Canoeing -Tales From The Paddle

Preparation For The Voyage - Prologue

2009-01-01T23:32:00.018-05:00

Preparation For The Voyage

“In nature there are neither rewards nor punishments - there are consequences”

R. G. Ingersoll

With an unfortunate turn of events in the spring of 2006 came the realization that my canoe trips would be forever in the past and that any future trips would be via a wheelchair. So much idle time bred boredom so I began to jot down various recollections and organize photos of some of my favourite river trips. My notes slowly evolved to become these short stories based on my true life adventures. As I initially wrote these stories solely for my own amusement, they were often written out of sequence, as my mood dictated. For example, I wrote about some humorous events which occurred on our way to canoe Ontario’s Missinaibi River, never expecting to write more about the actual trip itself. Inspiration struck some time later and I then wrote about events at the conclusion of the trip. Still later I added a story about events at Kettle Falls, early in the voyage. Having come this far I felt compelled to tie the loose ends together and complete the voyage. As a result, my 1980 trip down the Missinaibi River was written in the order of chapters1,4,3 & 2. Each chapter stands as a complete tale however anyone wishing to read about this trip in sequential order should search for the following stories or click on the links below:
Yuri
(1) Chapter One - Hornepayne Ontario On Route To the Missinaibi River (1980)
(2) Chapter Two - Missinaibi River: Mattice to Moosonee (1980)
(3) *Chapter Three - Kettle Falls: A Fleeting Glimpse of Spirituality - Missinaibi River (1980)
(4) Chapter Four - Missinaibi River - First Excursion - Moose River (1980)
*more accurately, a supplemental chapter of some personal views.

The stories presented here are simply my recollections & reflections of time I spent on my beloved Northern Ontario rivers. There are numerous detailed, mile by mile, rapid by rapid description of these river routes available on the web. My intent was never to duplicate these guides but rather to offer the reader a feel for the river's character, to share the situations I encountered along the journey and to convey the joy experienced in wilderness canoeing.

Note (1): Uploading or Publishing dates of these Posts are irrelevant as I have placed them in an order of my own preference. Newer posts are added to the end (oldest dates). I may mirror these posts at some future time in a web site which would be a more appropriate vehicle for presenting the material on this site.

Note (2): A number of the photos displayed here have been accepted by Google Earth and can be viewed by following the rivers on their site.

***Update August 2010: I thank all those who have viewed and commented on the photos I uploaded to Google Earth. An occasional commentator has taken issue with the exact placement or location depicted in some particular photo. Please remember that the river trips posted were made between the late 1970's and late 1980's, long before Google, and of most relevance, the Global Positioning Satellite/System (GPS).

I made an honest effort to map my photos accurately using written notes made at the time, notations scratched upon my topographical maps and the numerical continuity of my photographic slides - not to mention my faltering memory some thirty years hence. As such, I did not memorize, nor do I have the GPS coordinates of any particular rock, tree or bend in the river. I admire those who can view my photos of trips taken along a several hundred mile stretch of river, confidently identify particular features along route, and offer a correction. I thank you.

As stated in my preamble, the intent of this blog (and accompanying photos where ever they may appear) was never to have it used as an absolute guide or reference for those attempting these same trips, but rather as a vehicle to share my passion for canoeing, my love of these rivers and experiences encountered along the route. If not of an indisputable feature, the Photos I uploaded to Google Earth offer a visual reference of the general characteristics of the river as close to the exact location as I can place them.

Any errors in matching my photos on Google Earth to their exact and precise location are mine alone.

Note (3): I have provided Longitude & Latitude co-ordinates for the river locations at the end of each tale. By cutting and pasting the co-ordinates into the Google Earth Search bar as they appear, the search feature will bring the viewer to the rivers & locations mentioned.

July 1st, 2009
Note (4): The Flickr photosharing site who's services my internet provider is associated with, has significantly downsized the free hosting capacity to their clients. As I am unwilling to pay a premium price for the few number of photos (as slideshows) I present on this blog, I am experimenting with other providers and slideshow media. At the end of most tales there will either appear a slideshow or a link to a mirrored site on which the appropriate slideshow appears. Bear with me while I experiment in achieving the best presentation without supplementing the income of internet moguls & CEO's.

January, 2010
Note (5): I've always welcomed comments on the stories presented here however in recent weeks the spam-bots have found this blog site and have begun daily postings in the comments section - unrelated to any topic found on this site. For that reason I've had to initiate 'word verification' for those wishing to post a comment so as to reduce the self-serving garbage posted by spammers.

March 2010
Note (6): Though hosted by Blogger through Google, this site, for all it's faults and shortcomings, was my attempt at artistic expression, and perhaps self indulgence. Art, of course is in the mind of the creator and eye of the viewer - the two often may not connect. I however assembled this material foremost to please myself and if others found anything of interest amongst the words and photos - all the better.

I assembled the material in this blog in a manner of my choosing and for reasons of my own, wished to display a large number of posts per page. This month Google has decided otherwise and in an attempt to "improve" my site and others like it have introduced 'automatic pagination' where Google dictates how many posts per page and where the cuts occur.

Tales From The Paddle is heavily content laden and took some time to load but was presented as I wished. Google however knows better...

(I Now have a sidebar with content that runs on endlessly down the page)

“The river delights to lift us free, if only we dare to let go. Our true work is this voyage, this adventure”

Richard Bach

Mississippi River (Lanark County Ontario (198?)

2008-12-10T23:05:00.014-05:00

Mississippi River
(Lanark County Ontario)
September 6th 1985

"Everyone must believe in something. I believe I'll go canoeing"

Henry David Thoreau

* * *

Rain………, dark damp and pouring rain!! A steady drum beat tapping out our wake up call on the nylon tent fly. Opening my eyes, I was insulted by darkness. My other senses coaxed me into consciousness delivering the heady aroma of pine needles and wet leaves laced with the acrid odour of last evenings campfire. There would be no campfire this dreary morning. Coffee and oatmeal would have to wait. Mosquitoes eagerly anticipated their meal teasing us to abandon the warmth of our sleeping bags and brave the morning.

Grimacing, we stepped into our wet boots and donned our rain gear. Our shadows exchanged uncertain glances as we unzipped and greeted the new day. September sixth, my birthday, welcomed me with the greatest gift of all. Alive, healthy and embraced by my beautiful Ontario wilderness.

After years of exploring the back rivers of Ontario, my canoing partner Brian and I had made an art of dismantling camp. Without a word we began rolling up the damp tent, nesting cooking pots, gathering our gear and loading our canoe. Passing each other on
our relay to the river bank we sputtered granola dust with words of encouragement while ferrying our packs to the muddy shore.

A gentle breeze whispering through the trees echoed the muffled chatter of the river. Pushing off, I raised my collar and glanced back at the woods that had sheltered us for an evening in our lives. Always nostalgic, I realized I may never pass this way again, to be embraced by those trees nor to share that evening with a friend.

Rain drops continued to make the river sing as our paddles sliced through the water adding rhythm to the chorus. Dawn was making a feeble attempt at pushing back the darkness while Lightfoot’s lyrics from ‘Whispers Of The North’ danced in my head.

"Whispers of the wind, I will feel it sting
I will see it rise and fall, I will hear it sing
The sound is like a song to me, it takes away the pain
The river is the melody and sky is the refrain" (1)

This was the last stretch of our voyage as we raced to keep our appointment with a rafting company on the Ottawa River. Hours passed in quiet reflection and with the lifting of the mist we found our car and bid farewell to the Mississippi River.

We arrived at the town of Beachburg and followed the road signs directing us down ever smaller gravel roads to the rafting company. Parking our car, we ambled off to a large canopy where the enticing aroma of coffee, pancakes, eggs and bacon wafted through the air. Grabbing a plate I eagerly began filling it with all the mouth watering items offered. The morning paddle had created an appetite that could not be satisfied with only one helping. As we loosened our belts and wiped our chins, our host began to describe the itinerary of the day. Beginning with the history of ‘Wilderness Rafting', he thanked us for our patronage of their company. ‘Wilderness Rafting’??? We had signed on with ‘Ottawa Whitewater Leaders’ (OWL). Realizing that we were in the wrong rafting camp, we made a dash for our car and escaped in a trail of dust searching for our correct host. A few more twists and turns on the back roads we arrived at the OWL organization and sauntered up to their cook tent to load up on more steaming coffee, and an additional complimentary breakfast. All that driving can certainly create an appetite!

After thanking us for our patronage and a description of our itinerary for the day we waddled off to board the bus for our riverside destination. Satiated with the breakfasts, we were ready for a nap rather than the physical exertion that awaited us. We no doubt made better ballast than paddlers as we settled into the raft and donned our helmets.

An enjoyable day was spent descending the Ottawa river, riding the bucking rapids, surfing the current and lazing away the day in the warmth of the sun.

A stark contrast to our rainy morning nevertheless equally as delightful , embraced by the wonderful countryside of the Ottawa river valley during the waning days of summer……

Note: To read about the Mississippi River trip in it's entirety go to my separate post entitled:
Mississippi River - Lanark County- 1985

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______________________________________________

Slide Show of the 1985 Ottawa River Rafting Trip
(Music: Whispers Of The North - Gordon Lightfoot)

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© Copyright - All rights reserved.

(1) ' Whispers Of The North' -from the album 'Salute' (1983) -Gordon Lightfoot

Hornepayne Ontario (Missinaibi River 1980)

2008-11-28T22:21:00.003-05:00

Hornepayne Ontario On Route To the Missinaibi River (1980)

(Chapter One)

“It gave me a moment of exquisite satisfaction to find myself moving away from civilisation in this rude canvas canoe of a model that has served primitive races since men first went to sea.”

John Millington Synge

Brian and I, having finished loading the Chevy, gave one last tug on the ropes securing the canoe to the roof, said our goodbyes and departed our university town of London Ontario. Pushing back into my seat, I pulled out my treasured collection of Gordon Lightfoot cassettes and searched for an appropriate album with which to christen our journey.

Lightfoot’s music has always been my refuge, where I can hide between trips to the northern wonders of my beautiful province. Gord’s gift of painting musical portraits depicting rugged wilderness, lost loves and lonesome travels, have always been the embodiment of the Northern experience. What better way to start our trip than to complement it with some treasured Lightfoot tune? How appropriate! His beautiful tune ‘Hi’way Songs’!

Our destination would be the town of Mattice on the Trans-Canada Highway where we would test ourselves against the waters of the Missinaibi River. The beautiful Missinaibi is one of the last undammed rivers still free to run off the granite Canadian shield then weave it’s way through the Hudson Bay lowlands. Joining with the Mattagami River at Portage Island, the marriage of waters form the mighty Moose River.

A flip of a coin had us set our compass westward, taking the American over the Canadian route to ultimately reach our jump-off point(1). As the skies turned an unfriendly grey, we cranked up the heat to drive away the dampness of this spring day.

Approaching Port Huron, we crossed over into the state of Michigan on Route 69 then set our compass for Highway 75 and our trek northwards.

As growls from our stomachs were beginning to challenge the stereo’s volume, we chose an upcoming off-ramp outside of Flint Michigan and searched for some enticing restaurant offering a meal and brew. A rather tired looking pub sporting a flickering neon ’Schlitz’ sign beckoned us in spite of it‘s questionable appearance.

It was a rather uneasy feeling walking into that smoky darkness, the slamming door committing us to our choice. Chatter quickly died off as all eyes turned towards our two silhouettes standing in the doorway. God, it was just like a scene from the movies, where Bubba and the boys sized up the strangers in town. Plaid shirts, sports caps and the odd toothless grin aimed at us could have been a scene right out of ‘Deliverance’! Swallowing hard, we could feel eyes following us across the room as we seated ourselves and waited to be served. The din of the “good ‘ol boys” slowly returned as they once again swore insults and slapped each other’s backs.

Having finished our burger and Bud, our chairs screeched our intention to leave and all attention once again descended upon us. The cashier eyed me with curiosity as I opened my wallet to settle our tab. Pulling out some American ‘greenbacks’, a bright blue coloured Canadian bill fell to the counter. George Washington had brought Sir Wilfred Laurier along for a trip and he lay there staring back at me. “You boys Canadian?” drawled the apron garbed proprietor. My God, strangers AND foreigners invading their local hangout! “Yes we are, just passing through” I sputtered, keeping one eye on the door, our only means of escape. “Well boys, there’s no charge”. “No Charge?” I asked in confused disbelief . “Nnnooo chaaaarrge” the owner reiterated slowly so we “Canucks” could understand.. Once again the commotion faded as eyes focused upon us.

Canadian? As if a priest had just performed an exorcism, the atmosphere in the room lifted. The cashier’s till slammed shut and ‘the boys’ shouted jovial greetings at us!

It was 1980 and the year before Canadian ambassador Ken Taylor, stationed in Iran, had offered sanctuary to six American citizens hiding from militants. The insurgents who had invaded the U.S. embassy had taken over seventy hostages. With the blessing of the Canadian government, these American’s were issued Canadian passports and smuggled out of Iran as our own citizens.

We were soon made to realize that as Canadians, our grateful American neighbours were eager to offer us a token ‘thank you’ for the actions of our government. We were touched by the gesture, yet rather embarrassed as we obviously had no direct involvement. Escorted to our cars as celebrities we headed back to the interstate beaming, yet humbled. After all, neighbours look out for each other.

The sky remained overcast with a light drizzle periodically reminding us that summer had yet to arrive. The trip through the heart of Michigan was spectacular. Our ribbon of blacktop ran through a lush green corridor with abundant wildlife periodically watching the traffic from the roadside. Again, Lightfoot was our companion as his newly released album ‘Dream Street Rose’(2) was receiving disproportionate airtime. His song ‘On The High Seas’ blared out the lyrics:

“ was it somewhere in Michigan, or the Lake Of The Woods”.

Crossing back into Canada over the Michilimackinac bridge we entered the city of Sault Ste. Marie. Following the Trans-Canada Highway, as it hugged the eastern coast of Lake Superior, we were treated to a spectacular sunset.

Shades of orange shimmered off of the surface of Whitefish Bay, immortalized by Lightfoot’s masterpiece ‘Wreck Of The Edmund Fitzgerald’

Eager to reach our destination we decided to persevere and push on down the road. Leaving Trans-Canada Hwy 17 behind, we rattled down the secondary ‘King’s Hwy 631' in inky darkness, pierced only by our headlights. What a desolate stretch of twisting two lane road this was. Miles turned to hours as they in turn gave yawns. It became obvious that any attempt to reach our destination this night would be at the expense of logic and safety. Surrendering to our fatigue, we decided to pull off of the road and find some suitable gravel shoulder to nap on. Headlights bounced off the roadside trees as we located an old gated driveway. Safely off the deserted highway we jostled for position within the car, my ending up intimately cradling the steering wheel in the front seat. Sleep immediately swept over us

Was it the low drone or the penetrating odour that first brought me to consciousness? Bells were clanging, horns were bellowing their displeasure. Diesel fuel permeated the night air as engines and rolling stock were jockeyed in the shunting yards. It became painfully obvious that we had driven onto some rail yard access road and the night long reshuffling of box cars would not permit any further sleep. With the first light of day just starting to paint orange hues into the midnight blue of dawn, we conceded defeat and pulled back onto the highway. Perpetual yawns were silent pleas for coffee. Perhaps some music would stimulate our minds enough to continue our journey safely. Punching a cassette back into the player Gord began to croon to our rising sun. A new melody began to unfold before us as Lightfoot’s “On The High Seas” broke the silence. Easing into our seats as well as the tune, the lyrics were painting images of worldly travels from Montreal to Reno to Rome. As the next phrase unfolded, Gord sang out;

‘Was it up in Hornepayne, Where the trains run on time?”

Simultaneously, as the words settled on our caffeine deprived brains, our jaws dropped when a misty road sign flashed into view. It simply announced “HORNEPAYNE” Pop.1600. Peels of laughter ensued blasting away any lingering remnants of sleepiness.
That moment made our day and was captured in my memory for eternity.

Of all the trappings we might expect in this rather small, remote northern town I did not expect to find the “Hallmark Centre” a card store perhaps, which served extra duty as a post office, convenience stores and more. No ‘Second Cup’ or ‘Starbucks’ was to be found and the only foam was to be our styrofoam cup. Over the hot brown water, the proprietor was happy to explain to us that Hornepayne was a regional hub for the Canadian National Railroad. Indeed, we had decided to catch a few winks in what amounted to the center of the town’s major employer, the CN rail yards.

The song was replayed numerous times that morning until reaching our destination of Mattice. With that tune echoing in our heads we stowed our gear and prepared to ferry our car further east to Cochrane, our final destination and terminus of the Ontario Northland Railway. .

Lightfoot’s ‘On The High Seas’ was played one last time as it ended with the phrase...

"I don't want to own the key
To some ghostly mansion where souls are set free
I don't remember where she said she would go
Straight for the highway or down the low road
I don't remember where she said she would be
Back in the city or on the high seas"

And so our journey began……

Missinaibi River - Mattice To Moosonee (1980) - Chapter Two

Note: To view a slide show of my 1988 trip on the Missinaibi, click the above link (Chapter Two) and scroll to the bottom. Click on Frame to initiate the show.

* * *

(1) Jump-off point is the chosen location on a river from where to load up and launch the canoes from.

(2) Gordon Lightfoot’s March 1980 release of ‘Dream Street Rose’

Google Earth Co-ordinates:
(cut and paste everything after the dash- (in red) into Google Earth search bar.

Hornepayne Ontario - "Where the trains run on time"
Lat/Long - 49° 13’02.66” N, 84° 46’31.81” W

Mattice Ontario - Missinaibi Jump-Off Location
Lat/Long- 49° 36’56.15” N, 83° 15’48.37” W

* * *

In November of 2006 I had the pleasure of meeting Gordon Lightfoot for my second time, much shorter now as I looked up at my idol from wheelchair level. I took that opportunity to ask him if about his song 'On The High Seas' and whether he too spent a sleepless night in Hornepayne while the trains shuffled in the moonlight. I hoped to "get a scoop" on that story and pass it onto the Lightfoot News Group. Gord listened to my story intently. Having laid out the scenario, I reclined back waiting for some spectacular insight. Gordon answered me "I really don't know". With a chuckle he had revealed to me that the marriage between music and lyrics isn't always the product of deep thought or some profoundly moving emotional experience but sometimes may just due to momentary inspiration or sheer chance. If the words fit, use them!

* * *
Massey Hall November 2006: Gordon Lightfoot and Myself Chatting about Hornepayne Ontario.

* * *
© Copyright - All rights reserved.

Missinaibi River - Mattice To Moosonee (1980)

2008-10-28T23:23:00.011-05:00

“The river Called. The call is the thundering rumble of distant rapids, the intimate roar of white water…a primeval summons to primordial values”

-- John J. Craighead

Missinaibi River: Mattice to Moosonee (1980)

(Chapter Two)

Our waitress fought back a chuckle as I ordered breakfast with my mangled high school French. “Deux ouefs au lard et pain grillé pour petit dejuner.…..Oh, et un TRES GRAND café s’il vous plait“. Brian, did I order bacon or lard??? With an understanding smile she pushed her pencil back into her hair and disappeared behind the counter.

Looking around the roadside diner, it was obvious that Brian and I were the first customers of the day. Truckers had yet to arrive as their big rigs, heavily laden with logs, raced by the storefront window. Lost in the scenario before me, Lightfoot’s tune ‘Cabaret’ pushed aside his song ‘On The High Seas’ which I had been humming all morning.

“Sitting in a roadside diner,
the big trucks rolling by
I don't seem to know at times what's best
And still I'd like to tell her
That I miss her so, in North Ontario”

Did I share some parallel universe with Gordon Lightfoot? Hours earlier Gord’s ‘on-time trains’ had derailed my sleep in Hornepayne and now I was sitting in a roadside diner off Hwy 11 as big trucks rolled by this northern Ontario town of Mattice. How spooky was that? Gord’s lyrics had mirrored my life on more than one occasion.

Mattice, situated at the junction of the Missinaibi River and Trans-Canada Highway is typical of these small northern towns. It’s predominantly French speaking population had dwindled in recent years due to a faltering economy. Those trucks piled high with logs were finding ever fewer pulp and paper mills, the region‘s principle employer, still in operation. Founded in 1910, the town’s growth was spurred on by the arrival of the Canadian Transcontinental Railway. Earlier still, the Missinaibi had served as an important fur trading route joining the Great Lakes to James Bay. It was the desire to retrace part of this historic route that had drawn us to this sleepy town.

Coffees drained, our waitress directed Brian to a payphone where he fed it a coin and dialled the number provided by Ontario’s Ministry Of Natural Resources office. It was our understanding that the town elder on the other end acted as a liaison for river voyagers. As in some covert spy mission, the word “Missinaibi” would be uttered, setting into motion a series of actions to literally bring us “in from the cold“,…. at least for the night.

