The "Road From Hell" refers to the Cross Labrador 'highway'. The road connects a town north of Quebec City, Bay Cormeau Canada to Goose Bay, Canada.

When a buddy of mine mentioned that he was going on "The Last Motorcycle Frontier left in north-eastern North America, I was mildly interested.   I was originally planning on going to Colorado on my time off.  However, from the way he described it, it sounded like fun.  He mentioned that in a few years Canada was going to start paving this road, so this was our last chance.  Like a fool, I said "What the hell!"    My riding buddy was on a Concourse, and I was on my 1986 V65 Magna.  We began the trip with a stop right over the New Hampshire-Vermont border to visit some friends.  The next day was a road day, in which we reached Bay Cormeau.  This town is where we would start heading north, and the trouble would begin.   The next morning we headed north, on nicely paved roads.   This lasted for about 100 miles.  Then the paved section stopped.  And the gas stations stopped.  There is no gas until Labrador City, which is about 150 - 200 or more miles north. Yes, I carried a can, and I used it.  My friend on the concourse also carried extra gas, but his 7 gallon tank was more than enough to reach Labrador city.Once the unpaved road started, of course it began to rain and mist.  The road turned into mud.  Deep mud.  We decided after about 50 miles of this to just spend the night in the next town.  I say 'town' loosely, since this 'town' was more like a campsite.  No stores or anything, just a house and a campsite 200 miles from anywhere.  The next day we got up hoping the weather would get better.  No such luck.  So we started on our way into the wilderness.  After the first 100 miles or so (it took quite a long time) , I was exhausted.  About to give up. Muddy, rain soaked, tired of fighting the bike in the heavy mud.   My arms were about to fall off, I couldn't even move them.   Then, there was a short paved section.  Relief was in sight!  I thought, hey, the cross Labrador Highway isn't as bad as they said!  No problem!  So I was a little tired, so the bike was muddy and I was soaked.  We made it!

Then the road turned to dirt again, after a short few miles.   Then I saw the sign.  Unfortunately, this short section of about 100 miles of road was not the cross Labrador highway.  The sign to the right is the official beginning.  Words cannot describe what I felt at the moment.  If the past 100 miles was just the beginning, and not the highway, what was the next stretch of road like?   If I was smart, I would have turned back then.  Not me!  I had to be a man!  No road was going to stop me!  Looking back, this was a very stupid attitude to have.  This is where the horror really started.  The weather started getting worse.  The mud started getting deeper.  There were large rocky areas in the parts of the road that weren't covered by mud. The bugs were unbelievable. If we stopped for 1 minute, we were swarmed. We couldn't open our visors, because there were so many mosquitoes, that they would fill up our helmet.  Ask me how I know this!!    As it was, in full leathers and helmet, the mosquitoes swarmed around our necks and we got quite bit up.  Even scrunching our heads down didn't help.  We couldn't kill them fast enough. By the time we swatted one area of our arms (in leather) and started on another area, the first area was already re-swarmed. We WERE bathed in repellent. The mosquitoes just laughed at it!

This road was definitely meant for the "Trans-Alp" or equivalent bike.  I dropped the bike in knee deep (or deeper) mud numerous times, and it was difficult getting it up, even with 2 of us. The Magna was handling the mud like it was glare ice.  I couldn't keep the thing balanced at anything over 10mph.   If I went faster, the bike would, without warning, go out from under me in the mud.   The mud was so deep at some points, that when the bike was on its side, it was practically buried over, even with the sidebags.   The bike fell quite a few times, but the mud was so deep that there was no damage.  Except to the paint and to the sidebags.  One time I fell, my friend was nowhere in sight.  he wasn't having as much trouble maneuvering as I was, and he went ahead to scout the way.   There I was, alone, in mud deep enough to cover the bike that was on its side, in the middle of the road.  I envisioned a giant tractor-trailer truck coming over the hill, and not even seeing the bike as he rolled over it.  I tried to get the bike up, but the mud was so slippery that I couldn't get a grip.  I fought and shifted for leverage, but no luck.  So I took off the tankbag and tried again.  No luck.   By this time, I was really working up a sweat and my visor was steaming over.   I lifted the visor.  MISTAKE! BUGS!! I forgot about the bugs!  They swarmed inside my helmet, and by the time I killed them, I was bit up pretty bad.  I took off the one sidebag, and unhooked the other.  By a feat of unparalleled strength and leverage, I managed to get the bike up.  I had scratched up everything pretty badly due to the rock mud, but I got the bike up.   I put the bags on again, right there.   Just then, my friend pops up over the hill.  What's taking you so long?  Grrrr!!   I said nothing.  Even if I had the breath to say anything, I couldn't.

