檚 resilience. The owners of the Dark Tickle Co., at the northern tip of the peninsula, used to run a fishing supply shop. After the moratorium, and struggling to survive, they noticed that tourists heading to the nearby Viking settlement L鈥橝nse aux Meadows began asking about local wild berries, such as partridge and bakeapple. Today the company sells wild-berry teas, vinegars, and jams across the province. 鈥淚 went from working on a fish wharf to working in a jam kitchen,鈥� says Kier Knudsen, who spent summers working at his grandfather鈥檚 original store.

He was drawn back to Newfoundland from a job in aerospace engineering in Oregon because he missed the 鈥渨ay of life.鈥� Ms. Atkins moved back home from a job in corporate strategy in Toronto amid the pandemic. Many see new opportunities in this region, as people get more comfortable living in isolated places and commuting to work by computer. But before any towns can move forward, they will first have to revive a spirit of community, says Renee Pilgrim, who moved back to the St. Anthony area from Toronto last year, too. The founder of GNP Health & Wellness, she aims to connect it to the wellness network and offer acupuncture, yoga, and a meeting place for teens and elders across the region.

鈥淭he demographic problems are not going to be solved by having space for yoga,鈥� she says. 鈥淏ut for those who need emotional and community support, having the space helps people feel less isolated, less alone.鈥� When she was growing up, residents gathered regularly at the local hall or in fish storage sheds on the community wharf. But over time, technology and a hollowing out of public spaces have eroded a sense of fraternity. 鈥淭hese little communities and the lifestyle here is dying out,鈥� says Ms. Pilgrim. 鈥淭he relationship with the land, the sense of community and working together, people are becoming more independent and less community-focused.鈥�

Jeff Webb, a cultural historian at Memorial University, says there is a lot of nostalgia for rural Newfoundland and its self-reliant way of life. But change is inevitable. 鈥淚t鈥檚 going to transform into something else. That鈥檚 not something I regret; that is something that happens,鈥� he says. 鈥淸These towns] could become retirement communities. Some might ... rely heavily on tourism. Some might evolve into something else, but it鈥檚 going to change. It鈥檚 natural and inevitable.鈥�

Ms. Lavers, the bakery owner, thinks the change must, above all, come from within. Her town isn鈥檛 going to return to boom times, but she believes rural Newfoundland has a chance to grow if mindsets shift and small efforts like the GNP Community Place move forward. Already more locals have been congregating in her bakery after Ms. Atkins, her goddaughter, began a pop-up cafe once a week that offers espresso-based drinks and chia pudding.

鈥淭o survive in a rural region, you really must have a community helping one another and volunteering,鈥� she says. 鈥淎nd I think it will happen, because at the end of the day, as much as a lot of our people go away, we never stay away with a good heart. The plan is always to go back home.鈥