Mr. Benoit‘s(1) age was not betrayed by his gait as he hurriedly approached with an extended hand and broad grin. “Bonjour mes amis”. Without a breath, the undecipherable slurry of French continued to pour from his craggy face and had us nodding yes or no wherever it seemed appropriate. A pause……….then an eruption of laughter as he slapped his knee in response to some joke only he was party to. Brushing past us he unlocked the door to the rather dilapidated Quonset hut and directed us into the darkness. A flick of a switch bathed the aging arena in light as Mr. Benoit ran about pointing and muttering. Cuisine (kitchen), chambre a coucher (sleeping facilities), salle de bain (washroom). With yet another belly-laugh and a slap on the back, he pressed the keys into the palm of my hand and departed as quickly as he had arrived. Brian and I stared at each other in silence. What had just happened? A jovial French-Canadian had just entrusted two total strangers to the unsupervised use of the town’s arena.

With our gear safely stowed inside we hopped in my Chevy and headed east. Those stake trucks heavily laden with logs continued to bounce down the highway, at one point criss-crossing the Mattagami River(2) where to our amazement the river was so jam-packed with a log drive that one could literally walk from shore to shore without setting foot in water. Imagine the shock in having planned a canoe trip on the Mattagami only to arrive to the scene before us. A two hundred mile portage down the center of the river perhaps?! Further east was our destination of Cochrane Ontario. Parking our car at the Ontario Northland Railway station, we headed across Railway Street for last minute provisions and more importantly, to the Cochrane Tavern for one last glass of ale. Catching the ONR bus back to Mattice we hoped we would find ourselves back at this terminal in some twelve days time.

The bus rattled along the shoulder and came to a dusty halt just short the Missinaibi River bridge. Hopping off we strolled along the river bank debating our plan of action. The running waters seductively murmured, as from the lips of some dark and mysterious mistress, tempting us to forgo the comforts of “our” Quonset hut and sleep beside her this night. Seduced we retrieved our gear, ferried our faithful Starcraft(3) to the bank and tucked the keys behind the hydro meter as instructed.

With a two week supply of provisions and gear straining the canoe’s thwarts, I steadied myself on the gunwales and began to add my own weight to that of the cargo. With my left foot planted soundly on the canoe floor I followed my departure ritual, purposely dragging my right boot through the flowing waters. Feeling the coolness wick its way up my sock, I knew I had been anointed by river and that we were no longer strangers. Pushing off into the evening light I savoured that first stroke of the paddle. After summertime dreams and many a winter’s night of preparation, we were finally on our way.

I don’t recall quite how I came to know of the Missinaibi River. The name itself seemed to dance in my mouth when first spoken. Increasingly, I found myself repeating it with growing excitement and anticipation. In the early 1980’s there wasn’t a great source of information to draw upon in regards to these mysterious northern rivers. Browsing through the card catalogues at The University Of Western Ontario, I could only find some highly specific government hydrological surveys and the occasional article in outdoor magazines. A freshly mimeographed(4) copy of the route description arrived by mail that winter which I supplemented with eleven dusty 1:50,000 scale topographical maps obtained from the bowels of a local book store. The personal computer was in it’s infancy in 1980 and digital age tools such as the Internet and Google Earth were yet to be developed. Today, contemporary voyagers can network with veteran paddlers or zoom in from the cosmos to study a particular rapid prior to departure - all from armchair comfort. Yet, the ability to examine a river from source to mouth by satellite somehow seems to diminish the adventure from the days when we left home with nothing more than a Tupperware container of top-maps, scribbled notes and a mental image of what may lay ahead. Google had no idea of what lurked around that next bend in the river, nor did we…

Water spouts danced in the wind before us, like miniature tornadoes, they performed pirouettes teasing us to give chase. With evening’s advancing darkness came lower temperatures and soon our amazement was diverted from these dying ‘water devils’ to heaven’s multitude of sparkling stars suspended in the clearest sky I had ever witnessed. A late camp was set on the first available point while steaks sizzled on the grill. With our best ‘Mr. Benoit accent‘, we rattled off orders to each while packing gear and inching ever closer to our sleeping bags.

Morning broke under an unsettled steel-blue horizon leaving us uncertain if the first drenching would be courtesy of the skies or the river. Our first real encounter with whitewater was to be Rock Island Rapids where the obvious portage was not on either bank but rather over the island itself. In short order we were back in the canoe where I smiled in satisfaction as the river remained between it’s banks and wasn’t dripping from my pant pockets.

Black Feather rapids soon followed. A checkerboard of strewn rocks challenged us to a game in which the odds of staying afloat favoured the river. Brian and I declined the rumbling dare and chose to line(5) the loaded canoe along the eastern bank. Having secured ‘painters’(6) to both bow and stern we planted each rocky step carefully, playing the canoe out into the swiftly flowing current. With lines taut, Brian and I appeared to dance a riverside ‘pas de deux’. An un-choreographed ballet consisting of pirouettes and pliés - leaps from rock to rock while lines snapped and swirled as we danced the canoe through a boulder strewn stage. My smug satisfaction in having remained dry ended abruptly as I suddenly found myself looking up from the Missinaibi, now running at chin level. Having played out too much line, the Missinaibi was quick to remind me of who was boss. Grabbing the stern with one violent yank, the current flung me into the rapids which mockingly roared as I backstroked to shore. As water drained from the camera dangling from my neck, the sickening realization swept over me that I had lost more than my dignity on that plunge.(7) The final rock garden in this series was Beam Rapids which we humbly portaged muttering Burton Cummings’ tune ‘Fine State Of Affairs‘ under our breaths - with heavy emphasis on the title.

"Ooh I miss the real exciters
Anything with anyone
Such a fine thing, fine state of affairs... ooh yeah
Lining up for fast one-nighters
When the final show was done
Such a fine thing, fine state of affairs
No one cares, no, no"

The afternoon sun had finally found the courage to punch through the cloud cover and began to drive the dampness from our clothes. It’s orange rays danced in the treetops, descending to meet us at our evening’s campsite. Pulling to shore at Kettle Falls, we set up camp, prepared supper and studied the geological formations known as “kettles” for which the falls was named. Bathed in sharp shadows, I made my way to the edge of the falls where I surrendered to my fatigue and soon was absorbed by the beauty before me. Mesmerized, I drifted into a deep and intense reflection of my life - a unique emotional experience which stays with me to this day.
(Kettle Falls - Missinaibi River A Fleeting Glimpse Of Spirituality - Chapter Three)

A sunny dawn greeted us once again as we pushed on down the river. Several runable rapids lifted our spirits and made for an enjoyable morning. Passing Alice Island on our left we set a steady pace for what would be the geological highlight of the voyage. The landscape transforms dramatically at Thunderhouse Falls where the metamorphic Precambrian rock of the Canadian Shield delivers the Missinaibi to the sedimentary base of the Hudson Bay Lowlands. There too the foliage changes from the dense boreal forest to a ground cover generally made up of sparse tamarack and black spruce struggling to grow in the thin soil along the well drained river banks.

For Brian and I, Thunderhouse had taken on an air of mystery and intrigue. What little was written about the falls painted it in an eerie, almost supernatural light. Native-Americans roamed these woods centuries before and had themselves marvelled at this cataract. The river drops approximately 30 meters (90 ft) over three closely spaced cascades where aerated water froths and boils in it’s thunderous decent to the chasm below. So violent an action that the vibrating roar is transmitted through one’s bones as much as it is deafening to the ear. At the end of the canyon stands a pyramid shaped rock which juts defiantly from the swirling waters. Indian lore had preserved the legend that this rock, known as Conjuring or Conjurer’s House, was a sacred stone tee-pee and the roar came from the spirits of their forefathers held eternally captive within. A site to explore with respect and to hold in reverence.

Paddles momentarily hung in the air as our ears strained to hear the first tell-tale sounds of Thunderhouse Falls. Sketchy route descriptions had us bordering on paranoia as we scouted the west bank for a portage marker. The current gained strength as the width of the river narrowed and with each stroke the rumble intensified. Rumours of panic stricken canoeists, paddles desperately reaching for salvation as they were swept over the falls abound but could never be substantiated. Regardless, the falls were not to be trifled with if one didn’t wish to join the captive spirits shouting for eternity within Conjuror’s House below. Partially obscured by foliage, the yellow portage marker flashed it’s warning and had us scramble for shore.

The humid air was almost as thick as the swarms of mosquitoes that eagerly greeted us. Squinting from the glare, I nudged Brian, drawing his attention to a mother duck and three ducklings caught in the headwaters of the falls. Like sports fans at the big game, Brian and I shouted words of encouragement to the hapless feathered family as their webbed feet paddled furiously against the current. Drawn almost to the precipice they slowly gained headway, finally reaching a quiet eddy where the exhausted mom took stock of her flock. Brian and I gave a victory shout and pumped our fists into the air, as if our encouragement intervened in the inevitable. Further ashore sat a twisted and perforated aluminum canoe - another sobering reminder of the unforgiving strength of the Missinaibi.

The mile long portage around the falls was reasonably well travelled, rising and falling with the landscape. Essential packs were ferried to a clearing capable of accommodating several tents. With camp erected, we leisurely hiked back and forth along the trail relaying our gear along the way while taking frequent side excursions to view the gorge. Words fail to capture the beauty and grandeur of this magnificent landscape capable of titillating each of the senses. Sparkling granite rusts and ever-greens framed by azure skies and cerulean waters. Pungent pines mingling with the heady fragrance of ferns anchored by an aromatic earthen base. The rhythmic drumming of a ruffled grouse’s wings or the white throated sparrow’s lilting melody set against gurgling waters. The gentle caress of a wafting breeze or the searing sting of pelting rain, all for the exhilarating taste of victory savoured at the end of a rapid run. Not surprisingly this seductive splendour has captured the hearts and minds of artists over the years, serving as muse to several of Canada’s Group Of Seven(8).

A pleasant afternoon was spent exploring the falls from various vantage points, photographing the cataract under playful noon time rays to evening’s falling shadows. Retreating to base camp we prepared supper under descending darkness. Time yet for a few hot chocolates around the fire before we would climb into our sleeping bags and be lulled to sleep by the muffled roar of the falls.

Striking camp we made our way to the portage terminus where our canoe and gear lay in wait. Repacking under a light drizzle, we set off across the foaming river making for the opposite shore. Ahead of us was a foreboding rocky outcrop we nicknamed “the monkey house” which would serve as camp on a future trip. Periodically glancing over my shoulder I watched Conjurer’s Rock recede into the misty horizon - it’s exploration would have to wait for a subsequent trip as well. Our attention was soon diverted to the rumble of Stone Rapids which we ran, avoiding the 875m (0.5 mile) portage on the eastern bank.

The next imperative would be the 2350m (1.5 mile) portage around Hell’s Gate Canyon. Drizzle had turned to a gentle downpour, making the water sing as we put to shore at the head of the gorge. The day was still young - far to early to make camp and wait out the inclement weather. Tying tin cups and pots to our backpacks we set off clanging along the trail in hopes of warning any bear of our approach. Spring rains had muddied our path and fallen deadwood frequently blocked our way as we stumbled along in this mosquito haven. Straining under the weight of our packs, our feet would often become mired in the sucking muck below. Boots sank until they disappeared beneath the ooze, then reappeared with the next strained step, slurping to the surface as the vacuum released.

"Pussywillows, cat-tails, soft winds and roses
Rainpools in the woodland, water to my knees
Shivering, quivering, the warm breath of spring
Pussywillows, cat-tails, soft winds and roses"

Dropping our packs for a breather, we would hike off the trail to peer over the precipice and marvel at Hell‘s Gate canyon below. How easy it would be to miss that narrow veiled path weaving through the undergrowth and find oneself lost in these dense woods. With the rain washing perspiration from our brows, we finally stumbled into a clearing which we named “the Ranger Camp” for it was here that the government had at one time tested the site for it’s suitability in being dammed for hydroelectric power. Holes drilled into the granite canyon wall were all that bore witness to that endeavour. Thankfully the Missinaibi continues it’s unharnessed run to the bay to this day.

In all we would traverse each portage three times as first we ferried personal backpacks, then camp packs containing cooking utensils, tent and other wilderness essentials and finally the canoe itself. Portaging the canoe became a feat of endurance. The muddy trail had now been churned up by our previous trips and stuck to our boots like glue. With the canoe raised overhead, we stumbled over deadfall and slid in the mire. The bow frequently became entangled in dangling branches sending it in a direction opposite to our own while rewarding us with a shower of rain. Neither of us were smokers, yet we lit up a couple of pungent stogies in order to blow acrid cigar smoke at the mosquitoes feasting on our outstretched arms. The famished hoards, unfazed by repellent and blown smoke more frequently required a swat to be driven off. Releasing my grip on one gunwale brought the canoe down on my head with a metallic clang that resonated through the forest. Cursing under my breath, I swear I could hear distant wildlife laughing at my plight! Yet I wouldn’t trade that experience for a lounge chair and umbrella drink at some posh Caribbean resort.

"Are We Having Fun Yet?"

Morning remained overcast as we completed the final leg of the portage. Slip-sliding down the steep clay incline, my momentum carried me into the refreshing waters of Bell’s Bay where the previous day‘s sweat and grime rinsed away. The next few hours were some of the most thrilling as we rode one bucking rapid after another descending from the shield through the clay belt to the lowlands. Our pace began to slow once the river widened, spending the rest of the afternoon in an almost hypnotic rhythmic paddle while entertained by dragon flies feasting on our entourage of mosquitoes.

We pitched camp on a sandy bank at Bull Moose Bay, a deeper and wider expanse of river than we has previously encountered. One of the few locations on the Missinaibi assailable by float plane. A nearby creek gurgled as it’s runoff joined the Missinaibi. It’s waters ran clear however we dare not replenish our canteens in fear of catching a bout of the dreaded 'Beaver Fever'(9). Brian, standing by the gurgling stream with the coffee pot in hand, was staring at his feet and shaking his head in dejected disbelief. The running shoes that had served him so well along those muddy trails had finally decomposed or more accurately exploded. Caked in mud, the sole had separated from the uppers revealing a grungy sock full of toes wiggling within. In sombre ceremony, Brian changed to his boots and spoke few heartfelt words of praise and remembrance of said pair. Hoisting tin mugs of scotch overhead in a final salute the service concluded with the cremation of the canvas runners on our pyre.

Dawn couldn’t arrive soon enough as a new blight known as “no-see-ums” had discovered us. A scourge so tiny that they were all but invisible as they eased their way through the mosquito netting to inflict a burning bite. Even the reeking stink held between our nylon walls didn’t discourage their aggression. Brian and I looked at each other with wrinkled noses, silently incriminating each other for the eye watering stench emanating from the heap of filthy clothes piled between us. Why, those shorts could be hoisted on the end of a stick and used as skunk repellent! Undeniably laundry day had arrived!

Casting off we made for the mouth of the Soweska River, certain a good campsite would be found near the confluence. With a relaxed paddle ahead of us, we discussed what should be done with the plastic bag of festering clothing stowed between the thwarts. In a moment of inspiration we pulled to shore and retrieved a rigid plastic milk crate that carried our kitchen gear. Emptying the perforated box, we placed our clothing within and filled each pocket with a squirt of dishwashing detergent. Securing the open top with bungee cords, we tied the stern painter to the box and headed out to mid river. Tossing our improvised washing machine overboard we leisurely paddled downstream towing the crate behind us. As the box bounced off of the occasional river rock, the agitation scrubbed our duds clean. When soap bubbles no longer burst from our laundry, we knew the rinse cycle was complete and we could haul the crate back aboard. Spreading our damp denims over the center thwarts, the sun provided the dry cycle. River clean, wind dry and sunshine fresh….if only I could figure out how to market this wilderness laundromat.

Weather in the north seemed to change hourly. Once again under overcast skies, we searched for our next campsite. A metallic glint caught Brian’s attention and naturally it begged exploration. Slightly removed from the riverbank stood a government water monitoring station. Finding the door to the small corrugated metal hut unlocked we peered inside. In one corner stood some apparatus replete with wires, pipes, gauges and meters. Powered by batteries charged by rooftop solar panels, the mechanism would spring to life momentarily, then once again go dormant until the next reading. The true find were the bunks inside as we knew immediately that this would be home for the night. No mosquitoes, horseflies, black flies or no-see-ums! Such a pleasant accommodation that we lazed about for a second night, drying out, repacking and cleaning up both ourselves and our host cabin. Grateful for this wilderness oasis, we left it in better shape than in which it had been found.

A blustery day followed with the wind continuously buffeting us. Securing an upright paddle to the center thwart, we lashed a sturdy spruce pole across the blade. Draping that frame with a tarp we created a sail with which we could harness the wind and speed our journey.

“I'm sailing down the summer wind

I got whiskers on my chin
And I like the mood I'm in
As I while away the time of day
In the lee of Christian Island”

Not exactly the sleek sailboat which Gord sang about but with a bit of trim our canoe rode the waves magnificently.

Alternating glances between our top-map and the hazy horizon began to increase in anticipation of our next landmark. In the distance, the silhouette of Portage Island rose from the merging waters of the Missinaibi and Mattagami rivers - the combined flow giving birth to the mighty Moose River. Invigorated by our progress, we decided to push onwards for a few hours more. Finally, with the afternoon light fading, we pulled for a beautiful sand spit on the western shore. Surveying our campsite, it was difficult to believe we were so far north in Ontario. As these caramel sands bound forest greenery to sparkling turquoise waters, the location was deceptively reminiscent of some Caribbean resort. Not such a long stretch of the imagination as our route was punctuated by numerous fossils along the way. Preserved in the sedimentary rock were palm fronds and trilobites, inhabitants of a tropical north millennia before.

If sand was a condiment, my rehydrated supper would have been well seasoned. Finding the gritty mess unpalatable I scratched out a hole and returned it to the very beach that had so generously contributed to our meal. Riverside, I sat back on my heels and washed my utensils, chuckling over the antics of a large demented bumble bee which derived pleasure in delivering repeated stings to my backpack.

….And so it was on this summer’s eve that I drifted into a state of rare contentment for at this moment all was right with my world. Far removed from societies hectic pace, my tension and anxiety dissipated. Deadlines were dictated by the setting sun, line-ups meant walking in tandem on a portage trail, my noisy neighbour was an industrious woodpecker and nature’s rapids would be the only traffic jam encountered. There were no bills, no commercial breaks or intrusive phone calls. Far from my house yet so much more at home here where all I really needed could be carried on my back.

Glancing downstream, I wondered what adventures tomorrow would bring as we continued our voyage down the mighty Moose River on it’s perpetual journey to the bay…
(Missinaibi River - First Excursion - Moose River 1980 - Chapter Four - Conclusion)

“Rivers have what man most respects and longs for in his own life and thought--a capacity for renewal and replenishment, continual energy, creativity, cleansing”

--John M. Kauffman

(1) Mr. Benoit - the character was real but his name changed as my detailed notes were placed somewhere safe, never to be seen again in this lifetime…
(2) Mattagami River - See photo of log jam in post entitled ‘Miscellaneous Photos Of Various River Trips’
(3) Starcraft - a manufacturer of aluminum canoes amongst other products.
(4) Mimeograph - think of it as a pre-computer hardcopy.
(5) “Line” - the act of lining is were the canoe is guided through a set of rapids from the river bank by means of it’s painters (see #6).
(6) Painters - the term refers to the ropes tied to both the bow and stern of a canoe.
(7) As my 35mm Yashica camera became waterlogged early in the trip - the later photos are from my 1982 trip with a second canoe.
(8) Group of Seven - a group of Canadian artists of varying styles who captured Canadian landscapes on canvas early in the 1900’s
(9) Beaver Fever - a slang term for an infectious diarrhoea cause by ingestion of the parasite Giardia lamblia which can live symbiotically in the Canadian beaver. Smaller streams dammed by the beaver may have a greater amoeba or cyst load than the river itself.

Google Earth Co-ordinates:
(cut and paste everything after the dash- (in red) into Google Earth search bar.

Mattice Ontario - Missinaibi Jump-Off Location
Lat/Long 49° 36’56.15” N, 83° 15’48.37” W

Kettle Falls
Lat/Long- 49° 47’11.44” N, 83° 13’13.62” W

ThunderHouse Falls
Lat/Long- 50° 03’09.80” N, 83° 11’05.33” W

Moose River & Abitibi River Junction
Lat/Long- 51° 03’09.28” N, 80° 55’53.89” W

Moosonee ON
Lat/Long- 51° 51’16.28” N, 80° 38’43.81” W

© Copyright - All rights reserved.

____________________________________________________
____________________________________________________
Slide Show of the 1982 Lower Missinaibi River Trip
(1982 Trip With 2nd Canoe to Moose River Crossing)
(See Albany River Slideshow for Scenes Of Moosonee)

“The rivers flow not past, but through us, thrilling, tingling, vibrating every fibre and cell of the substance of our bodies, making them glide and sing”

-- John Muir

Kettle Falls - Missinaibi River (1980)

2008-09-28T10:02:00.001-05:00

Kettle Falls - Missinaibi River

(A Fleeting Glimpse of Spirituality)
(Chapter Three)

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life and see if I could not learn what it had to teach and not, when I came to die, discover that I have not lived”

Henry David Thoreau

The sun danced between tree boughs as it continued it’s descent in the afternoon sky. Brian and I increased our rhythm, each stroke reaching out for our evening’s destination of ‘Kettle Falls’. Our rapid cadence soon rewarded us with the sound of churning water from distant whitecaps as they danced in the waning sunlight. A portage marker on the left bank directed us to shore where aluminium on granite announced our arrival. Lashing the bow to a driftwood stump, we ambled over the rocks for our first view the falls. As waterfalls go, this was not a grand or spectacular sight for the drop was no more than seven feet in the Missinaibi’s never ending journey to join the waters of James Bay. Yet the sound of churning water, like raindrops on a canvas roof or the mournful cry of a loon on a foggy morning, has always stirred emotions deep within me. In spite of it’s diminutive size, this waterfall demanded respect as made evident by the occasional log which drifted into it’s grasp. Caught by it’s watery fist it would gather speed as it was swept over the rocky ledge then disappear in the churning foam below. Held captive, it would swirl and dance below the whirlpool’s surface, then to be mockingly flung out in the foam below.

