Gros Morne is a stretch of the Newfoundland coast where the Earth's mantle lies open at the surface and you can walk on it. The Tablelands are the place: a rust-orange plateau of peridotite from below the crust, carrying so much nickel and chromium, and so little of what a plant needs, that the ground is poisoned. It crunches underfoot, bare and Mars-coloured, and a marked path crosses the line where crust once met mantle deep under an ocean. What grows there grows in spite of it. A few alpine flowers hold on, and so do pitcher plants, which trap insects and take their nutrients from them rather than the soil. In summer their red blooms are the only colour on the orange rock.
Across the water the park's other half is a fjord. Western Brook Pond was cut by glaciers and sealed off as the land rose. It is fresh water now, pure enough to barely register on instruments. Getting to the boat takes you three kilometres of gravel and boardwalk over open bog, bog cotton and more pitcher plants at your feet, the flat-topped walls growing ahead. Then the cliffs take over: six hundred metres straight up, waterfalls threading down, the walls closing in until the boat under you feels like a chip of wood. The park is named for the mountain at its centre: gros morne, roughly the big lone hill. At 806 metres it is Newfoundland's second-highest, climbed up a boulder gully to a bare arctic top above the gorge of Ten Mile Pond. Elsewhere there are the grassy headlands of Green Gardens, with seabirds on the stacks and whales offshore. Moose graze all of it, and none of them should be here. The island's whole herd came from a handful released around 1900, and with no wolves they have eaten patches of forest into open meadow. The pitcher plant belongs. It grows at both ends of the park: in the wet bog on the way to the boat, and on the one ground here that will feed nothing at all.