The next 100 miles or so were even worse.  The mud got worse.  The rain got worse.  I dropped the bike many times.  Once I even dropped it on train tracks.  The train travels up to Labrador and Goose bay, and the road crosses the tracks many times.  Most of the time, there were wooden structures that led up to the tracks, so that passing over was not too difficult.  There was this one, however, that was at 45 degrees with respect to the road.  I tried to approach it perpendicular.  I really did.  Unfortunately, the front wheel and the second rail did not feel the same way.  Down I went in the muddy, rainy, wet tracks.   As the bike lay there on its side, in the middle of the tracks, I was tempted to leave it there.  Then my friend says ... "Do I hear something in the distance?  It sounds like a train whistle....."   Panic!!  We tried to get the bike up, and finally, after a slapstick back and for the, we got it into a position that was semi-upright.  It was still at too much of an angle to get it over under its own power, plus it was too slippery to get traction with the back wheel.  So we caddy cornered the bike over the tracks, inch by inch until we finally got it over the tracks. We did indeed hear a train whistle, but it wasn't as close as we thought.  I think.  I was tempted to stop the train and get on, and abandon the F%$%!(@ bike.  I had had it!  I wish I could have taken photos, but the rain, mud and bugs were not conducive to anything but keeping in motion. 

Unbelievably, we reached Labrador city.  I was beat up.    My face was so bitten up, that I looked like Quasimodo. Every muscle of my body ached, and I had bruises everywhere.  I was soaked to the gills, and the bike was trashed. We stayed in a hotel at the L.C. building, which also contained a post office.  We went to the post office, and two little old ladies started talking to me, telling me that I didn't look so good, and asking me what happened.  We told them that we just came up from New Hampshire on the Cross Labrador Highway by motorcycle.    I still don't know why they call it a 'highway!!  They did not believe us, of course.  We had to show them the helmets, and even then they were doubtful.  Then they started telling us about the next stretch of road.  They said that it was even worse that the previous STRETCH!   AHHHHHHHHH!!!  
That was it for me.  game over.

I felt like I was in the scene from "aliens," where the transport ship has just crashed, and the whin[g]er marine starts in:

"what are we gonna do now, man! game over, game over! we're all f%cked now!"

I heard rumors of a car-train that passed through the area, and I was going to find it.  Needless to say, if there was no car train,  I was going to pull the bike apart by pieces and mail it back.  Failing that, I was going to ditch the bike.  Just leave it there, in a rocky mud pit.

My friend started calming me down, and the next day we made a futile search for a car-train.  None.  It was like I was searching for the holy grail.  My friend said that I should just go on with him, and he would go slow enough to keep me in sight.  Yes, I had visions of him keeping me in sight all the way down the side of the mountain!   Anyway, he convinced me to go on.  Would Clint Eastwood give up?  Would Charles Bronson throw in the towel?  If they traveled on this road, they would!   But I was tougher than that.  I would do it! No matter what it took! I psyched myself up real good. Fool!  

My friend was actually able to pull out a camera and take this photo on a relatively nice section of road.

The next stretch of road was worse than the previous 150 dirt miles, but it was relatively dry, so we could pick a path. This made for less mud and more rocks. It seemed mother nature was co-operating with us at last!  I got used to maneuvering on the rocky dry road, and was actually able to keep a good pace.  There were some points where water flowed across the road. The water was so deep in the road in some areas, that it came over my boots while I was sitting on the bike. This lead to some really wet feet, but it was infinitely preferable over the conditions of the previous day.

I was going about 40mph on the hard sand, feeling like the worst was over.  I was used to the road surface.   And then suddenly....M U D!
I ran into a section that was about to be paved, and It was 6" to 1' deep mud!   (they were grading the road) The bike was useless.  I almost went off the side of the road. I could have sworn the sidebags dragged on the ground at some point while I was out of control, weaving in 20 foot wide arcs back and forth across the road out of control.   But this time I managed to keep it from falling. There was a guy in a pickup about 1/4 mile behind me when this happened, who I ran into in Goose bay the next day (yes, its a small town). He described what he saw and was also amazed that I didn't wipe out. He didn't put it in quite those words, however. It was more like .."Holy S&*T! I thought I was going to have to pull you up the side of the mountain!" or some thing like that. Anyway, The last 10 miles was bad and I traveled at a quick 5mph.

The ferry from Goose Bay to the northernmost point of Newfoundland, a 1.5 day boat ride.

Goose bay was (surprise) not too populated, and we were sort of celebrities. With a population of only about 3000, we got to know just about everybody in 2 days. They say that less than 100 motorcycles in history have come up this road. Much less a Magna. I can see why. Most people get there by ferry (1-1/2 days from Newfoundland) or by air.   We stayed in Goose bay for 2 days, and were treated to local hospitality.  We planned to take the ferry back from the beginning. Even if we didn't, I was definitely not going back down that road!!