Kettle Falls was named for it’s unusual geological feature. Over millennia, the unceasing scrubbing action of river current ladened with suspended sand had scoured holes or “kettles” into the granite substrata. The story has it that native americans had cleverly utilized these features for cooking. Rocks heated in a roaring fire were rolled into the water filled depressions bringing it’s contents to a boil. Fish, game or roots would be added in the preparation of a steaming riverside repast. Garnished with the wild chives which grew abundantly in rock crevices, a wilderness ‘Haute cuisine’ would reward the weary river traveler. Ingenuity in the utilization of what nature provided.

Regretfully, our nourishing yet somewhat less enticing meal had escaped from a freeze dried packet and was garnished with a steadily increasing number of mosquitoes. Not to be outdone by the natives we too put these water filled kettles to use as our kitchen sinks. With the pots, and utensils scrubbed clean of ‘chicken a la king’, Brian decided to call it a day and retired to the tent.

The dying fire’s embers still crackled as ribbons of acrid smoke twisted their way heaven bound. The sun had taken it’s final curtain call, having descended below the height of trees on our western shore. Although I was enveloped in darkness, the angle of the sunlight, like spotlights on a stage, still illuminated the far shore. Turning my back to the forest, I walked towards the light. At the river bank, against all logic, I searched for a comfortable rock on which to rest my weary bones. Surveying the panorama before me, I marvelled at the landscape. Like teenagers with bare knees protruding through ragged tattered blue jeans, the granite backbone of the Canadian shield poked through the thin northern soil.

I allowed my senses to fill with the heady aroma of the fire, the sound of birds engaged in their “dusk chorus” and the shimmering orange-magenta hues mirrored in the blue Missinaibi waters and roaring whitecaps alike. Lulled by the hypnotic setting of my wilderness heaven, my mind began to drift. First, like a trickling stream, then like the torrential river before me, memories and emotions quickly streamed by flooding my mind. Not unlike the experience described by people facing life threatening situations, my life also appeared to flash before me. Memories of past events, treasured friends and loving family, reeled by as from an out-of-control movie projector. Unlike common memories, these recollections were so much more deep and intense. Details long forgotten were revealed as years of foggy distortions dissipated. An overwhelmingly intense feeling of love and understanding enveloped me. The power of these memories and emotions were like nothing I had ever experienced before....

Religion had never been a significant factor in my life. In the old country, my mother had been raised a Catholic, my father a Lutheran. As wartime refugees, they met in Canada and after a proper courtship, decided to marry. Religious institutions were not so open and accommodating in those days and in order to have a church wedding, they would have to unite under one denomination. As it was easier for my mother to convert to Lutheranism than my father to Catholicism, they chose the easier road. My parents, facing the demands of making a living in the early 1950s found themselves consumed by hard work and daily chores. Religion was always woven into the fabric of our lives but little time could be to the dedicated to it’s applied practice by way of Sunday service attendance. I was baptized and in later years confirmed in our Lutheran church but otherwise, attendance was minimal and usually reserved for special occasions such as religious holidays, weddings or funerals. Still, religion was undeniably present in our home and exerted an influence on my upbringing.

My life’s path took me to the University of Western Ontario where I chose to study science. I had always been fascinated in how the natural world was structured, organized and governed by logical laws and rules. I have at times been questioned as to whether I find a conflict between verifiable scientific fact and religion based purely on faith. I can only answer that within the wonders of science there are just too many absolutely fantastic and astounding features for this world to have arisen by pure chance.

Although a majority of the world’s population finds comfort and solace in participating in an organized religion, I have never been drawn to any church or denomination. Perhaps it is because all of the rituals any religion surrounds itself with are “man made” and symbolic interpretations of what man thinks would please their God. Contents of the New Testament were compiled by editors under the reign of Constantine and decisions were made as to what to include or exclude from the scriptures. Human bias and political pressure of the times no doubt had an influence in what was written and what we are taught today. Biblical accounts were based on observations by people much more impressionable and superstitious than ourselves. Even today, two people witnessing the same event will passionately describe their observations differently. Many of the biblical statements would be disallowed in today’s court room as hear-say. Where do we look for what is undeniable truth? If not fact, then we must rely on faith.

I do find it troubling that so very many atrocities have been committed and wars fought in the name of God. In my mind it incomprehensible that a loving God would have asked Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac to prove his faith. I fail to understand how religious followers feel it pleases God to sacrifice some animal in his name. Why destroy God’s own work for something symbolic? Are we to live in fear of God or is God a gentle loving and forgiving deity? If so, will the most heinous and atrocious deeds be forgiven if one finds God on their deathbed? Would a kind and righteous atheist be allowed into heaven, if there turns out to be one? Religion is a conundrum and even those most schooled in the subject can only offer the combined speculation assembled over the ages. That is what we call unwavering faith.

Religion has always been a very personal matter to me. I believe that I will be judged, not on how often I attend church but rather on my values and how I chose to live my life on a daily basis. Is it better to spend time in church praising God or to eulogize him by actions such as helping people less fortunate than oneself? Does God keep a scorecard? I was married before God in a beautiful church. I have visited various churches as a tourist and found them calming to the soul and inspiring. Yet, I do not believe that God lives between four walls. I see the ten commandments simply as logical rules to live one’s life by. They make sense for an honourable and civilized society regardless of their origin. I sense an unseen energy running through my life which I might choose to call a deity, a spirit or force.. I still call this feeling the presence of God and my faith remains intact even in the presence of my science.

I slowly became aroused finding myself warmed by both the campfire and my emotions. Like the flickering end of a cellulose in a film reel, the images rolled to a halt. Sitting on the darkened shores of my pine and granite cathedral, I felt a sense of peace and tranquility never previously experienced . Although the intensity of the moment had dispersed, the afterglow of the experience remains with me to this day. Had I been touched by God for these few fleeting moments at Kettle Falls? Call it what you will.

Dousing the campfire I scanned my river one last time on this precious evening and zipped myself into the tent to prepare for tomorrow’s continuing journey. Down my beautiful Missinaibi River and the ever meandering river of my life…

* * *
© Copyright - All rights reserved.

( I did not relate my emotional Kettle Falls experience to Brian the following morning, nor did I speak of it for years afterwards. In more recent years, when asked of my religion, I only half jokingly replied that my denomination is “New Wilderness Reformed” . Some have been confused, others nodded in understanding. while a few have looked at me as if I had committed blasphemy. To this day, I feel closest to my creator when surrounded by the infinite marvels of my northern wilderness, isolated from the crazy hectic nonsense that drives the superficial daily world.)

Tu es mon compagnon de voyage!
Je veux mourir dans mon canot
Sur le tombeau, près du rivage,
Vous renverserez mon canot

When I must leave the great river
O bury me close to its wave
And let my canoe and my paddle
Be the only mark over my grave

From 'Mon Canoe d'écorce' ('My Bark Canoe') translated by Frank Oliver Call

Note: To view a slide show of the Missinaibi River Canoe Trip, including Kettle Falls, return to Chapter Two and scroll to the bottom of the tale. Click on Frame to initiate show.

Google Earth Co-ordinates:
(cut and paste everything after the dash- (in red) into Google Earth search bar.

Kettle Falls
Lat/Long- 49° 47’11.44” N, 83° 13’13.62” W

"In wilderness I sense the miracle of life, and behind it our scientific accomplishments fade to trivia."

~Charles A. Lindbergh, Life, 22 December 1967

Moose River 1980 (1st Missinaibi RiverTrip)

2008-08-26T21:39:00.006-05:00

Missinaibi River - First Excursion
Moose River 1980
(Chapter Four - Conclusion)

"Canoeists and other primitive-trippers are not delighted to encounter others intent on the same private experience. How many visitors constitute the end of wilderness?"

John A. Livingston

Squinting, the vista before me could have been from some exotic tropical travel brochure. Shimmering white sands, clear blue waters and lush green forests were enticing us to stay yet another day. Dousing our campfire with the remaining coffee, we broke camp and packed our canoe. The morning sun began to play tag with the clouds as we pushed off and leisurely began to paddle northward on the mighty Moose River.

Perhaps it started long ago, in the mind of a child, with some mental image that slowly developed over time. Images of a deep and dark mysterious river meandering through some boreal forest or equally desolate landscape, tree boughs draped over the river bank sheltering it from intruders. A foreboding steel blue sky threatening from above, keeping secrets from all but the most adventurous. A mysterious place, A private place. This became my mental image Canada’s mighty Moose River.

Fascinating tales of the Coureur de Bois, hardy fur traders carrying their own weight in supplies to remote outposts, provided further material for day dreams during Canadian history class in elementary school. As if by magic, the past suddenly became linked to my present with Ontario Northland Railway's Polar Bear Express. Here were photographs of a train packed with school children, not unlike myself, on an excursion back in time, faces pressed to the windows with wide eyed stares reflected in the waters of the mighty Moose River. I vowed that someday I too would relive these childhood dreams and board the Polar Bear Express northward for a trip to Moosonee

To my surprise, the Moose River was not deep and meandering, but quite shallow, carving a relatively straight path to the brackish water of James Bay. Trees on the banks had their boughs trimmed yearly by the flow of ice during the spring break-up and did not embrace the river as I had imagined. The width of the river allowed the warmth of the sun to penetrate giving a perfect view of the majestic northern sky which welcomed all visitors. The 'Moose' turned out to be nothing like the images conjured up in my childhood fantasies, except in the fact that it was no less grand and majestic

We continued to paddle northward where the first sight of civilization in about ten days was the Ontario Northland's railway bridge spanning the river at Moose River Crossing. As we negotiated the rapid water around the base of the bridge, the sound of an approaching train thundered into our consciousness. There, to my amazement, appeared the Polar Bear Express. crossing the bridge at precisely the right time for we could see school children with their faces pressed against the windows greeting us with enthusiastic waves and discharging flash bulbs. We raised our paddles into the air in a salute!

The circle was complete. I was on my way to Moosonee via the Moose River under my own power! So much better than by the train trip I had once envisioned. I wondered what stories and images those school children may now have and how it may influence them in future years

Daydreams turned to reality as threatening skies suggested we find shelter quickly. Approaching the confluence of the Moose and the Abitibi Rivers, we made for the eastern shore and hastily heaved our packs up the steep bank. Were we in luck? A beautifully cleared point of land led to a cabin hiding within the forest. Shaking the latch we were disappointed to find that the roughly hewn wooden door was locked, separating our shelter from the approaching elements. Retreating to our packs, we set up our tent only minutes before the rain began to pour. The deluge soon invited the wind to join in as daylight turned dark as night. Never before have I seen lightning splitting the sky sideways as it traversed the horizon! While trying to secure the tent from the buffeting wind fighting to tear it from its earthen moorings, the dancing trees separated long enough for us to spy an additional structure hidden by the forest. Defeated, we threw rocks on the collapsed tent in hopes preventing it from reaching Moosonee before us, then made a mad dash for the cabin with what packs we could carry. Salvation! The cabin was open! Stumbling into our sanctuary, the torrential rain poured down in biblical proportions as the thunder bellowed angrily. The darkness within soon gave way to the warm glow of a lantern revealing bunk beds, a crude table and wood stove. Heaven! Rehydrating supper and sipping steaming mugs of fortified coffee, we settled into our bunks and watched the curtains of rain drape our window.

The morning sky remained gun-metal blue as the clouds defeated the sun’s meagre attempt to poke through.. Venturing out to assess the damage we gathered up our scattered gear and prepared to brave the final leg of our journey. Raising my collar to the wind, we pushed off into the bleakness. Rhythmic paddle strokes beat out the seconds, minutes and hours of river travel.

Brackish tasting water and increasingly evident tidal action betrayed the fact that our destination of Moosonee was obtainable within the day. Emboldened by that knowledge and the anticipation of cold beer, we doubled our stroke and regrettably threw caution to the wind. Light danced off of the distant river revealing the presence of a final set of rapids, the Kwatogohegans(2). Reconnoitering the water before us, we could see no rocks or other obstructions - only large standing “haystack" waves. The last hurrah would be an exhilarating roller coaster ride down this chute of water. We approached along the west bank and passed the point of no return. Smash! - the first wave broke over the bow of the Starcraft canoe drenching me head to toe.. Smash!! - came the second wave repeating the first. My knees were now bathed in water. Smash!!! - came another as water settled around my thighs. Smash, smash, smash - my stomach sank as did our canoe. We probably were quite the sight, riding out the tail end of the rapids with our canoe below the river surface with only the wildlife witness to our predicament. Throwing a line to shore we swam to retrieve it and haul our canoe to the river bank. Unpacking, we drained our gear and found that river sand had infiltrated every crevice of our packs and clothing. Draining the canoe, we sheepishly repacked and silently disembarked with a lesson learned.

Kwatobohegan Rapids - Courtesy Irwinsg
(ie. not from my personal trip)

(My memory has this section as even more violent than pictured in this video)

Late afternoon heightened the biter-sweet realization that Moosonee was in sight. Our final strokes did not seem to propel us at all. Finally reaching the public waterfront landing we shook hands in congratulation, tied our canoe to a post and sprinted up the river bank. Reaching Revillon Street which ran parallel to the river, we chose to turn up First Street where convenience stores and restaurants beckoned us to taste civilization once again.

“May we take your picture?” We didn’t understand. “May we take your picture?” Still wet and sandy from the Kwatobohegan Rapid’s failed attempt to scrub ten days of river travel from our tired frames, we were a sad looking pair. While dazed by the sights and noise of Moosonee, we were approached by two elderly ladies with cameras strung around their necks. “Excuse me, may we take your picture?” They explained to us that they had just arrived from Toronto on the Polar Bear Express to see the northern town of Moosonee. Begging for our photo as proof to friends that they had indeed met Moosonee natives, we didn’t have the heart to refuse. Nor did we reveal to them that as residents of the greater Toronto area, we too were visitors and perhaps in a weeks time, neighbours. Our good deed of the day completed, we entered a restaurant for the best tasting hamburger and cola imaginable. No rehydration or river water required.

Our waitress had noticed our predicament as we waddled in, shaking one leg, followed by the other, chafing from our wet clothing and depositing sand in our footsteps. She kindly informed us that the town laundromat was a few streets south. Thanking her, we headed back to the waterfront to retrieve our canoe and packs before evening set in. Our canoe had been moved! We quickly realized that the tide had come in and with our canoe firmly tied to a post, it was in the process of disappearing underwater for the second time that day as the river water rose. The kindness of an unknown resident saved our gear as well as pride by retying the canoe further up the bank. Such were our first impressions of this rugged frontier town.

Finding a willing resident to house our canoe for the duration of our stay, we picked up a six pack of beer from the town’s liquor store and headed off to find the laundromat. Walking with distress, a van roared past us in a cloud of dust and illuminated brake lights.
We rubbed our eyes in disbelief as the rusty Ford reversed and two long haired angelic native Cree girls poked their heads out the windows, “Want a ride?” Moosonee must be close to heaven, I thought! Regrettably the ride, as our conversation, was far too short as we stepped out at the laundromat and said our woeful goodbyes.

An interesting enterprise, this blue concrete block structure. It housed a small variety store on one side and the town laundromat on the other, separated by a partial cinder block wall. We alternated feeding the washing machine coins while feeding ourselves junk food from the adjoining store. We then stepped outside to quaff down beer and re-entered the laundromat only to repeat the cycle.

Suddenly a commotion from within the laundromat drew our attention.. To our horror the washing machines were shuddering with a sickening grinding noise as they attempted to dance around the room. Investigating the noise, the proprietor peeked around the corner only to see us smiling, backs propped up against the machines, steadying them. As all appeared in order he returned to his store counter. Brian and I opened the machines to discover a layer of Kwatobohegan sand on the bottoms of the drums. Horrified, we scooped up all the silt we could, discarding it in the garbage. Reloading our clothes in other machines we proceeded to finish our laundry. Brian and I cleaned out the damaged machines as best we could while nervously keeping an eye on the store keeper’s entrance. Before we could breath a sigh of relief, the new machines began to convulse in sympathy to their damaged neighbours. Again the store keeper cast us a questioning glance around the wall as we held our rocking washers and nodded with feigned innocence..

With knots in our stomachs we once again cleaned out the machines and made a hasty getaway, backpacks dripping with semi dried clothes. Flagging a river taxi we completed our escape by retreating to our Charles Island campsite, putting half the width of the mighty Moose River between us and the towns folk who no doubt would be making plans to lynch us..

It was with regret that we could not afford to owe up to the damages to the laundromat. We were even sorrier for the numerous Moosonee natives that must have had to live with the stench of filthy clothing, waiting for the washing machines to be repaired.
A final night was spent at the Moosonee Lodge where hot showers and soft beds awaited. Loading our canoe into a box car the following morning, we boarded the Northlander (1) and I experienced the train trip envisioned in my youth.

* * *

(1) The Northlander is the Ontario Northland Railway’s (ONR) mixed freight and passenger train whereas the Polar Bear Express is strictly a passenger excursion train. Both run between the towns of Moosonee and Cochrane Ontario on alternate days.

(2) Kwatobohegan Rapids - have also seen the placename spelled Kwatogohegan. Although I have used the spellings interchangeably here, I first encountered the name spelled with a b as Kwatobohegan and find that pronunciation most pleasing to my ear. Other variations no doubt exist.

Note: To view a slide show of the Missinaibi River Canoe Trip, Return to Chapter Two and scroll to the bottom. Click on frame to initiate show.

Google Earth Co-ordinates:
(cut and paste everything after the dash- (in red) into Google Earth search bar.

Portage Island (Missinaibi & Mattagami Junction forming Moose River)
Lat/Long 50° 44’06.53” N, 81° 28’41.14” W

Moose River & Abitibi River Junction
Lat/Long- 51° 03’09.28” N, 80° 55’53.89” W

Moose River Crossing
Lat/Long- 50° 49’03.92” N, 81° 17’32.57” W

Moosonee ON
Lat/Long- 51° 51’16.28” N, 80° 38’43.81” W

Missinaibi

French River Ontario - 1979

2008-07-27T23:24:00.011-05:00

French River Ontario - 1979

(Wolesley Bay to Key Harbour)

“I stand by the river and I know that it has been here yesterday and will be here tomorrow and that therefore, since I am part of its pattern today, I also belong to all its yesterdays and will be a part of all its tomorrows. This is a kind of earthly immortality, a kinship with rivers and hills and rocks, with all things and all creatures that have ever lived or ever will live or have their being on the earth. It is my assurance of an orderly continuity in the great design of the universe.”

Virginia S Eifert

Brian’s thumb began to droop and my cardboard sign declaring our destination “Wolseley Bay” was already soggy under my sweaty grasp. Hitchhiking!…… We were becoming depressed as car and camper alike sped by while we baked under the sun on the gravel shoulder of Hwy 69. Passive begging for a ride wasn’t working so our ever increasing frustration required a more aggressive tactic. Retreating to the service station at Key Harbour where we had stowed our car, Brian approached an elderly gentleman as he pumped gas into his chevy. Our non-threatening demeanour and pitiful pleading was thankfully sufficient in securing a ride as far down the highway as his destination allowed. Coffees in hand, his wife approached the car cautiously, casting a quizzical look at her hubby as two strangers peered out from the rear seat. All was well as we drove off in the last air conditioned luxury we would enjoy for the next week.

Parting company at Hwy 64 we once again found ourselves pounding the shimmering tarmac. Cars occasionally whizzed by, offering momentary relief with the gust of air that followed in their slipstream. Spying a beautiful arm of sparkling water reaching for the sticky asphalt, I momentarily considered dropping my pack and jumping into that enticing cool blue oasis. The roadside sign marked the location as ‘Moonlight Bay’. Cued by the name, I began singing to myself The Guess Who tune ‘When Friends Fall Out’.

“The lone wolves howl
On Moonlight Bay
Dark moon is out
When friends fall out
When friends fall out”(1)

My feet were singing a different tune, orchestrated by the roadside sand and grit that had infiltrated my stiff new hiking boots. Still not broken in, each abrasive step grated away at my skin as I gingerly plodded along the gravel shoulder.

Sporadic rides offered by sympathetic locals had finally delivered us to the far reaches of secondary highway 528. As we walked the final mile, the setting sun cast our shadows before us like compass needles pointing to the cottages of Wolseley Bay.

Such are the rigors of single canoe tripping. One car yet two destinations. Our canoe and gear had been deposited at Wolseley Bay much earlier that day. Stored under the watchful eye of an agreeable vacationer, we drove our car back to Key Harbour which, if successful, would be our final destination in about a weeks time. The gruelling sojourn back to our canoe had all but devoured the remainder of the day. After refreshments at the convenience store we haphazardly threw our gear into the canoe and baptized our paddles with the waters of the bay. Evening grew darker with each stroke so we set our sight on a distant island and doubled our pace for what would be our first night’s camp.

Having shared opposite ends of the canoe on several previous occasions, Brian and I already had our camp routine down to a science. Fire built, tent pitched and kitchen erected, we now turned our attention to supper. Real food after our gruelling day! Opening my daypack, I retrieved the steaks purchased earlier that morning. Not much grilling on the glowing embers would be needed as they already appeared to be medium-rare courtesy of the mid-day sun’s relentless assault on our backpacks. Now, as the setting orb skimmed the tree line, waves shimmered tangerine against evening‘s cobalt sky. Repacking the canoe in a much more organized manner, we retired to the tent, lulled to sleep by the symphony of mosquitoes keeping time to the crackling percussion of our campfire.

As the rising sun attempted to burn away the mists of dawn, it also burned that morning’s image into my memory. Such an eerie sensation as the dense morning fog was pierced only by the bow of our canoe and the haunting cry of a distant loon. With the haze beginning to dissipate, the entrance to the French revealed itself on our right as the gentle sound of rolling water drew us to ‘Little Pine Rapids‘.

The French river was an intricate link in the chain of rivers used by early explorers and voyagers in opening the heart of Canada. Flotillas of canoes would travel these watery highways from Montreal, up the St. Lawrence, upstream on the Ottawa and then making the gruelling trip up the Mattawa to traverse the height of land. Caution was of utmost importance as the voyagers now entered the unpredictable Lake Nipissing. This large expanse of open water emptied into the French River which then, through various channels, provided access to the Great Lakes and further westward.

It was a rather humbling emotion that enveloped me knowing that historically significant explorers such as Samuel De Champlain, Étienne Brûlé, Raddison & Groseilliers, Jean Nicollet and Pierre De La Vérendrye had passed through this very channel centuries before. Fur trade had fuelled the exploration of Canada as the Coureur de Bois paddled these waters with bales of pelts destined for Montreal and Europe. Black robed Jesuit priests including Fr. Jean de Brebeuf and Fr. Gabrielle Lalemont dealt in a different commodity bringing Christianity to the Wendat (Huron) at the settlement of Saint Marie (among the Hurons). Tall, straight and robust white pine trees passed through this corridor making their way to England’s shipyards as masts for sailing ships. Through this narrow granite corridor, one paddled in the shadow of history.

Approach To Big Pine Rapids - French River
(as seen from north shore looking upstream)

We decided to make camp at ‘Big Pine Rapids’ as the location was spectacular. The river narrowed here as it passed through granite outcrops - banks framed by mixed pines and hardwoods. Both riverbanks looked enticing however we chose the northern shore as our home for the evening. Setting up camp would wait as we found ourselves mesmerized by the roaring rapids before us. Reconnoitring the river, we mentally dissected the channels between rocks and discussed the characteristics of the flow. Where was the best ride hidden? Where would we brace or use a ‘hanging pry’ to find shelter in an eddy and catch our breath for the next segment? We mentally mapped out several routes between the ‘haystack’ waves, interpreting and deciphering both downstream and upstream ‘V’s.(2)

As airplanes cue up in a landing pattern, we approached each chosen route on wings of water, waiting for the power of the current to grip the hull and take us to “the point of no return”. Every ride was exhilarating as the previous, weaving our way through the bucking waves to the foot of the rapids. When the adrenaline rush subsided, we would debrief each other in hopes of improving our technique for each following run.

Regrettably the advancing darkness forced us to finish our watery roller coaster rides and pitch camp. It was agreed. We would spend another day at this paradise.

Big Pine Rapids Campsite

What had I stepped in? Poison ivy? Painfully itchy feet had woken me and unable to bear the discomfort any longer I crawled out of the tent to examine myself. The grit that had infiltrated my boots during our hike to Wolseley Bay had etched my skin as if I had been wearing socks made of sandpaper. Red and inflamed, I hobbled to the river’s edge and immersed my feet in the cool running waters. As in the cartoons, I could have sworn that a hiss followed erupting steam as it rose from my submerged limbs.

Resembling kids at an amusement park, we re-ran Big Pine repeatedly, pausing periodically to dry ourselves, bask on the hot rock ledges while catching a few winks in the process.

A few ‘weekend warriors’ passed through our camp, landing to scout the rapids prior to attempting their own descent. The group of us chatted under sun drenched skies, marvelling at the magnificent river beneath. Our company remained long enough for us to trade turns descending ‘Big Pine’ while those ashore documented each others run on film.

Distant whoops and war cries had us convinced we had travelled back to another era. Upstream, voyager-like canoes carrying upwards of ten youngsters each, paddled with furious rate towards the opposite shore. A supervised excursion of schoolchildren were experiencing this river’s history firsthand. Campfires flickered across the waters where the distant echoes of their songs were periodically punctuated by youthful laughter.

Another spectacular dawn found us packing our gear to the end of the ‘Big Pine’ portage having chosen not to make a final run that morning loaded with cargo. As a novice, I had learned that lesson well during a previous trip on these very rapids. After having hung up on a rock, the canoe twisted broadside against the current, pinning it against that granite obstacle as the boat filled from river flow. A rather embarrassing downstream trip, feet first and sans canoe ensued as assorted flotsam and jetsam bobbed around us as we floated our way to the foot of the rapids. Somewhere in the pool below, the waters must cover lost French coins, clay pipes and Indian arrowheads. My contribution to this historic time capsule was my axe and a naphtha lantern. I lament their loss with each passing trip.

Below Big Pine, the gentle measured pace allowed one to drift into a state tranquil and hypnotic. Hours of ever changing vistas - observing the bobbing horizon or gently skimming along the tree lined shore. Chasing shadows cast by clouds upon the river, then, once caught, caressed by the warmth of the re-emerging sun. Squinting to best view the shimmering reflections on sparkling distant waves. Listening to rivulets trickle off the banks, weaving their tortuous journey around rocks and mossy logs to join the river’s never-ending flow. Subtle earthen odours with notes of pine needles laid upon the aroma of the river itself. A fragrance more pleasant than any concocted in Paris. Always wondering about what might be found around the next bend.

Paddles simultaneously freeze in mid-air, draining drops of water as they run down the shafts in search of the river. On the shore a deer has sacrificed the safety of the forest to quench it’s thirst at water’s edge. We watch, barely risking a breath. Raising it’s head, we momentarily observe each other - and then it is gone, leaving us with only a memory and a smile.

Lulled into complacency by the gentle caress of the river we found that we had missed our channel and had taken an unintentional tour down the long arm of ‘Hammerhead Bay’. The sun was finally overtaken by the clouds permitting the mists to waft in. Each spoken word and stroke of the paddle gently reverberated against the granite walls of the inlet. This canyon was a blind alley which terminated after a few miles marked only by a weathered cabin tucked away amongst the trees. No current flowed here. This alone should have provided the clue to our dead end. The mist, now a drizzle began to wash the sweat from our brows as we traced our way back. Looking up, I resumed my gaze at the beautiful granite walls and towering pines of these backwoods. Backwoods, - another melody wove its way into my brain. As previously it was by Canada’s The Guess Who, but this was a song in tribute to one of my favourite folk artists, Gordon Lightfoot. Gord and his music is the embodiment of the Canadian wilderness experience. The tune was simply entitled ‘Lightfoot’ and the line that played out in my head was...

“He is an artist
He is an artist
He is an artist painting Sistine masterpieces of pine and fur and backwoods
Still echoes long ago the winter night of black July and then the outcome
Of an early Cleveland rainfall” (3)

Ah Gord! We should have gone left but were mislead by the larger body of water to our right. Running through some minor rapids we marvelled at the whirlpools formed by the various merging currents that chased each other. The current convinced us that we were on track once more.

The French River offers a choice of routes in downstream travel. The northern channel circumventing Eighteen Mile Island is somewhat wider however it is cursed by the proliferation of cottages and subsequent motor boat traffic. The more isolated southern channel is protected from most motorized craft by the number of rapids it offers. The relative isolation and challenging rapids of the southern branch make it the obvious choice for wilderness canoeists.

As if on cue, the sun re-emerged illuminating our way to our next campsite. We stopped off on a small island mid-channel and found it so pleasant, decided to remain. The big draw was our discovering what seemed to be an inexhaustible supply of blueberries. Protected from foraging animals, the yield of cherry sized blueberries had bushes sagging from their weight. Hand over hand, we insatiably stuffed our mouths. Fistfuls until our hands and faces resembled Saturday morning smurfs. Blueberry tea, blueberry pancakes, blueberry oatmeal, blueberry chicken stew, blueberries for dessert, BLUEBERRIES!

Amongst the patches of blueberries lay patches of spongy moss. Pitching our tents on the moss would cushion our backbones from the granite backbone of the island. Propped up in front of our campfire, Brian and I were digesting nicely when morning’s drizzle made a repeat performance. Deciding to turn in, we made our way to our cushy beds.

If not for the steady drumming of rain upon the tent fly, I might have thought I had become incontinent. My hands, tucked deeply inside my sleeping bag felt moisture - no, a puddle!!! I sloshed my way out of my soaked cocoon and found my rain gear submerged in yet another pool of water. Useless! Rousing Brian we broke camp amongst a slurry of curses. We had neglected to realize that moss, requiring moisture to grow, would find every depression on our island an ideal 'flowerpot'. Rainwater would fill these depressions nourishing the moss and the moss in turn acted as a biological sponge.

Soggy packs and containers of blueberries were tossed into the canoe as we pushed off for yet another day. Mist continued to waft down on us periodically as if canoeing in the produce aisle of the supermarket. Still, I find that these overcast rainy days bring a special magic to river travel.

Another rainy camp followed. It was disheartening to find that some irresponsible campers had desecrated this natural campsite with discarded glass bottles and other refuse. We cleaned up best we could as a rehydrated freeze dried meal bubbled and sputtered away on the fire. We would pack out the garbage to the roadside picnic area at the highway crossing. This trip was to court several rainy days and so it was as we once again pushed off. Our topographical maps announced that we were passing ‘Lost Child Bay’ to the north. Was the explanation of the name self evident? We wondered…

A grey afternoon brought us into view of the bridge crossing Hwy 69. This location, etched into the recesses of my memory from years previous, held a special significance for me.

Ten years previous, in 1969, my dad and I had taken a far too rare trip to the north country. Stopping off at the picnic area at the river crossing, we ate lunch while observing vacationers arriving in vehicles sporting distant licence plates. A commotion coming from below the bridge soon drew our attention. Two canoes, one capsized, bobbed along as its occupants laughed and splashed each other with water under the midday sun. I found it odd as the water below the bridge was calm and devoid of obstructions. What could have caused them to tip? Or was it just joyful frolicking on that sun drenched day? Their obvious enjoyment left me envious.

My dad and I left the French River crossing that day in search of yet another Provincial Park and nightly campsite. Little did I realize that ten years hence, I would pass under that very steel trestle structure and remember that day long ago where my father and I had scratched our heads over the antics of the canoeists below.

Brian and I took advantage of this ‘rest stop’ to clean up and reorganize our canoe. Answering questions from several curious tourists, we took one last glance around and pointed the bow downstream.

Within earshot of the bridge the sound of the river can be heard dropping over what is best described as a ledge rather than a waterfall. The Ministry of Natural Resources had constructed a canoe tramway on the south bank of the French in order to circumvent Recollet Falls. This wooden slide allowed us to pull our fully loaded canoe around the un-runnable ledge with the least inconvenience. Proceeding downstream we once again chose an island for our nightly camp in hopes of finding additional berry treats. As the weather remained blustery, Brian and I huddled around the campfire sipping coffee and studying our topographical maps.

River navigation is for the most part straightforward for in theory you put your canoe in one end and let the current take you to your destination somewhere at the other end. The situation becomes more complex when the river sprouts multiple channels and tributaries. Global Positioning Satellite units (GPS) had yet to make their way into the sportsman’s arsenal so navigation was for the most part by dead reckoning assisted by compass and topographical maps. The maps, based on 1950’s surveys, did not always reflect changes in channels due to erosion or fluctuating water levels. Aligning the map to magnetic north required the calculation of ‘declination’ which was the degree of drift of the earth’s magnetic field from when the survey was made to that of present day. Much more critical in activities such as hiking and orienteering where there is no river guiding the direction. Nevertheless, knowing one’s precise location confirms distance travelled and helps to predict promising campsite locations.

Our current location was on the edge of one top map as it ran into the next. Weighing down the abutted maps with rocks, we contemplated our next days plan of action. Three channels presented themselves as options as the river turned southwards in it’s run to Georgian Bay. The most westerly channel, often referred to as the ‘voyageur channel’, appeared to be the primary branch however this route would extend our trip back to Key Harbour all the while exposed to Georgian Bay’s unpredictable weather. The eastern channel appeared small but navigable as did the slightly wider central channel. With time and safety in mind we decided to make our way down the first and most easterly channel. As I started to trace the route with an indelible ‘Sharpie’ marker a sudden gust of wind erupted, blowing hot embers our way. Jumping up we brushed away the smouldering coals from ourselves and the maps. Unbeknownst to me the gust of wind had raised our maps and laid them down in a slightly altered position. The change was unperceivable at that time but the three channels had shifted so that the eastern channel was now overlaid on the central channel. Concentrating on that route, I perfectly and precisely navigated us down the wrong channel.

Some confusion did occur as we circled around in a bay trying to find some prominent landmark to identify our position. By chance two fishermen happened upon us in this secluded location and were able to advise us to an escape route. Embarrassed, yet this error may have been to our advantage as the river’s flow was directed down several chutes, each so narrow we could barely squeeze through to the bay. The smaller eastern channel might have presented an even more challenging route.

We bade the French farewell as we entered the waters of Georgian Bay. Sunset descended, but with this new landscape, where were we to make camp? Here an eerie violet sky was mirrored in the still magenta waters of the bay, broken by countless rocks of varying sizes where they protruded through the glassy surface. From boulders to islands, the bay was punctuated with these obstructions as far as the eye could see.

This area was known as ‘The Fingerboards’ in reference to the dot markers, notes on a guitar’s neck. Choosing a larger treeless island we pulled our canoe onto the rock and scouted it end to end. Other than the view, it had not much to offer. Erecting our tents, keeping well clear of any mossy bedding, we began scouring the shoreline for driftwood. Gathering broken branches piece by piece we retreated to the fire pit to stoke the flames then attack again in search of more fuel. Reaching through the twilight I was about to grasp a branch when it rattled and slithered off. Startled, I jumped back, realizing I had mistaken a rattlesnake for kindling under this failing light. We were much more cautious in our selection after that episode and discovered that even more rattlers shared their home with us that evening. We kept our tents zipped up tightly that night in fear of having one of these cold blooded creatures crawl into our sleeping bags in search of warmth.

In spite of mornings gusty winds, there were few whitecaps on the bay, allowing steady progress as we caressing the shoreline. Far off to the right sat ‘Bustard Island’ against which we could measure our progress. Larger boats began to appear as vacationers from cottages and marinas alike explored this shoreline. Stopping for lunch on what could only be described as a wind buffeted rock, we could barely keep a can of sterno(4) lit to warm our coffee. Crackers, peanut butter and some gorp(5) restored our energy to continue paddling.

If my navigating had not erred as it had previously, the inlet ahead was the entrance to Key River and not Henvey Inlet to the south. We entered the sheltered arm of water as the cooling wind surrendered to the warming sunlight. Soon after we came across a rather quiet marina where we docked and sprinted ashore to a Coca Cola machine found standing outside the front door. In a frenzied state, we routed around for change which had found it’s way to the lowest recesses of our packs. Exchanging coins for soda, we stood there savouring the frosty flavour. It wasn’t so much that I missed ‘soda-pop’, as river water was quite palatable. What I missed most of all was having a drink that was ice cold!

The final stretch of a journey is always bittersweet. The anticipation of finishing is always tempered by the reluctance to end an enjoyable river trip. We had arrived at Key Harbour from which we had departed a week earlier.
It wasn’t until weeks later while taking a shower that I inspected the feet that had irritated me so much during the start of the French River trip. It seemed that the dirt would not wash away. But was it dirt? It almost appeared that I was wearing socks of a shade slightly darker than my skin. But it was my skin! What I believe had happened was that those unbroken new hiking boots were so stiff that during my hike back to Wolseley Bay that the sand and grit which had infiltrated my footwear etched my skin. With the combination of the abrasive material, the tight sweaty boots and the tanning leather dye, I had managed to tattoo myself the same shade as the leather. Though somewhat faded, to this day I continue to wear what I call my ‘French River socks’ as a permanent reminder of that trip

I was to canoe the French several more times in future days but some excursions are just more memorable than the others.
***To see a short slide show of Big Pine Rapids on the French River, Click on the link below to redirect to a supplemental post on this blog entitled;

French River Revisited (Wolesely Bay to Big Pine Rapids and Back - 1984

(1) When Friends Fall Out - American Woman, 1970 -The Guess Who

(2) Downstream ‘V’s appear as the water flowing between two rocks indicating clear passage. An Upstream ‘V’ has a rock at the apex - an obstacle that should be avoided.
(3) Lightfoot - Wheatfield Soul, 1968 - The Guess Who - Full lyrics of 'The Guess Who's' tribute tune to Gordon Lightfoot can be found at the bottom of the right hand blue sidebar of this blog.
(4) Sterno - gelled alcohol based fuel in a can which can be opened and lit.
(5) GORP - Good Old Raisins and Peanuts. Basically any dry nut, seed and fruit mix.

Plaque reads: “as for me I labour always to prepare a way for those willing after me to follow it”

Google Earth Co-ordinates:
(cut and paste everything after the dash- (in red) into Google Earth search bar.

Wolesley Bay - French River Jump-off
Lat/Long- 46° 01’09.03” N, 80° 34’ 58.45” W

French River & Hwy 69 Bridge
Lat/Long- 46° 01’ 09.03” N, 80° 34’58.45” W

Recollet Falls
Lat/Long- 46° 01’01.70” N, 80° 36’18.78” W

Fingerboards-Georgian Bay
Lat/Long- 45° 53’ 53.05” N, 80° 33’ 41.63” W

Key Harbour (off of Key Inlet - Finish)
Lat/Long- 45° 53’ 39.89” N, 80° 33’41.63” W

French River - Click On Map To Enlarge

"I, a light canoe will build me...that shall float upon the river, like a yellow leaf of autumn, like a yellow water lily!"

Hiawatha

Albany River 1983

2008-06-24T08:55:00.015-05:00

Albany River
May 20th-June 1st - 1983

(Kabinakagami, Kenogami & Albany to Fort Albany)

"What sets a canoeing expedition apart is that it purifies you more rapidly and inescapably than any other travel. Travel a thousand miles by train and you are a brute; pedal five hundred on a bicycle and you remain basically a bourgeois; paddle a hundred in a canoe and you are already a child of nature."

Pierre Elliot Trudeau

* * *

Brian and I clambered out of the Ontario Northland bus idling on the dusty shoulder of Hwy 17. The northern town of Hearst greeted us with the same greyness with which we departed Cochrane’s train station hours earlier. With our car deposited in wait of our return, we entered the roadside pub in eager anticipation of lunch and hopes of negotiating a ride back to our jump-off site. Scattered truckers punctuated the odd tables as most of the mid-day crowd had already departed to complete their day. A cheerful waitress delivered the usual pub fare as my quarter coaxed ‘BTO’s’ ‘Blue Moanin’ from the juke box. With a nudge of my elbow, Brian grabbed a couple of ‘Molsons’ and approached two locals chatting away at a corner table. Greetings were followed by our proposal. A few more beers and a few dollars secured the chauffeuring services of Remy & Pierre as we found our way back down the dusty logging roads to where we had stowed our canoe and gear at daybreak Struck again by that peculiar emotion, I watched as the tail lights of our drivers’ car were devoured by the distant dusty horizon.

Silence…..

We were now committed completing our journey.

Spurred on by approaching dusk, we retrieved our packs from the security of the dense bush and erected camp. Our fire drove away the cold dampness as we devoured supper and set to organizing our packs for tomorrow’s departure.

“Hello!” A greeting broke the silence. We stood and greeted a pair of native Indians who had followed the smoke of our fire to our camp. Welcoming our guests we learned that a small group of friends had come up for a day or two of fishing. A Canadian goose was roasting back at their camp but try as we might we couldn’t finagle an invitation to sample this northern fowl. With their departure we headed for the warmth of our sleeping bags and the anticipation of the journey ahead.

The Kabinakagami River ran a murky brown as ice encrusted banks caressed it’s swift waters. The melting snows has swelled the river to frightening levels with the annual spring runoff. Skies remained a drab grey and the winds buffeted us as we pushed off, feeling the power of our river for the first time. The first paddle of the season is quick to ambush by means of blisters, aches and pains exposing winter stagnation. Fatigue came quickly as the fierce northerly gales howled menacingly in opposition to any progress we might make. Progress was so painfully slow we conceded to defeat and found a sheltered cove in which to pitch our tent.

The inclement weather continued as the next day mirrored the first. We battled the weather, the river, our own physical pains and mental doubts in an attempt to preserve our schedule. Little headway could be achieved. We made for shore in hopes of finding some wind sheltered nook in which to prepare a quick lunch. Buffeting wind fought the flame of our camp stove and rattled our maps as Brian and I sat in silence, pondering our situation. Never before had we made such poor progress, with our destination looking so distant and out of reach. A sinking feeling in my stomach arose with the fleeting thought of having to be rescued from the river.

We pushed on that afternoon in spite of the blowing snow pelting our faces. Our labouring breath clouded the cold air before us, our eyelashes lay heavy with snowflakes. A clearing with a cabin revealed itself on the western shore as we silently and simultaneously corrected our course for that shelter.
The moose hunter’s shack was in a sad state of repair as it lacked a door and the wind whistled through every un-chinked log in the structure. A rusty old drum stove sat one corner, its tin chimney ringing from falling pellets of ice. With the storm raging on the river, this collection of logs was nothing short of a suite at the Sheraton. The roof was sound but leaky so, for added shelter, we erected our tent on the dirt floor within . Gear was stowed, the stove cleaned and fired up, soggy clothes hung to dry and supper prepared. Trapped, yet safe, I crawled into the tent and immediately fell into a deep sleep.

Gradually awakened to my surroundings I found myself staring at the nylon roof of my tent as my other senses slowly were coaxed to life. There was the pungent smell of wet pine in the chilled air as the sounds of the north wind continued to howl and buffet the loose CIL(1) plastic sheet that was our window pane. Nature was calling in more ways than one, forcing me out of the toasty warmth of my sleeping bag and into exploring the world outside the tarp covered door. Snow continued to blow horizontally as I groped along the cabin’s wall, stumbling over a collection of moose bones on my way to irrigate some convenient tree. A steamy retreat to the cabin followed and with the realization that we were weather bound for yet another day, another log was pushed into the stove. No recourse but to crawl back into the tent, granola bar and luke-warm coffee in hand. We drifted in and out of sleep all day, numbed by our situation and at mercy to the weather. The plastic window continued to flap. I will never forget the sound of that flapping plastic window!

Dark and drab morning skies greeted us once again, yet the fallen snow had almost melted away with the rising temperature. We resumed our run down the river with a renewed sense of hope and as evening encroached on our afternoon light, we found ourselves at Mammamattawa. Mammamattawa is a Cree word for “where the rivers meet” - an appropriate name as here the Kabinakagami, the Kenogami, the Nagagami, the Ridge and Squirrel Rivers joined forces. Landing on the eastern shore, we hauled our gear up a steep bank to reach the clearing where three decrepit buildings stood leaning defiantly against the wind. As the ominous clouds raced overhead, a quick assessment of the site was made. We dared not venture into two of the buildings as they appeared moments from total collapse. Sadly, much of the wooden siding of the structures had been stripped away by previous travellers as an all too convenient source of firewood.

Once again we chose to erect our tent within the structure least likely to collapse upon us. Tarps were lashed to the windward walls, the camp stove lit and gear stowed - we called this collection of weather beaten boards “home”.

After supper, Brian and I poked around the grounds, trying to roll back time and imagine what this site might have looked like in it’s heyday - bustling with activity - exploration, hunting and trade. Time will soon erase all traces of this outpost and sadly, it will probably not even warrant a footnote in any Canadian history books.

It was the North-West Company that originally chose this location in 1796 on which to build a fur trading post and it later went on to serve as a trading post for both the Hudson’s Bay Company and Revellon Frères Furriers of Paris which evolved into ‘Revlon’ cosmetics of today. It was hard to imagine that this outpost was in operation right up to 1946 as the relentless elements had all but obliterated the site in the four decades that preceded our trip.

The post was ideally situated in an area rich with both flora and fauna. Here we stood amongst white ash and black elm, neither of which is suppose to flourish north of the 50th parallel. Dutch elm disease had decimated elms further south. Plants included birch, spruce, aspen, dogwoods, trilliums, ostrich ferns and wild ginger. The land was rich with fur bearing animals including red, cross and silver fox, pine martin, ermine, timber wolf, beaver, otter, mink and muskrat.

Hidden amongst the scattered debris was a piece of wood which obviously had been part of a crate. Brushing off the dust and grasses revealed the Hudson Bay Company logo. I was faced with a dilemma. The Canadian government had declared Mammamattawa a “sensitive site” which prohibited permanent habitation, the cutting of trees, alteration or removal of property. Impossible to enforce, the structures were quickly being scavenged for firewood. How this piece had escaped the flames, I do not know. Should I respect the decree and leave this historical artifact on site only to stoke some modern day voyager’s campfire or should I abscond with it, clean it and perhaps frame and preserve it? Reluctantly I propped it against our building’s wall and left it to whatever fate awaited it. How I now regret that decision…

Our steamy breath announced the arrival of the cold night air and we set about securing the camp. Hauling our canoe up the steep bank to the clearing would be a daunting task. Instead we left it below, having lashed it to several tree stumps and thrown rocks on the lines for added security. With a turn of the knob the lantern extinguished and we crawled into our tent.

Howling winds awakened us around 3:00 am as it buffeted and snapped at the tent fly. A storm raging outside had us urgently fumbling about the tent grasping for a coat and searching for that missing boot, under the beam of an unsteady flashlight clenched between teeth. So violent was the storm that we couldn’t risk leaving our canoe at river level even with the added precautions we had taken hours earlier. Making our way to the bluff that overlooked the river we could barely make out the silhouette of the canoe rocking on the gravel below. I cautiously stepped over the ledge, feeling for some foothold only to find my boot shooting out from beneath me as I rode down the rest of the muddy bank on my behind. Brian didn‘t fare much better as we found ourselves lying crumpled at the bow of the canoe. The problem now was simple. If we didn’t want to sacrifice our canoe to the river gods, we had no choice but to haul it back up that slippery slope to higher ground.

After numerous attempts and even greater number of curse words the canoe arrived on the flat plain above the river. Not taking any chances, we secured the bow to a stump once again. The pelting rain was beginning to wash the mud off our clothes as we dripped our way back to the shelter of our building. Filthy, we removed what clothing we could and crawled back into our tent to continue a fitful sleep.

Was the sun ever going to show itself on this trip? Every moment was now precious if we were to recover our schedule so we packed up and shoved off on this blustery morning.

It was hard slugging but a sense of urgency coaxed us along. Even with a strong headwind, we made good progress that day, paddling dawn till dusk. Exhausted, we created another campsite by beating our way back into the bush. We had a real sense of accomplishment for the first time in our wind bound journey. The trees here were mostly saplings - new growth from a previous forest fire perhaps? We sat around our fire, sheltered from the winds, and in spite of our fatigue, chatted long into the night.

The inclement weather had finally broken and we had several typical crisp, beautiful spring days in which to reclaim lost time.

The Albany river was typical of the northern Ontario rivers which flow from the Canadian Shield onto the Hudson Bay lowlands. On our stretch of the Albany, the transition had already occurred and was not as dramatic as on the Missinaibi where it was delineated by Thunderhouse Falls. The river was confined by riverbanks of varying heights but usually we had some climbing to do to find a suitable piece of flat real estate suitable for our tent. Trees growing too close to the riverbank had their boughs trimmed yearly by the ice floes during the spring break-up. Venturing inland, the trees quickly gave way to bogs and swamps. This is no place to be lost! On these wilderness rivers there are no marked campsites as voyagers are still infrequent.

On some rivers, abandoned historical sites such as Mammamattawa might provided refuge for a night. On the Albany as with the Missinaibi, remote environmental monitoring stations may offer sanctuary. We consider ourselves lucky if we find a sheltered outcrop and not have to beat our way into the virgin bush.

For the first half of our trip the banks were encrusted with turquoise-white blocks of ice, heaved into towering walls from the spring break-up. Vigilance was of utmost importance when canoeing near these frozen banks as huge chunks would break off without warning and splash into the river below. The resulting waves could rock, if not sink the unprepared canoeist. Caution was of equal importance when landing as sound footing was always a concern as was securing the canoe and finding solid ground.

Several days of paddling brought us to a point marked ‘Ghost River’ on our topographical maps. Pulling to shore we brought out our lunch packs and were able to stretch out and bask in the warmth of the sun for the first time in our voyage. This site had been cleared at some time in the past although grasses and shrubs were attempting to reclaim the land. Had this been some past outpost, a settlement, a homestead? Evidence of permanent habitation revealed itself with the presence of several grave sites. I wondered who had lived and who had died here - under what circumstances? The graves had stone markers and were framed by weathered picket fences that showed the ravages of Albany winters. Yet someone cared. Draped over a fencepost was a rosary and artificial flowers, recently faded by the northern sun. Someone cared enough to make a pilgrimage to this rather remote location, so I too cleared fallen debris off of the grave, straightened the fence and offered up a prayer.

No permanent structures were found other than a pole and bark tee-pee. Peeking indoors, the only signs of habitation were one gum-rubber boot and a broken transistor radio. An additional roof over our heads if we found ourselves stormbound but as the weather was ideal for traveling we forged ahead. Brian and I spent mornings examining topographical maps in an attempt to determine which riverbank would offer the safest route and most sheltered passage. Regardless, we found ourselves in the middle of the mile wide Albany when surprised by a sudden increase in the winds. In this precarious position, our best course of action was to pull for the shelter of the north western shore. Straining against the wind with each stroke of the paddle, we made little headway as waves broke over our bow. Frenzied paddling eventually did bring us to safely to shore where we collapsed in exhaustion. Wind bound, we were committed to camp at this site, chosen not by us but rather the weather. We glanced up and noticed our six foot slip of land ended at the base of a earthen cliff towering some sixty feet above us. The landing itself offered no shelter so we were obligated to climb the cliff, foot by foot, carrying only our most essential gear. Brute force again beat the campsite out of the bush where I had no doubt that humans had never set foot before. The view was spectacular but my interest was always diverted to checking on the canoe far below.

Morning once more found us on the river. With our schedule met, we could leisurely glide down the Albany as it widened and began to form the channels of it’s delta. Our final camp was on a treeless expanse on the eastern bank. We stopped at midday and indulged in a banquet. Not only did we have a tremendous appetite but with Fort Albany in reach, a lighter load was essential for our flight out. Peanut butter on crackers, cans and cans of flaked ham, GORP (2) , and the last of the smoke cured bacon. The sun was now beating down, showering us with it’s warmth. With gear scattered all about we laid down a tarp drifted off to pleasant afternoon nap. I recall waking periodically and seeing the sun sparkle through my eyelashes while beads of perspiration gathered on my forehead. Grasses and rushes swayed gently in the breeze as the reassuring sound of running water gurgled nearby. This is what life is about! As the sun descended, we shook off our lethargy and arranged camp. In preparation of whatever “civilization” we might find at Fort Albany, we decided that a bath was in order. The icy spring runoff was continuously filling pools surrounding our camp as the rivulets joined in search of the river. Undressing we grit our teeth and climbed into a nearby basin. Shivering, we soaped up and shampooed as swiftly as possible. With a quick dunking, I emerged from the frigid waters blue as a smurf . Clean and refreshed but with clattering teeth!

Brian and I pulled out our topographical map and examined the Albany River delta which would be upon us tomorrow. This was before the days of GPS (3) so it was crucial that we negotiate our route correctly. Stories abound of people being lost for days after taking the wrong channel in the delta. I had failed to get a satellite photo of the delta and James Bay from the Canadian Center For Remote Sensing. I had hoped that a current photo would reveal any changes in the delta not reflected in the map as well as revealing the condition of James Bay if we chose to canoe the waters from Fort Albany to Moosonee. With navigational decisions made and gear repacked for what should be the final time, we turned in.

Our final day on the river was once again pleasant as the current carried us closer to Fort Albany. Periodic course corrections were made after consulting our maps. Shallow rapids and riffles were run with ease under the warmth of the sun. A communication tower appeared on the right affirming that civilization was within reach. We discovered that we too had become victims of the Albany river delta. Even with all our planning we had taken an unintended channel, however the resulting error had actually taken us closer to our destination of the airport. With less overland distance to haul our canoe across, the error was only a blow to my navigational ego and not to my back. We pulled the old Grumman ashore for the final time as we had decided not to attempt the hazardous trip on James Bay. Scouting the location, Brian and I determined that the main town lay to the left, the airport to the right, joined by a road which was partially submerged during high tide.

I had a chuckle as some natives greeted us. They lifted the bow of our canoe and shook their heads, wondering why anyone would chose to expend energy hauling gear manually in the era of motor boats. We were informed that we were the first to reach Fort Albany by canoe that year. Securing our gear, Brian and I set off to explore town. The center of the settlement was marked by the Anglican church. Prefab homes in various states of repair lined the gravel streets, typical of these northern towns. A tar-paper covered general store appeared to be closed for the day. Near the airport stood some government offices and the James Bay Regional Hospital. Anxious to make arrangements for our flight out, we walked back to the airport and entered the shack that served as the airport terminal. A lone native gentleman served as booking agent, an old scale indicated the baggage department and a couple of rickety chairs served as the departure waiting lounge. We hadn’t made reservations for the flight out as we couldn’t guarantee our date of arrival nor had we decided on the possibility of canoeing the bay. The weathered fellow behind the ticket counter shocked us with the information that they really couldn’t accommodate us, our gear and canoe, until much later in the week! He suggested we make camp and wander over to the hospital’s nursing residence. A dance was being held that night and new faces would be welcomed. Lonely nurses? Hmmmm, tempting. However my dancing boots were mud caked so we chose to pass. Not prepared to spend that much more time in town, we appealed to the fellow if some solution couldn’t be found. Calling ahead on the radio, he spoke with the pilot who was still in Attapawiskat. If we would be prepared, we might be able to get out on the next flight when it arrived in a few hours.

We once again repacked, discarding unnecessary gear and provisions. I handed bars of chocolate to the delight of native children that had gathered around us with their bicycles. Stripped down to the bare minimum we crossed our fingers and awaited the arrival of our plane.

A gentle drone was heard to the north as the Austin Airways Hawker-Sidley twin engine plane approached the strip at Fort Albany. This workhorse of the north landed in a cloud of dust and a flurry of activity began even before it rolled to a halt. The engines remained running as doors opened to passengers and baggage. When those deplaning had cleared the area, we found ourselves waved ahead with instructions to hand our gear and canoe to crew members aboard. We watched as our 17 foot Grumman was swallowed up by the closing door. It fit! Boarding through the rear we stood in shock as the crew had moved passengers to seats further back and our canoe sat wedged between seats in the passenger alley while protruding into the cockpit. Numerous aviation safety regulations must have been broken that day but such is life on the northern frontier. The passengers were comprised of natives, government agents and workers for various exploration firms. Their curiosity aroused, we had become instant celebrities and had to regale them with our river tale.

It was sobering to look out the aircraft window and see the expanse of channels and continuous bogs that comprised the Albany River delta. One did not have to venture far from town to experience the rugged, unforgiving desolation of the landscape. To my left I was surprised to see that James Bay was still quite frozen over and had we chosen to canoe to Moosonee, we would have been sledging the canoe by foot over the ice packs. Far too hazardous if at all possible at this time of year.

It was a short flight to the town of Moosonee which was quite familiar to us from previous trips. We would hold up at the ‘Polar Bear Lodge’ until we could catch the Ontario Northland Railway’s ‘Northlander' for the eight hour trip back to Cochrane where our car lay in wait of our return.

Moosonee & One Channel of Moose River From The Air
_____________________________________________________
Slide Show Of 1983 Lower Albany River Canoe Trip
(Including Flight To Moosonee)

© Copyright - All rights reserved.

Google Earth Co-ordinates:
(cut and paste everything after the dash- (in red) into Google Earth search bar.

Kabinakagami River Jump-off Location
Lat/Long- 50° 05’14.62” N, 84° 09’36.92” W

Mammamattawa (Hudson Bay Co. Post - abandoned)
Lat/Long- 50° 24’53.40” N, 84° 22’31.34” W

Ghost River
Lat/Long- 51° 28’37.76” N, 83° 24’ 18.03” W

Ft Albany (Airport)
Lat/Long- 52° 12’30.72” N, 81° 41’13.28” W

Albany River Top Maps (used on our trip)

42 K/1 -Limestone Rapids (1:50,000)
42 K/8 - Mammamattawa (1:50,000)
42 K/9 -Pitukupi Lake (1:50,000)
42 K/16 -Wakashi/Kenogami River (1:50,000)
42 K/15 -Little Drowning River (1:50,000)
42 K -Kenogami River (1:250,000)
42 N -Ogoki (1:250,000)
42 O -Ghost River (1:250,000)
43 B -Kapskau River (1:250,000)
43 A - Fort Albany (1:250,000)

The topographical maps used on our 1983 trip were a mix of 1:50,000 and 1:250,000 scale maps depending on which were published & available at that time. Most of the maps were only available as monochrome (black on white). Our preference was to obtain the 1:50,000 when available as they showed more detail in landmarks allowing for increased accuracy in calculating distance traveled and better anticipation of possible future campsites.

(Click to Enlarge)
Go to Federal Publications Site for Interactive Version of Map

Federal Publications (Toronto, ON) is one of numerous distributors of maps and I have included a link to their Map Home Page and the Northern Ontario section which includes both the Albany & Missinaibi Rivers. The link here is not an endorsement of their site, however it did offer a neat, quick and easy to navigate site to the maps required for these trips. On their site, clicking on any map sector will bring you to the details of that map as well as instructions for purchasing the maps.
Federal Maps (Northern Ontario)
Federal Maps - Home Page (Maps)
An alternative source of top maps is the Canada Map Office

* * *
(Click On Map To Enlarge)

Fort Albany - 1886

(1) CIL: Canadian Industries Limited - A manufacturer of various products from chemicals, fertilizers, paints and plastics amongst others. Our Window had the faded oval CIL logo stamped on it.

(2) GORP: Good Old Raisins and Peanuts and now also referring to ‘Trail Mix’ which may also include dried fruits and various seeds.

(3) GPS: Global Positioning Satellite/System - geosynchronous orbiting satellites through a form of triangulation, inform the modern day traveler of his/her position on earth within a few metres of error.

New (August 2010) - I've added the original Ministry of Natural Resources (MNR) Route description that we used on the 1982 trip, including a MNR hand drawn map in a separate post entitled: Suppememental River Trip Descriptions

Aircraft under the company name of Austin Airways no longer service this area. In June of 1987, Austin Airways, formed in 1934, merged with Air Ontario Ltd (formerly Great Lakes Airlines) to form Air Ontario Inc. which in turn became part of Air Canada Jazz in 2001. The area formerly flown by Austin Airways is now serviced by Air Creebec.

Addendum:
On July 2nd 1983, having completed canoeing Ontario’s Albany River, I was oblivious to what world events had transpired during my ten days of river travel. Relative isolation continued during the next nine hours as our train made it’s way south through the wilds of Ontario’s boreal forests. Early evening found us deposited amidst a flurry of activity at Cochrane’s railway station where we packed our car and headed south in search of lodging. It wasn’t until the next day’s drive south that I dared to ease myself into civilization by braving the politics, talk radio and the odd Michael Jackson tune that would blare from the car radio. A quick headline amongst the chatter had me grasp the steering wheel and sit upright with attention. “A prominent Canadian folk artist has been killed in an airline tragedy- Stay tuned for the news….”
No! Not Gordon Lightfoot!!! Please!!!…..
At the top of the hour the newscaster elaborated that on July 2nd, a fire aboard an Air Canada flight in Cincinnati Ohio had claimed the life of Stan Rogers.
I was no less devastated!!!
Stan was enormously talented individual with a booming baritone voice, a love for his maritime roots and an uncanny ability to weave a few words into colourful stories that grab you by the soul and tug at your heart. Still disbelieving, Stan’s cassettes were rotated through the player for the remainder of our journey. Stan’s death and music has, in my mind, become inextricably linked to that sombre drive south so long ago. For those unfamiliar with Stan Roger’s music, I suggest you treat yourself by listening to any one of his eight albums. You too will find yourself captivated by his magic. This post is for you Stan….

Magnetawan River

2008-05-25T14:46:00.006-05:00

Magnetawan River
(An Unfinished Journey)

"To stick your hands into the river is to feel the cords that bind the earth together in one piece."

Barry Lopez

Diffuse light filtering through dusty windowpanes added to the warm glow of the bare bulb dangling from the workshop rafters. A time capsule from an era long ago, the weathered barn board walls enclosed beaten benches, crammed cupboards and sagging shelves. Scattered amongst the wood shavings were bow saws, wooden mallets and carpenter’s chisels waiting their turn in the craftsman’s hand.

A half day had already passed as I awaited Brian’s return from the car shuttle. With light drizzle beginning to fall, two elderly gentlemen swung open the weathered shed’s doors and beckoned me in. Bathed in a dusty golden glow was an exquisite cedar-strip canoe nearing completion. I had taken a course and constructed my own spruce & canvas canoe but it paled in comparison to this majestic craft before me. It was reassuring to know that these skills still survived in a world where vacuum moulded boats could be pressed out hourly on a factory assembly line.

The Magnetawan river, sandwiched between the French and Pickerel rivers all possessed similar characteristics. Whereas the French River drained the waters of Lake Nipissing, the Magnetawan’s headwaters originated in Algonquin provincial park. Both flowed through corridors of granite and windswept pines in their quest of Georgian Bay. An unmistakable landscape within Southern Ontario often captured by Canada‘s Group Of Seven painters.

The drizzle continued to make Ahmic Lake sing as Brian and I got underway this exceptionally wet spring season. Magnetawan means “swiftly flowing waters” and true to it‘s name, locals remarked on the river’s level, never having seen it this high in their collective memories. Smaller rapids were often completely submerged and no longer evident while larger ones set up huge standing ‘haystack’ waves capable of swamping an open deck canoe with one angry blow.

Often forced to shore around sections of river normally runable, we found no portage trails thereby forcing us to push the canoe, foot by foot, through dense underbrush. Where we risked the voluminous current we would shoot through the rapids at dizzying speeds, each stroke of the paddle fighting to maintain control. No sooner than we had seated ourselves in the canoe did we have to put to shore to scout our next challenge. Unprepared for the continuously boiling froth which was clearly more suited for a kayak, we realized that without a spray deck the journey was far too hazardous for our open 17 foot Grumman this season. Having made the decision to cut our trip short, we chose to focus our enjoyment more on the river’s banks rather than what ran between them.

A few pleasant nights were spent camping on the banks of the Magnetawan. A dilapidated cabin served as home for one evening. We collapsed in weathered Adirondack chairs and basked in the sun while incinerating sausages on the crackling fire. It appeared this cabin was home to a number of rabbits as they gathered around, eyeing us with curiosity while sniffing the sweet summer air.

On another evening we erected our tent on a clearing overlooking a small riffle. While Brian prepared dinner, I assembled my fishing rod and playfully cast a lure out into the gurgling rapid. Never having been mistaken for an avid angler, I had spent much of my childhood drowning worms impaled on the end of a dangling hook. Yet with my very first cast of a lure I had a strike. No sooner had the spinner broken the surface of the water than the rod bent under the weight of a beautiful small mouth bass. With supper already underway, bubbling and sputtering over our propane burner, I released the fish back to the river. Casting again, another bass immediately chomped down on my lure which I also released to join it’s downstream relative. A third cast and yet another strike! This has got to stop! Where’s the challenge? Damn lures!

Our rainy start had given way to several hot and humid summer days for which to enjoy the now subsiding river. Terminating our trip early at a small bridge spanning the Magnetawan, we hiked back to our car and dreamt of completing this trip some day when water conditions were more favourable.

Brian On Bridge Over Magnetawan River

Downstream On Magnetawan From Bridge

_____________________________________________________
_____________________________________________________
Slide Show of Magnetawan River Canoe Trip (Mid-1980's)

Magnetawan River Map Including Rapids
(Click On Map To Enlarge)

Addidtional Descriptions of the Magnetawan River Canoe Routes as well as maps, can be found in my Supplemental River Trip Descriptions.

Google Earth Co-ordinates:
(cut and paste everything after the dash- (in red) into Google Earth search bar.

Ahmic Lake - Jump-off Location
Lat/Long- 45° 40’07.80” N, 79° 43’23.52” W

Magnetawan River - Takeout
Lat/Long- 45° 41’43.51” N, 79° 50’29.76” W

Mississagi River

2008-04-27T11:18:00.007-05:00

Mississagi River

"Give me a good canoe, a pair of Jibway snowshoes, my beaver, my family and 10,000 square miles of wilderness and I am happy"

Archibald Belaney, aka Grey Owl

I suspect my somewhat reclusive nature developed from having grown up an only child in a rather isolated rural setting. Over time, solitary pursuits that were once my only recourse, unknowingly became entrenched as a lifestyle. Later, by extension, the northern wilderness became my refuge when hectic city life encroached upon my sanity…. or perhaps it was simply an attempt to recapture my childhood and a quieter, simpler time. Regardless, each spring I longed for the chance to lose myself on some remote river - to re-energize, recharge and rejuvenate myself in quiet reflection whether alone or with a ‘silent’ partner.

Not surprisingly, the dynamics change dramatically when travelling in groups as was quickly evident on our Mississagi River trip. Even before the cars ground to a dusty halt, our boisterous companions were spilling out of half opened doors, arms flailing, bounding down the trail with whoops and hollers.
Undeniably, this trip would be different…

The cast of characters accompanying us on this trip included a few of Brian’s medical school classmates attending The University Of Western Ontario. A rowdy bunch headed by their irrepressible ringleader Bob F., all looking for a way to burn off the stresses of their academic pursuits.

The headwaters of the upper Mississagi River originate around the town of Biscotasing Ontario and run through a lush green corridor now designated as the Mississagi Provincial Waterway Park. Englishman Archie Belaney once called these waters home(1) when he duped the world as his alter ego, the native indian, Grey Owl. The lower Mississagi River continues below Aubrey Falls in it’s 270 km (168 mi) quest for Lake Huron. It was here that we would begin our journey.

(Aubrey Falls At Low Water Flow - Aubrey Dam Visible In Background)
(Falls At Full Capacity In Miscellaneous Photo Section)

Looking back over my shoulder through veils of smoke wafting skyward, it was evident that ‘happy hour’ had received yet another extension as periodic eruptions of laughter punctuated the cackling cacophony emanating from camp. Escaping the hubbub, I strolled down to the foot bridge spanning the gorge and peered upstream at Aubrey Falls noting the diminished flow of water cascading over the cataract from that at mid-day. Nightly, after tourists had zipped themselves into their tents, a greater volume of water was diverted to the penstocks of the hydro-electric generating plant above the falls in an attempt to quench society's electrical thirst. As I lay down mid-bridge to marvel at the crystal night sky pinned to the heavens by glittering stars, I was treated to shimmering sheets of greens, blues and reds - iridescent auroras dancing overhead. Off to the east, over the muffled roar of the river, I could hear a distant pack of wolves howling at the waxing gibbous moon. A scenario with all these elements in a single night, not even Disney could script!

The rising sun had not yet burned off morning’s haze from the river as we prepared for our first taste of the Mississagi. Pushing off we were greeted by a set of ‘class II rapids’ a few short strokes downstream. After showing the way, Brian and I pulled into an eddy below to watch the others attempt the rather easy descent. Instead we found ourselves center stage to a rather comical slapstick routine of flailing arms, legs and paddles as ‘the boys’ found themselves in a spin descending the river backwards. It took only a few hundred yards of river travel to wrap a rented Coleman canoe broadside around the first Mississagi rock encountered. After the laughter subsided, it took all of our combined strength to pry the canoe from the Mississagi’s watery grasp. Pull as they might, for the rest of the voyage the bent keel insisted on veering to the right.

The beautiful Lower Mississagi is a canoeist’s delight with numerous stretches of shallow rapids that on occasion required wading. Bearing names such as ‘Forty Mile Rapids’ and ‘Pig Pen Chutes’ the river provided an exhilarating ride between lakes held back by hydroelectric dams. Although the Mississagi runs parallel to highway 129 for much of its length, neither the sound of traffic nor evidence of civilization encroached on our wilderness experience.

(A rather gentle un-named chute of water on the Mississagi River)

Not long after Snowshoe Creek the river passes between two 90 m (300 ft) massive vertical cliffs called ‘The Tunnel’ or ‘Gros Cap’. Continuing on Tunnel Lakes we encountered the George W. Raynor hydroelectric generating station. The portage around the dam is rather long and quite steep but was facilitated by Ontario Hydro’s(2) gravel access road connecting the headwaters to the spillway below. Care had to be taken below the dam as additional penstocks could open at any time dramatically increasing the volume and height of the spillway below.

(George W. Raynor Dam’s Spillway as Viewed from above)

The exhilaration of running rapids in the early part of this river route was contrasted with the picturesque lake travel on the lower section. Time to bask in the sun and marvel at the granite cliffs that nestle the river. Lashing our flotilla of canoes together as the midday sun beat down on upon us, we were able to stow our paddles and drift aimlessly on the barely perceivable current. Out came a bottle of ‘Hiram Walker’ coffee liqueur which was eagerly passed around. After a few swigs of the syrupy libation Bob laid back on his seat, pulling his straw hat over his face to block the sun. We became curious as muffled “ooohs and aaahhhs” began to escape from beneath his sunhat. The diffracted rays penetrating between the woven straw provided a kaleidoscope of colours as he twisted the brim around. “Ah, Hiram” we exclaimed in turn as the bottle and hat were passed around so that all could experience this psychedelic light show.

Bob’s treasured chapeau had raised quite the ’cow-lick’ on his head which resisted any effort to be patted down. With another shot of ’Hiram’, he decided that there was no time like the present for some wilderness grooming. With no coiffeur amongst us, Bob retrieved the ‘Vidal-Sassoon’ dish detergent from the camp pack and stretched out over the gunwales, dangling his soapy head in the river. As the iridescent bubbles floated away, Bob shot upright and like some mangy dog, shook his head, sending water flying about as we all ducked for cover.

Laughing and joking under the mid-day sun, all our problems, stresses and anxieties seemed to wash away along with those soap suds.

Continuing downstream where granite cliffs gave way to sandy riverbanks we entered picturesque Red Rock Lake constituting the headwaters of the Red Rock hydroelectric generation station. A portage of about half a kilometre (1/3 mile) was made along the east bank to the spillway below. Bathed in sweat on such a hot afternoon, I contemplated jumping into the river as the heated air shimmered, radiating off the dry rocky shore.

Now the sandy banks turned grassy as we approached the town of Iron Bridge where, among the buildings skirting along the shore, a ‘hotel’ was spied. Our parched armada stormed to shore, clamouring up the bank in almost fervent desperation in an attempt occupy the pub and invade a few ales. As the door swung open we were hit by the frigid blast of air-conditioned darkness in such stark contrast to the bright sweltering heat under the mid-day sun. As the pitchers of ‘Molsons’ disappeared, so did our companions enthusiasm for completing our expedition. Bob sprung the mutiny upon us, taking the rest of the rebellious crew with him. As canoes have no brig, the indenture dissolved and the scallywags were last seen hitchhiking down Hwy 17.

In the end, only Brian and I departed Iron Bridge by water. The setting sun had us make camp on the east bank at Mississagi Falls (3) where we debated whether the mosquitoes outnumbered the black flies. The final day was rather subdued as we explored a grassy west bank promontory where a Hudson Bay Company post supposedly once stood.

(Mississagi River Mouth - Looking South Towards Lake Huron)

Slow and meandering, as was the river, we entered Lake Huron and paddled east towards the town of Blind River where my faithful Chevy lay in wait.

(15’ Starcraft Canoe - on my ‘76 Chevy Impala at Blind River, Ontario)

(1) Grey Owl called these waters home for a short period of time before finding fame as an author, lecturer & conservationist after settling in Saskatchewan.

(2) The hydro-electric generating stations of Aubrey Falls, George W. Raynor & Red Rock were sold by Ontario Hydro and are currently privately owned by BRASCAN.

(3) Mississagi Falls appears on Google Earth named Serpent River Falls/Rapids.

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Slide Show Of My Mid-1980's Canoe Trip Down The Lower Mississagi River

Roadmap Indicating Mississagi & Spanish Rivers
(Click to Enlarge)

Google Earth Co-ordinates:

(cut and paste everything after the dash- (in red) into Google Earth search bar.

Aubrey Falls - Mississagi River Jump-off
Lat/Long- 46° 54’37.69” N, 83° 12’49.88” W

George W. Raynor Dam
Lat/Long- 46° 26’ 01.11” N, 83° 22’59.44” W

Red Rock Dam
Lat/Long- 46° 18’53.82” N, 83° 17’12.68” W

Iron Bridge ON
Lat/Long- 46° 16’46.49” N, 83° 12’58.74” W

Mississagi River Mouth
Lat/Long- 46° 10’14.65” N, 83° 00’28.94” W

Blind River ON
Lat/Long- 46° 11’28.27” N, 82° 56’56.94” W

Spanish River

2008-03-27T11:24:00.005-05:00

Spanish River
(June 16th -21st -1984)

"At times on quiet waters one does not speak aloud but only in whispers, for then all noise is sacrilege. "

Sigurd F. Olson

Brian!!, is that what I think it is?? There, up ahead, and coming at us fast! A quick lane change averted disaster as we sped past the bow of a large cabin cruiser seemingly docked in the center lane of Hwy 401. Moments earlier the large watercraft had broken free of it’s trailer and was now resting, as if on showroom display, under the roadside floodlights of Canada’s busiest freeway. Already too far down the highway to offer assistance we continued driving, realizing that only the sparse traffic of these early morning hours prevented a tragedy of unimaginable proportions.

Far too restless for sleep, we had finished packing the car and headed off in darkness for the town of Tobermory. Catching a short nap in the parking lot, our car waited in queue to be devoured by the Chi-Cheemaun. With it’s massive bow raised overhead like enormous jaws, the car ferry’s ravenous appetite for vehicles appeared to be insatiable. The Chi-Cheemaun (or rather chi-jiimaan) meaning ‘big canoe’ in Ojibwe, seemed a rather appropriate alternative in avoiding the lengthy circuitous land routes to the town of Espanola on Lake Huron’s north shore.

Much like the Mississagi River, Spanish River finds it’s source in the headwaters around Biscotasing, passing through some of the world’s oldest red and white pine forests on it’s journey to Georgian Bay. The river’s name originates from tales of astonished European explorers claiming to have encountered Spanish speaking natives. Legend has it that the indigenous Ojibway had captured a Spanish woman who taught them the language after being assimilated into the tribe. The river served as a route to the interior for both the fur trade and later the logging industry.

A mile (1.6km) removed from Hwy 144, we arrived at our Duke Lake jump-off site to discover we had company. An elderly gentleman and his son were engaged in a losing battle to free a boat trailer mired in the muddy shore. Driving home the last tent peg, Brian and I strolled down to offer our assistance. With our combined pushing, pulling, grunting and swearing we were finally able to inch the trailer free. Stooped over, dad huffed and puffed as he wiped the sweat from his brow and offered his thanks with an unsteady handshake. It was later that evening that a scrap of paper blew into our camp bearing the gentleman’s name and his highly elevated triglyceride levels. Good lord, we could have had a medical crisis on our hands!

The eastern Spanish River route offers a varied canoeing experience. Starting from Duke Lake, the topographical maps display the upper route as a series of narrow lakes numbered Tenth through First, which like watery pearls are found threaded on a string of river rapids. The combination offered the best of both worlds - numerous rapids of varying difficulty guaranteed to raise the adrenaline as well as tranquil lakes on which to relax and enjoy the stunning scenery.

In stark contrast to our Mississagi River excursion where two additional canoes brimming with boisterous companions scattered frightened fauna far from their riparian surroundings, here signs of wildlife were abundant. Cormorants & osprey were frequently sighted keeping their airy vigil. A solitary black bear ambled through camp one damp morning while on another occasion we came upon a moose eyeing us with sleepy curiosity as it munched riverside reeds and rushes. Jumbles of interwoven sticks & branches were evidence of industrious beavers.

Spanish River solitude was an ideal canvas on which to paint one’s thoughts and emotions. Tripping these waters flooded one’s psyche with tranquility as life’s anxieties, and problems drifted away. Here, where silence could be broken by a single droplet finding it’s rippling river home from a suspended paddle blade. Quietude, not polluted by the spoken word as Brian and I often relied on intuition for course corrections and could converse as much with a subtle head gesture than through verbal language. Hours would often pass without a word uttered.

Wilderness was it’s own drug, tranquilizing even the most hurried soul.

The numbered lakes nestled between stands of ancient red and white pines were pleasantly traversed in just over a day. Campsites could easily be found amongst the pines, birches and odd silver maple. Off to the west, the Snake River emptied into First Lake before it narrowed to offer some 1.6 km (1 mi) of rapids as the Spanish approached Expanse Lake.

The tranquil paddle which followed had us searching for a campsite at the southern end of Expanse where a promising point of land persuaded us to land. To our surprise, hidden amongst the ferns, reeds and saplings stood a weathered cabin. The door moaned in agony as it resisted our attempt to enter. Inside, shafts of light projected through grimy window panes, pierced the musty darkness. Pale trapezoids danced on dusty floor planks as the breeze swayed the trees outside.

“I think this time
That was the best time that we two had ever known
We tried the handle of the house upon the shore and found the open door
Once inside we found a curious moonbeam doing dances on the floor
We were only playing like two children who had stayed away from school
Two of us could not be wrong
Heaven knows who keeps the golden rule” (1)

Brian catching up on year old Hollywood gossip from a paper found within the cabin

Nevertheless, we swept out the cobwebs & dust, restored some order to fallen items that littered the floor and finally unfurled our sleeping bags on the bunk frames within. Cobwebs and dust?……. I found my mind drifting off once again….

“Cobwebs and dust, cobwebs and dust
I hate to leave you but leave you I must
Float through the sky, float through the sky
We been too long together, my cobwebs and I” (2)

Inescapable! Although Brian occupied the second canoe seat, Gordon Lightfoot was my other companion, tagging along on these voyages to offer a soundtrack for whatever activity I found myself engaged.

Darkness quickly enveloped our rickety shanty nestled in the woods. Lantern extinguished, we looked forward to a pleasant sleep that only a flat surface could offer.

Bang!, Thump! Crash!,………… shuffle, shuffle, shuffle….

The invasion had begun. Mice!….countless mice! Scurrying about displacing our re-shelved items back to various floor locations they thought more appropriate. A flashlight beam would occasionally catch one of the little critters, paws raised, beady eyes in frozen stare as if to mockingly exclaim “What?!!” Ignoring the racket was one thing but it was quite another to turn my back on the commotion in fear of squashing ‘Mickey’ or his friends as they scurried up and down my sleeping bag. Now was the appropriate time to use all that language I had stowed during the preceding day however the expletives that flowed would have embarrassed even the most hardened street thug.

Our rodent infestation retreated with the advancing sunrise. Bleary-eyed, I shook out the last captive straggler peering back at me from the bottom of my tin mug and exchanged him for some steaming coffee. While packing, we were sure to shake out our belongings lest we bring some of the varmints along for a repeat performance us at our next camp.

Pushing off we departed the last in the series of lakes for the shallow swifts between Expanse Lake and ‘The Forks’ where east and west branches of the Spanish River join forces some two kilometre’s down stream. The mournful wail of a distant train whistle would occasionally be heard piercing the west bank fog. Rapids found some 2.5km (1.5mi) further downstream were run after a quick scouting. Some 3.2km (2mi) past the inland whistle-stop of Fluorite, the rail lines traded the west bank for the east as they crossed a rusty iron bridge spanning the river.

Lumbering trains would occasionally be spotted ferrying colourful boxcars and loaded flatbeds to distant provinces. Passing the next whistle-stop, Sheehan (~1.2km or 0.75mi) bought us to yet another called Pogamasing (~4.8km or 3mi) which appeared to consist of nothing more than a metal tool shed perched along a granite swath cut into the rising riverside cliffs. Etched in my memory is an unidentifiable mechanical drone which continuously resonated along the granite walls though no human activity was observed. Pogamasing left me with an irrational eerie feeling as we passed this deserted stretch of railway line.

Canadian Pacific Locomotive hauling freight southbound along Spanish River’s east bank

The Pogamasing ‘whistle-stop’ on the Spanish River’s East Bank

Railroad tracks below granite cliffs rising above the Spanish River at Pogamasing
(East bank looking back upstream)

With another 5km (3mi) of river behind us we pitched camp on the west bank near some gravel bars just as the sky began to drizzle. While ‘tourists’ may run for cover, I find these rainy, overcast days refreshingly enjoyable. Lazing about over steaming mugs of coffee, Brian & I found that we could solve the world’s most challenging problems though somehow they continued to confound, baffle and elude seasoned career politicians.

The headlands above Spanish Lake offered a fine view of the river valley below. Here, hidden high above the river we found yet another cabin however this one was reinforced, fortified barricaded and locked, as if expecting the ‘Spanish Inquisition’ rather than some weary wayfaring Spanish River voyager. Devouring a quick lunch, we continued downstream to Zig-Zag Rapids which we ran along the left bank where, avoiding boulders and haystacks, our descent ended with an eddy turn into the boiling pool below. Numerous swifts and rapids followed as we approached ‘The Elbow’ where the river’s southerly course takes a rather abrupt turn to the northwest before reaching Graveyard Rapids. The rather ominous name of Graveyard Rapids was earned during the Spanish River’s logging days as both wayward logs and distracted loggers earned their final resting place along this hazardous stretch.

(See Map of Graveyard Rapids at end of this Tale)

Running the upper portion of the Little Graveyard rapids (R-1), we pulled for the right shore where the canoe was lined over a rather extensive ledge extending across the river. Having chased the descending sun as far as Big Graveyard rapids (R-2), we became increasingly apprehensive over the whitewater challenge which was sure to follow. Rather than go ‘whistling past the graveyards’, this haunting piece of riverside real estate became home for the night. Under the twilight roar of the rapids we conjured up a bottle of Canadian Club rye whiskey and entertained spirits of a different variety that evening. Camp chores completed Brian and I stretched out by our dying campfire and chatted until darkness enveloped us.

Daylight resurrected, we hauled our packs to the end of the portage and ran the Big Graveyards with our empty canoe. A graveyard not only to logs and lumberjacks as the fragmented remains of several canoes littering the shore testified. The Cascades (R-3-5) followed which for the most part could be run empty after a careful scouting. As the river ‘switchback’ was reaching it’s most northerly apex, the Agnes Rapids (R-6) were encountered just past where the Agnes River enters the Spanish. Although the most technically challenging, these rapids could once again be run with an empty canoe. As a reward for surviving the Graveyards, the Spanish offered up a final stretch of white water known as Cedar Rapids. This final hurrah was an exhilarating 1 km (0.6 mi) swift and shallow run as the Spanish rounded a bend to resume it’s southerly course.

A pleasant 40 km (25 mi) paddle followed in which to come to terms with our looming return to civilization. Our final night was spent on the banks of Lake Agnew where the hollow song of a lone Whip-Poor-Will echoed along the darkening shoreline. Like a curtain falling on the final act of a memorable performance the sun descended and offered us a breathtaking sunset for an encore. Finding it difficult to surrender the Spanish, we once again chatted long into the night as the glowing embers faded.

Manicured lakefront cottages and subsequent motorized water traffic became increasingly prevalent as we paddled the western shore of Agnew Lake. A large cabin cruiser motored by, leaving our diminutive Grumman bobbing in it’s wake. Such a craft was certainly more majestic parting the sparkling lake waters rather than docked in the center lane of an asphalt highway. Arriving at Agnew Lake Lodge, we hauled our canoe from the Spanish one last time and under the noonday sun went off in search of a cold & frosty cola.

-As usual, I had two companions on my trip, Brian & Gordon Lightfoot.
(1) ‘Now & Then’ - Gordon Lightfoot (Cold On The Shoulder - 1975)
(2) ‘Cobwebs & Dust’ - Gordon Lightfoot (Sit Down Young Stranger - 1970)

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Slide Show Of My 1984 Spanish River Canoe Trip

Roadmap Indicating Locations of Spanish & Mississagi Rivers
(Click to Enlarge)

Google Earth Co-ordinates:
(cut and paste everything after the dash- (in red) into Google Earth search bar.

Duke Lake - Jump-off Location
Lat/Long- 47°23’13.03” N, 81° 51’07.27” W

Pogamasing ON
Lat/Long- 46° 55’00.02” N, 81° 46’00.01” W

Graveyard Rapids Set
Lat/Long- 46° 39’00.48” N, 81° 44’56.11” W

Agnew Lake - Takeout Location
Lat/Long- 46° 20’57.26” N, 81° 52’15.73” W

Restoule River (In Remembrance Of A Friend)

2008-02-27T12:24:00.012-05:00

Restoule River

(In Remembrance of a Friend)

“Death ends life, not a relationship”

Robert Benchley

"Take everything as it comes; the wave passes, deal with the next one."

Tom Thompson

Neither the ten miles paddled, nor the single evening camped along the banks of the Restoule were sufficient to now offer insightful observation or meaningful comment on the river’s characteristics. No humorous events occurred that I could now share, no anecdotes that I might impart. Yet the weekend spent at Restoule Provincial Park remains a most precious memory.

It was to be a short getaway on a long weekend, shared with Guy Addison, the closest of my few childhood friends. With London’s winter snows melting into springtime run-offs, the cool fresh breeze and sound of running water extended their invitation to head north and properly welcome this new season.

I first met Guy when, at nine years of age, he traipsed across neighbouring fields and boldly introduced himself to this new kid on the rural block. Guy’s gregarious nature, sense of humour and infectious laugh were instantly captivating so quickly we found ourselves best of friends.

The forested lots surrounding our bucolic homes were the first to beckon, offering ample opportunity for exploration. Bicycle excursions extended the range of our adventures to countryside brooks & streams. When not fishing, chasing tadpoles or building tree forts, endless hours were spent frolicking in the Addison’s backyard swimming pool. Guy’s dad, an avid outdoorsman as well as licensed float plane pilot would often allow us to accompany him on excursions to Ontario’s sparkling interior lakes. Consequently, the appreciation of nature, love of wilderness and passion for water, became ingrained in our childhood psyches.

As daylight hours alone proved insufficient for teenage activities, we commandeered a loft above a large garage on Guy’s property which became known as ‘The Shack’. A couple of cots and dressers were all the comforts required. Shapely pin-ups and posters of hero musicians broke up the monotony of the drab sloped walls. A portable record player was our only essential as the explosive music scene of the 1960’s became yet another passion. Endless hours of Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin, The Who, Jimi Hendrix and of course, The Beatles became the soundtrack of our adolescent years. Our passion so fuelled that we formed our own band ‘AXE’ featuring Guy on drums, our talented friend Chris on bass and virtuoso John on guitar. An opportunity to earn a few bucks, make new friends and impress the girls.

Waking on frosty fall mornings, Guy and I would trudge back to our respective homes in preparation of the upcoming school day only to rush back to our bachelor pad each evening where we’d attempt to push autumn as far into winter as possible. Spring melts once again allowed us to return to The Shack where we would resume jamming with the band, spinning vinyl or planning camping trips. More often than not, planning fell victim to impulse as we hopped into Guy’s van for a spur-of-the-moment midnight run to some undetermined northern destination.
Total darkness enveloped us as we coasted to a quiet stop under a CF-100 jet perched on a pedestal in North Bay’s Lee park. There in the early morning hours Guy and I stifled giggles as we devoured our bucket of KFC ‘whilst’ mangling Shakespearian soliloquies. Waking from a contorted sleep we scraped our frosty breath from the car’s windows, surprised that the police had not found and evicted us.

About to depart on another night ride, we decided appease the growls emanating from our stomachs by pulling into an A & W drive-in for burgers & coffee. Spying an available parking space, Guy cranked the wheel as he gunned the gas. With a tremendous crash, our world suddenly went dark. As the dust settled, nearby diners roared hysterically as they let loose with mocking comments. - It wasn’t anatomically possible to have our heads up that orifice! Stepping outside, each footstep crackled under phosphor coated glass as we surveyed the damage. Having forgotten about the canoe lashed to the Fargo van’s roof, the keel managed to tear out several eight foot fluorescent light fixtures from the overhanging roof.

In the midst of summer vacation, several us hitch-hiked from Hamilton to North Bay to meet up with Guy, who had secured seasonal employment in town. Greeted by a rapidly advancing storm front, Lake Nipissing’s winds raced under darkened skies, taunting us with monstrous crashing waves. Teenage bravado demanded we accept their challenge and purchase air mattresses with which to surf those undulating breakers. Driving to Nipissing plaza, we erupted in laughter finding the first two letters of the neon sign burnt out which now announced the location as ‘pissing plaza’. Back at our beach we surfed for hours, repeatedly riding each bucking wave to shore. Guy, having forgotten to remove his wallet from his ‘cut-offs’ was devastated with the realization that the stormy lake had taken his billfold and refused to offer a refund. A subdued vacation continued until, days later and against all odds, Guy dove into the water and discovered his wallet, contents intact.

On another memorable evening during that same trip, our two companions had retired for the night. Guy and I stretched out along the rocky shoreline with only our campfire and a ‘two-four’ of ‘Labatt‘s 50’ for company. The setting sun’s fiery glow cast our shadows before us until extinguished by the lake. Sitting by the glowing embers, we chatted the night away until the sun rose behind our backs to once more cast our shadows on the rocky shore. …yet there was always more to talk about…

Still another trip had taken us to Detroit Michigan where, with time to kill, we conducted our own tour of a darkened ‘Motor City‘. Deciding to sample some American ‘Bud’, we pulled into a small variety store, seemingly lost under a lone streetlight hidden down a secluded side street. Six pack in hand, we paid the hesitant, wide eyed clerk. Turning to leave we came face to face with a number of silent stares. A queasy feeling wrenched our stomachs with the sudden realization that the store’s customers were blacks, and we, of course, stood out like white lines on an asphalt highway. Evidently we had strayed into the wrong neighbourhood on the wrong side of town. Perhaps we escaped with our lives only because the locals determined we were too stupid or had too much “balls” to be bothered with. The former was obviously the truth….

“Black day in July
In the streets of Motor City there's a deadly silent sound
And the body of a dead youth lies stretched upon the ground
Upon the filthy pavement, no reason can be found
Black day in July” (1)

At Sauble Beach we found ourselves inadvertently bloodied by an overzealous OPP(2) riot squad called upon to evict a few rowdy troublemakers. Storming through the campgrounds in full riot gear, chaos ensued as batons swung indiscriminately. Innocent stragglers were battered and personal property scattered as police chased tipsy campers onto darkened highways. Under morning skies all that remained resembled a smoking war zone.

Over the years Guy & I had snow shoed the fields around our Ancaster homes. We scuba dived at Spring Lake and beneath the massive granite cliffs towering above Lake Mazinaw. Towed behind a motorboat, we body surfed Georgian Bay’s shallows at Oliphant and water skied North Bay’s Trout Lake. We hiked wooded paths near Tobermory and explored moonlit snowmobile trails along the icy shores of Lake Nipissing. Together we had enjoyed childhood, survived our tumultuous teens, and grown to adulthood sharing innumerable adventures in virtually every corner of our province.

With adulthood, our lives began following increasing divergent paths. Having moved to London to attend The University of Western Ontario, Guy somehow tagged along, coincidently having been offered employment in that same college town. There he met his future wife and honoured me with a request to stand as his best man, then later as godfather to his firstborn son. As Graduation neared I found myself in pursuit of a career while Guy’s devotion to family had become his priority.

We now welcomed any adventure which could be stolen from life’s increasingly monotonous routine, even if only a few days in the relatively tame setting of a government campground. Borrowing a rather moribund fibreglass canoe with an equally lethal history, we now set off for Restoule provincial park. Guy’s brother-in-law had met his demise paddling this rickety craft, yet it would suit our limited needs on this short trip. This early in the season the park had yet to officially open and we found ourselves sole occupants of the entire campgrounds. Still, a roving park ranger found it necessary to wield his authority, admonishing us for playing music loudly. As he pulled away Guy and I cast a puzzled looked around the barren park wondering which annoyed species of wildlife had filed the complaint.

By wilderness standards we erected a rather lavish base camp, spending the remainder of the day incinerating sausages, studying our top map and hoisting a few rounds to the traumatized the wildlife.

Guy, Loading our 'Death Canoe' on the Restoule River

A cool morning breeze along Stormy Lake greeted us as we threw our packs into our putrid yellow craft. Stepping aboard, the canoe squeaked and groaned in misery as the loose thwarts and cracked fibreglass protested yet another excursion. A relaxed paddle along the shoreline followed as we approached the Restoule river proper. Deciduous trees were just beginning to awaken from their winter dormancy, slowly coaxed back to life under the warmth of the afternoon sun. As we had no deadlines to meet or agenda to fulfill, we put to shore after only some 10 miles of river travel.

Pitching a small tent, we prepared supper while settling in. Reverting to our childhood silliness it was decided to discard our plastic plates and ‘rough it’ by eating off of nearby slabs of rock. Trying not to choke from laughter, we cut our steaks on the wobbly granite surface precariously balanced on our laps, dulling our knives in the process. One slip and we might have put Lorena Bobbitt to shame.

"It is one of the blessings of old friends that you can afford to be stupid with them"
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

The topic of that night’s fireside conversation has long since been forgotten, however we no doubt talked for hours as the glowing embers died. Never short of subject matter, our conversations would often pick up where last left off, regardless of the time elapsed. Regretfully we called it a day, retreating to our tent when our spoken words began fogging the frigid night air.

The nylon fly was stiff with frost as we crawled out to greet the new day. Downing a quick coffee, we warmed up by chipping ice from the floor of our canoe. A brisk paddle upstream brought us back to base camp where we whiled away the remainder of our weekend under the warmth of the spring day sun. Such was the extent our Restoule river trip…

In time our paths crossed even less frequently as I pursued my career in the heart of Toronto while Guy moved his family to a small southern Ontario town. Life was too rushed, with too many responsibilities, there were too many obligations, too many problems requiring too much attention, there were,………too many excuses.

We had gone our separate ways…..

Still, it came as a shock when the trembling voice on the other end of that late night phone call informed me that Guy had died of a massive heart attack. I was laid up at home recovering from my own close encounter with death when this news once again attempted to drain my life away. Grieving my best friend’s demise while facing my own mortality forced me to view life with a different perspective. Like bobbing down some uncharted rapids, life’s ups and downs gain speed closer to the end, occasionally offering a sobering cold splash of reality. Sadly, some rivers are shorter than others. Sadly, every journey must end…

Guy was a year younger than myself....

Our last meeting was in the fall of 2005 when Guy’s job brought him into town. Older and greyer yet ours spirits endured. An evening of music and laughter followed as we reminisced past adventures. Distance had separated what time could not.

When you robotically rhyme off “goodbye“, or “see you later“ as the screen door shuts between you and your friend, it’s incomprehensible that it will be for the last time. But that it was... Guy departed next morning and with that slam of the door, my friend had departed for eternity as another door slammed on my own life…..

How I long for just one more adventure…

Guy (Lt) & Yuri (Rt) At Ancaster Ontario, July 1964

Another Trip Up North in Guy's Infamous Fargo Van (1970's)

Guy, Kicking Back at Spring Lake Ontario (1980's)

Guy Holding My Godson, Christopher (1990's)

Taken On What Was To Be Our Last Meeting

(1) ‘Black Day In July’ from the album ‘Did She Mention My Name’ -Gordon Lightfoot-1968

(2) O.P.P.- Ontario Provincial Police

“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I have not lived”

Henry David Thoreau

Google Earth Co-ordinates:
(cut and paste everything after the dash- (in red) into Google Earth search bar.

Restoule River & Provincial Park

Lat/Long- 46° 05’02.36” N, 79° 48’00.68” W

Note: Further route description of Restoule River can be found in my post:
'Supplemental River Trip Descriptions'
(Scroll through that post until you come across this river).

Kamiskotia River & Mattagami River

2007-12-23T12:34:00.001-05:00

Kamiskotia & Mattagami Rivers

(Kenogaming Lake To Timmins Ontario)

July 8 - 13, 1985

"Wherever there is a channel for water, there is a road for the canoe."

Henry David Thoreau

(Numbers in blue throughout text refer to rapids/logjams found on map at end of post)

The road ahead shimmered as mid-day heat radiated skyward above Hwy 101’s sticky asphalt surface. A hint of acrid smoke rode the wind rushing through half opened windows, yet the gusts offered little relief from this summer’s stifling temperature. Another sweep of the dial recaptured the same lone radio station crackling with country crooners, punctuated periodically by sketchy updates on local forest fires.

Such was the blistering July afternoon as Brian and I cruised towards the town of Timmins (1) in search of the regional Ministry of Natural Resources office. Fearing our Kamiskotia River trip might be in jeopardy, it was our hope that the Ministry would provide the definitive word on the extent of local forest fires. A note taped to the glass door, itself curling under the sun’s relentless assault, simply stated that all open campfires were banned until further notice. All those months of planning hadn’t prepared us for the uncertainty of fire restrictions, let alone having flames scorch our backsides in a furious downstream paddle.

The motel office clerk, a pleasant gal, cheerfully chatted away as she booked our room for the night. Further negotiations secured her services for the morning’s shuttle of my chevy from our Kenogaming Lake jump-off point back to Timmins, where we hoped to find ourselves in a week’s time. On entering our unit, we drew the curtains and collapsed on our beds as the air conditioner shuddered and convulsed in it’s futile struggle to cool our darkened room. Heat lightning began to split the sky as the accompanying thunder rivalled the pounding in my head. Lacking energy to root through a trunk full of meticulously packed gear for our first aid kit, Brian and I headed across the parking lot to the local supermarket for some last minute provisions….. and aspirin.

I awoke long enough to turn off the flickering drone of the television’s test pattern…

The Kamiskotia River route we had chosen had been used for millennia by nomadic Ojibwa & Cree Indians to access their bountiful hunting and trapping grounds. Later, voyagers established inland trading posts at Mattagami, Kenogamissi and Frederick House to better feed Europe’s insatiable appetite for fur. The discovery of gold in 1903 near the town of Porcupine replaced trappers with prospectors & surveyors as they travelled the Kamiskotia in search of fortune. By the late 1940’s, forest access roads began to reach the Kamiskotia river in order to harvest virgin timber for the demands of the local mining needs and as a result, portages fell into disrepair. The Ministry Of Natural Resources claimed to have reopened the portages to facilitate recreational canoeists, however, we were to question this assertion numerous times along our journey.

Thankfully, overnight rains had brought some relief to the stifling temperatures and tinder dry forests. Arriving at Kenogaming Lake, we found it sparkling like a jewel with it’s sapphire waters clasp in the verdigris green & copper setting of the shoreline. Eager to depart, gear was quickly transferred from trunk to canoe and with one last check we bade our chauffeur goodbye, then watched as the horizon devoured my chevy‘s taillights. Now only the lapping waters of the lake and the shrill call of the cicadas broke the silence.

The early portion of the Kamiskotia River route (32km/20mi) consisted primarily of a series of narrow lakes - Kenogaming, Akweskwa, Misty, Beaucage and Opishing Lakes each joined by rapids over which an occasional logging bridge spans the narrows. A leisurely paddle on our first day had us traverse the picturesque Kenogaming Lake and portage our first set of rapids (#1&2) where the current delivered us to Akweskwa Lake. A rocky outcrop about 8km (5mi) along Akweskwa Lake’s eastern bank appeared to offer a promising campsite.

No more picture perfect camp could be found as we stood high above the lake and surveyed the magnificent panorama. As testament to the site’s popularity, a pole frame stood lashed together with hemp cord on which a tarpaulin could be added for quick shelter. Overnight rains and our barren granite campsite emboldened us to risk a small cooking fire.

Yuri & Brian at Akweskwa Lake Camp

Had not the river called, I could have lazed about on this site for the duration of my vacation.

Another stellar morning had us reach the end of Akweskwa Lake where it mirrored Kenogaming of the previous day. The lake narrows under a logging bridge where the next two rapids (#3&4) frame the diminutive Misty Lake. Beaucage Lake followed as we approached the bridge over Hwy 101. Below the highway could be heard the muffled roar of Opishing Falls which offered portages along either bank (#5).

Approach to Opishing Falls Below Hwy 101

Opishing Falls Below Hwy 101

A carry along the eastern bank circumvented the falls where we re-launched the Grumman on Opishing Lake. Opishing might be considered nothing more than a widening of the Kamiskotia River with a single constriction dividing it’s twelve mile length. Evening found us midway up the second expanse of where we once again pitched camp on the eastern shore.

Brian Relaunching Grumman Canoe Below Opishing Falls

Our third morning on the Kamiskotia delivered us to the northern end Opishing Lake where a final narrowing forms the Kamiskotia River proper. With the constriction came the next series of rapids (#6,7 & 8) where maps indicated portages along the eastern bank. Scouting the rapids (#8) from shore, they appeared less formidable than the Ministry’s portage as no unobstructed path through the dense bush could be found. The rapids were run with relative ease in spite of the shallowness at the foot of the descent. As we were to find out, from this point on, the government’s description of the Kamiskotia route was frequently inaccurate, not so much through lack of effort but rather by the continuously changing nature of the river itself.

Water levels on the lake portion of this route remain relatively stable throughout the seasons. In contrast, the narrow river runs swiftly with the spring runoff yet the rapids may deliver but a trickle during late July and August. As a consequence, the remains of old harvested logs and deadfall alike could be swept along the river, continuously redistributed with each passing season. The result was a river experience as we had never before encountered.

This particularly dry season, a few of Kamiskotia’s rapids were so depleted of water that they resembled damp gravel beds, punctuated by exposed ledges and jutting rocks. Whether lining or running, the aluminum would frequently protest with a unnerving grating sound as the hull stuck to the riverbed as would a porcupine’s quill to a hound’s nose. Jagged boulders which could open our aluminum hull like some wilderness can opener frequently offered their invitation along route.

The other curse of the Kamiskotia were the numerous log jams encountered (#17 & onwards). Passage was frequently blocked by large slimy logs scattered about from one bank to the other as if God had left some colossal game of pick-up sticks mid tournament. Buoyant, bobbing slippery logs, ready to offer a break or fracture to the first misplaced step. Uprooted stumps with interwoven sticks and projecting poles became nature’s own ‘cheval de frise’(2) waiting to impale those who stumbled on the rollers underfoot.

Typical of the Many Log Jams Encountered On The Kamiskotia
(This is the center of the river looking downstream!)

Nature's Own 'Cheval De Frise'(2)

Unknowingly we had come unprepared, as logger’s pike poles & peaveys (3) would have been as useful as our paddles. Where the river was impassable, our only other option was to portage the obstruction.

The late, great Canadian canoeist Bill Mason once quipped “Anyone who says they like portaging is either a liar or crazy”. I believe Bill may have even included those picturesque woodland trails running along side some babbling brook, where shafts of sunlight dance on a carpet of leaves, illuminating the path underfoot. Where chirping songbirds alight on your shoulder and join in harmony as you whistle some lilting melody. Where racoons & chipmunks sit amongst the dew covered wildflowers while Bambi watches your canoe & packs float effortlessly between maples and pines.

In stark contrast, we were to find that many of the Ministry’s portages were so overgrown that the intended path was often difficult to discern. Had anyone been down this route since the 1940’s? Scouting the tree-tops, sometimes a slight dip in the foliage would betray where a trail once lead. On more than one occasion we had no choice but to blaze a new trail through dense scrub brush, brambles, thatches and sapling trees. The Grumman would first be shoved into the vegetation after which Brian and I would step into the canoe and crawl from stern to bow. Our combined weight pushed the canoe downwards through the suspending growth, displacing it to either side. Backing out, the canoe would once again be pushed forward another few feet and the process repeated until navigable water was reached.

Intimate Kamiskotia River Corridor

Portaging was such a genteel term. We determined that our tough slogging was more akin to ‘cross country furniture moving’…

Yet other portages had been reasonably well maintained, probably through the efforts of local fishermen who would access select portions of the route via the logging roads. Anglers were drawn to the pools below rapids (#6 & onwards) and the log jams (#17 & onwards) where brook trout find cover. The Ministry of Natural Resource’s policy was to leave these jams intact precisely for the habitat they provide. Northern pike & pickerel were said to be abundant along this entire route.

The narrowness of the Kamiskotia river corridor offered a more intimate journey than rivers such as the mile wide Albany or Moose. Here one felt cradled by the forests which often extended right up to the riverbanks. Trees failed to be trimmed away by massive springtime ice flows as on large northern rivers. Sweepers (4) frequently draped the river, ready to ‘clothesline’ the inattentive canoeist, or at least rearrange their hairdo. The meandering course allowed a stealthy approach with which to catch wildlife unaware while rounding the next bend. Moose were frequently sighted along this stretch of river (#6 to 13), watching us with bored curiosity as they munched riverside reeds & rushes. Without doubt, the picturesque beauty of the Kamiskotia made up for all challenges it offered along route.

Moose Cow Behind Rock On Kamiskotia River

Hampered by the portages, we had covered a mere 20km (12mi) as the Kamiskotia now made a short easterly jog. Rapids at this curve in the river (#14,15 & 16) were run as once again the portages were in a sad state of repair. A few kilometres onward the topography bends the Kamiskotia into a hairpin turn as it resumes it’s northerly flow. We erected camp near where an old logging road (5) spans the river. I don’t recall any odorous incidents, yet my notes I referred to this location as ‘skunk camp’. I do however remember encountering a juvenile black bear ambling across the foggy gravel roadway as we prepared to shove off the following morning. The two of us paused momentarily exchanging dumbfounded stares before going about our businesses.

Brian On Old Logging Road Crossing the Kamiskotia River

Yuri On Old Logging Road Near 'Skunk Camp'

Kamiskotia’s northern flow along it’s narrow corridor continued to be hindered by frequent rapids and log jams (#17 - 23). Unwilling to unpack and risk damage to my camera along the trail, I now regret that the number of photographs documenting this trip appeared to be inversely proportional to the number of obstacles encountered. Once a difficult portage was completed, there was little desire to retrace our steps simply to document our completed endeavour.

As the river turned east, we found both the setting sun and our final log jam (#23) at our backs. Although our top map indicated a logging bridge spanning the river a short distance downstream (0.5km/0.3mi), we failed to see it. As such a landmark would be hard to miss, perhaps it was washed away and later rebuilt for it is clearly visible these days on Google Earth. The meandering Kamiskotia once again takes a hairpin turn, swinging south before an abrupt turn to the north. The next set of rapids (#24) were found to be runnable as well as circumvented by a decent east bank portage. With the sun now skimming the treetops, we made camp midway along the trail where we nursed our wounds. Brian had developed an abscessed tooth which added misery to wet blistered feet, aching joints, skinned shins, sore backs, calloused hands and sun burns. Without regret, we were truly aching head to toe.

Day four had the river turn east once more where in quick succession it passed under a hydro line and another logging bridge before it’s waters are joined by Enid Creek entering from the north. The scenic Kamiskota riverscape continued as it’s flow made a gradual and final bend to the southeast. Remaining rapids were run or lined with ease (#25 -30) in a lively paddle towards Kamiskotia Falls, our final challenge prior to entering the Mattagami River another mile (1.6km) further downstream.

The roar of Kamiskotia Falls could be heard in the distance, it’s crescendo reverberating upstream along the riverbanks. Spray rising above the approach rapids offered a final warning of imminent danger. Landing on a rock island we surveyed the waterfall as we plotted our route around this picturesque obstacle. The cataract was to the left (north) while a former channel to the right of our island was now a dry ledge offering a route to shore. With a short break to grab a snack and marvel at the cascading waters, we re-launched the Grumman in the swirling pool at the base of our ledge to the immediate right of the falls. (6)

Yuri At Kamiskotia Falls

Brian At Kamiskotia Falls

With sadness I bade goodbye to our Kamiskotia home of the last five days. Bow pointed southward, we entered Mattagami’s sluggish current and began our upstream paddle. Here the Mattagami’s characteristics were reminiscent of it’s sister rivers, the Abitibi and Missinaibi in their northerly flow from the Canadian Shield to the Hudson Bay lowlands in search of James Bay.

Brian At Sandy Falls Hydroelectric Generating Station - Mattagami River

Evening was spent on the shores of the Mattagami River below Sandy Falls hydroelectric generating station. Kicking back with mugs of steaming coffee we watched as the descending sun appeared to momentarily get caught up in the distant hydro transmission lines. It too appeared reluctant to let this day end.

Our final day brought us ever closer to civilization as riverside homes and cottages became more frequent. The drone of air traffic betrayed the location of Timmins airport somewhere off to the east. Further along, periodic whines and buzzes escaped from the lumber mill outbuildings nestled along the eastern shoreline. Saws & planers filled bins & silos with sawdust & shavings as the aroma of freshly milled lumber wafted on the warm afternoon breeze. Stepping ashore for the final time we hauled the Grumman up the riverbank trimming Timmins waterfront park. As Brian went off to retrieve our car stowed at the motel, I tried to acclimatize myself to the sounds of traffic, of children at play on the ball diamond and the chatter of picnickers on this glorious day. Propped up with my back against the overturned canoe, I drifted off in thought, still rolling to motion of the river though on solid ground.

A blare from my chevy’s horn startled me from my daydreams and with that insult yet another river trip became consigned to memory…

(1) Timmins - A northern Ontario city (Pop. ~43,000) which until recently had the distinction of being the largest Canadian municipality in land mass. Timmins most recent claim to fame was as the childhood home of country artist Shania Twain.

(2) Cheval de frise - a defensive device used through medieval times to the U.S. Civil war and beyond. Variations of a central beam with sharpened poles protruding at right angles, which could impale advancing aggressors.

(3) Pike Poles & Peaveys - Poles with hooks used by loggers to handle harvested logs on river drives.

(4) Sweepers - tree branches growing or fallen so as to jut out over the river from shore capable of ‘sweeping‘ an inattentive paddler out of his canoe or at least rearranging his hairdo.

(5) This old logging road spanned the river with a rudimentary log bridge. Google Earth now shows the road dressed with fresh gravel and a Google Earth photo appears to show a much improved bridge (named Montcalm Bridge) at this location if the contributor’s photo is correctly placed.

(6) Google Earth image of Kamiskotia Falls outlining our route in the exceptionally dry summer of 1985. In this image the dry ledge to the right (south) of the island no longer appears above water and may not offer a portage route off the island. (see Below)

Map of Kamiskotia - Mattagami River Route
(Click on Map to Enlarge Image)

Ontario Roadmap Location of Kamiskotia River

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Slide Show of My 1985 Trip On Kamiskotia & Mattagami Rivers

Google Earth Co-ordinates:
(cut and paste everything after the dash- (in red) into Google Earth search bar.)

Kenogaming Lake Jump-off - 48° 4'13.81"N, 81°53'16.51"W

Kamiskotia River - Opishing Falls At Hwy 101 48°14'21.54"N, 81°50'47.56"W

Kamiskotia River - Camp #3 "Skunk Camp" 48°28'53.75"N, 81°45'57.82"W

Kamiskotia Falls On Kamiskotia River - 48°34'7.62"N, 81°32'7.33"W

Kamiskotia-Mattagami Rivers Junction - 48°34'11.25"N, 81°30'39.02"W

Mattagami River - Camp #5 - Upstream of Sandy Falls Hydro Dam - 48°30'29.80"N, 81°27'12.25"W

Mattagami River Take-Out At Timmins Park - 48°28'34.98"N, 81°21'6.60"W

Mississipi River - Lanark County Ontario 1985

2007-11-21T21:57:00.005-05:00

Mississippi River

Lanark County, Ontario - September 1985

(Yes, the other one)

“Water, taken in moderation, cannot hurt anybody”

Mark Twain

Brian and I stared back at each other from across the kitchen table as my drumming fingers sent ripples throughout our coffees. Having packed our car and secured the canoe hours earlier, daylight now seemed unreasonably distant. Highly caffeinated for this late hour, those coffee cup waves taunted us into an early departure for our Mississippi river sojourn.

Certainly a midnight run avoiding metropolitan Toronto’s maddening rush hour traffic had greater appeal than joining weekday road warriors, white knuckled at the wheel, foaming from the mouth, spewing profanities as they inched closer to a “have a nice day” at work.
We were off…

With the lights of Toronto soon fading in our rear-view mirror, Brian and I cruised along a darkened Hwy 401, tapping the floorboard to the tune of Joe Jackson’s ‘Steppin’ Out’. Curtains of iridescent auroras began to drape the northeast sky as the miles tugged at our horizon. Lost in conversation, tunes continued to blare from the speakers while we remained enthralled by nature’s shimmering northern light show. Cresting a rise in the highway, I suddenly felt myself violently shoved into the passenger door, then just as quickly thrown back. Streaks of red and amber danced in the windshield while the pungent smell of rubber accompanied an unnerving screech as Brian fought to regain control of the ‘fishtailing’ car. In that split second of sheer panic, we glimpsed a scene that defied all logic. There, in the center of our lane stood a gentleman armed with a camera perched upon a tripod, timing exposures of the northern lights!! So mesmerized by the spectacle that he had left his driver’s side door agape with taillights still jutting onto the asphalt. As our adrenaline rush subsided we realized that we had just witnessed a contender for the year’s ‘Darwin Awards‘, usually awarded posthumously to some fool who, through actions of their own, unintentionally removes their DNA from humanity’s gene pool.

In planning a canoe trip, one would think the adventure begins when a paddle first breaks water. Events along route were beginning to convince us otherwise. On our Albany River trip, I had collided with an unfortunate cat as it attempted to cross a darkened highway. Regretfully, the feline forfeited it’s ninth life under the frame of my chevy as it bounced out the other end. On our drive to the Missinaibi River, we were rewarded with a free lunch outside of Flint Michigan, then later kept awake outside of Hornepayne Ontario by the same ‘on time trains’ Gordon Lightfoot once sang about(1). One year previous we found ourselves dodging an unhitched cabin-cruiser as the boat spun it’s way down Hwy 401 during our midnight run to the Spanish River. At times I was convinced that raging wilderness rapids spewing boiling white water presented less danger than offered by our country’s roadways.

Bridge Spanning Mississippi River At Watson's Corners Road

With bearings set for McDonald’s Corners, we traced our route along Hwy 12 to where a turn north on Watson’s Corners Road delivered us to Dalhousie Lake. Stowing our car alongside an iron frame bridge which spanned the Mississippi, Brian and I paused momentarily to admire the rising sun, grateful for this new day after the harrowing experience encountered in it‘s earliest hours. Stifled yawns gently reminded us that our day was far from over and camp lay somewhere downstream.

Brian At Dalhousie Lake Jump-off For Our Mississippi River Trip

The name of Ontario’s Mississippi had been derived from the local Algonquin name ‘Mazinawzeebi’, meaning “painted image river”. Lake Mazinaw‘s granite cliffs, emblazoned with ochre pictographs served as the headwaters for Mississippi’s eastern journey. At some point in history, it’s pronunciation drifted from the Algonquin to the Americanized ‘Mississippi’(2). Our stay on the Mississippi was to be a short relaxing stopover prior to continuing to the Ottawa River on which we would be rafting two days hence.

On this trip ‘relaxing’ meant our canoe’s ballast was a large cooler filled with icy cans of our favourite beverage, requiring a portage around every obstacle encountered. To lighten our load, it was decided to empty a couple cans prior to departure and document our salute to the river on film…after all, this was our vacation.

Yuri On Banks of Mississippi River

Brian On Banks Of Mississippi River

Although we had chosen to explore a short portion of the Mississippi, the journey could easily have been extended in either direction. Joining numerous lakes, the river cut a swath through Ontario’s cottage country, rural farmlands and secluded townships. Framed by mixed forests of sugar maples, hemlock, beech, white pine and balsam fir, the river meandered eastward over rapids of limestone and shale before the geology transitioned to the igneous rocks of the Canadian shield.

Mississippi River, Ontario, Canada

With September’s arrival, frosty winds swirling blazing colours were but weeks away. Taking full advantage of this last burst of summer’s warmth we leisurely canoed along Mississippi’s sparkling waters. Gentle rapids offered a refreshing spray or a walk within the cooling current as the Grumman was lined through shallows.

Brian Lining Grumman Canoe Over Mississippi River Shallows

Mississippi River Rapids

Clamouring up an earthen bank with packs, paddles and of course our progressively lighter cooler, we followed the canopied trail as it lead to a grassy clearing. Some distance from the river stood a weathered hewn log cottage. Lowering our canoe while hoisting a ‘cold one’, Brian and I took a break mid portage to catch our breaths.

Grumman Canoe Below Portage

Brian Walking Past 'Skippy's Rustic Cottage On Mississippi River

A slamming door caught our attention as we turned to watch a gangly young man hurriedly stomp towards us. Spiffily dressed in a white polo sport shirt, khaki Bermuda shorts, knee high socks and canvas deck shoes, the nebbish fellow approached us with a wagging finger. (If only he had been holding a martini glass with pinky extended, the image would have been complete.) “Gentlemen, you do realize that you are trespassing on private property?!” he blurted with authority. “ Sorry, we’re just portaging around the rapids below, we’ll be gone in a few moments”. “Well, you have no right to be here!” Brian, lacking the patience to argue with this fellow we later came to nickname ‘Skippy’, dryly stated “The Canadian Inland Waters Act states that river voyagers must, by law, be allowed free access to one chain length(3) inland from any navigable river regardless of property ownership.” Now, to this day I have no idea as to whether Brian stated fact or whether he just dazzled Skippy with his bafflegab, but it was wonderful watching this fellow’s mouth drop as he backed away and retreated up the hill to his cottage. Brian looked rather please with himself as he finished his suds and I stood in awe, having watched the philosophy of ‘if you can’t convince them, confuse them!’ put to useful practice.

Drifting down the Mississippi, we continued to chuckle over our encounter with Skippy while we searched for a suitable campsite which wouldn’t infringe on anyone’s good nature. An open meadow on the north shore looked promising and after a quick scouting we hauled our gear ashore and erected our tent. The remainder of the afternoon was spent lazing about in the sun, periodically dosing off, waking only to shoo off some flying nuisance or to raid the cooler. We led no less of a carefree life on our Mississippi than Huck Finn did on his.

Meadow Camp On Mississippi River

With morning’s arrival Brian and I loaded our alarmingly depleted cooler into the Grumman to start our return journey. The gentle current offered little resistance to our upstream progress. Stopping for a quick lunch, we pulled our canoe alongside the partially sunken remnants of a dock. Collapsing on shore amongst some inflated inner tubes, we were in the process of preparing a snack when the shouts of children at play began advancing through the trees. Fearing that Skippy’s riverside relatives might be plotting revenge, we were on guard. Paying little attention to their unannounced visitors, a group of naked children came bounding out of the forest, nonchalantly passing us as they splashed their way into the river. Playful shoves and peels of laughter were exchanged as they cavorted about the water.

\

Yuri & Brian At 'Hippie Commune' Landing On Mississippi River

“Hey man, what’s happenin’?” Following their charges, two scruffy adults sauntered barefoot and shirtless from the forest. In stark contrast to our previous day’s encounter, we found ourselves welcomed rather than rebuked. Here we had stumbled upon a ‘throwback’ to the hippie era of the sixties. A lost commune of 'flower children' clinging to a simpler way of life. Self sufficient through resident artisans and farmed produce, their children were educated on site in classrooms constructed within reclaimed school bus shells. Sharing a few items from our cooler earned us an invitation back to the compound for that evening’s corn roast. Regretfully we were too far removed from our car if we wished to make our rafting engagement the following day. As the kids disappeared bare-assed back into the woods, we wished our new friends “Peace”, or whatever as we pointed our bow back upstream.

Skippy failed to greet us as we passed by his homestead on our return journey. Pausing to reflect on our encounters of the last day, I felt a greater kinship with the down to earth, dishevelled hippies than I could ever have with the highly polished, high-society, highly annoying Skippy.

Camp was pitched within a sun filled grove of saplings on the south bank of the Mississippi. With stomachs full and cooler empty we prepared to batten down the hatches in preparation of the storm clouds gathering in the west.

Final Night's Camp On South Shore of Mississippi River

I would greet the following morning, my 31st birthday, in damp darkness as we broke camp and ferried our gear to the river. A thin blue horizon eventually sliced through the foggy darkness as we continued to canoe under a light rainfall. In all the years that followed, no birthday gift could ever match the joyful experience offered by that rainy dawn!

Reaching our car at Watson’s Corner Road, we tossed our sopping gear into the trunk, lashed the Grumman to the roof for the final time this season and headed off to our rafting appointment with Ottawa’s river rapids.

Note: A more elaborate description of our final morning’s trek up the Mississippi and our rafting excursion later that day can be found in a separate post entitled 'Mississippi River, Lanark County, September 6th, 1982'.

(1) Gordon Lightfoot’s lyrics from his tune ‘On The High Seas’ questioned “was it up in Hornepayne, where the trains run on time” - which through personal experience we can attest to being true. The full account of our experience can be read in ‘Chapter One’ of my Missinaibi River posts.

(2) Of course the “Americanized” Mississippi is itself derived from the native Ojibwe word ‘misi-zibbi’ (Great River).

(3) Chain: A unit of length which measures 66 feet or 22 yards. There are 10 chains in a furlong and 80 chains in on statute mile.

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Slide Show of Mississippi River Canoe Trip
(Music: Gordon Lightfoot - 'Whispers Of The North')

Mississippi River Location - Road Map

(Click on Map to Enlarge)

Mississippi River At Dalhousie Lake - Map
(Click on Map to Enlarge)

Longitude & Latitude Coordinates of Mississippi River, Ontario
(Paste all that appears in Red in Google Earth to be taken to the Location)

Jump-off Location at Watson’s Corner Road Bridge
44°58'22.60"N, 76°32'25.24"W

Thames River, London Ontario & Beyond

2007-10-27T21:35:00.002-05:00

Thames River, London Ontario & Beyond

Rambling Reflections On A Lifetime Love Affair With Water
Part One

"You know you are a canoeist when you can't go over a bridge without looking for water under it."

Anonymous

The staccato percussion of ice pellets drumming on my windowpane was all it took to sabotage my studies. Staring beyond my reflection as it stared back, I scanned the frigid blue riverscape which lay just outside my bedroom window. My mirrored image seemingly mocked me as it floated freely upon the Thames River, while I remained captive by textbooks & exams till spring thaw. How I yearned to be free on the river,…any river.

Bedroom View of Thames River
London Ontario near Riverside Dr. & Wharncliffe Rd.

My first glimpse of the London’s Thames River was likely in the fall of 1973 during orientation at The University of Western Ontario(1). University Bridge, like any other, could not be crossed without peering in wonderment at water flowing below.

University Of Western Ontario Campus

With further exploration it became evident that the Thames was integral to London’s cityscape as it’s meandering course stitched it’s way repeatedly through the fabric of town. No major land route could escape crossing the river at least once regardless of the direction travelled. Nor was it lost upon me that London’s forefathers had engaged in geographic plagiarism as numerous place names were borrowed from this city’s British namesake. London was also known as ‘The Forest City’ as many streets were draped with old growth trees often forming picturesque green canopies over laneways and boulevards. Charmed, I was soon to fall in love with London, the U.W.O. campus and of course the Thames. Never far from the river, I took full advantage of waterfront parks and trails to unwind from my academic pressures.

The Thames River - London Ontario Canada

Thames River Below Fanshawe Lake Conservation Area Dam

The quiet seclusion offered at Fanshawe Lake conservation area provided an ideal alternative to the maddening hoards invading campus libraries at exam time. An evening walk downtown along the forks of the Thames was preferable to any halting bus ride home, while wintertime strolls along Springbank Park’s frosty riverside trails offered a chance to daydream about the upcoming season’s canoe trips in warmer climes.

Thames River, London Ontario At Springbank Park

Stepping away from Springbank Park’s groomed riverside trail one winter, I trudged through knee-high snow to the river’s edge for a better view. Suddenly aware of a rather panicked voice some distance behind me, I turned. There on the path stood a craggy old myopic gentleman waving his cane at me. “ You’d better tell your mother where you are, son”. Chuckling, I thanked him for his concern, however as I was now reaching my mid-twenties, I felt no urgent need to place a long-distance call to mom with an explanation of my whereabouts. In a few years time I was to find myself canoeing the Albany River, chasing ice floes on their way to James Bay .

I had met Brian, my canoeing partner, during my sophomore year at university. Somewhere in our conversations, a common love of the outdoors was realized. It wasn’t long before we formed a partnership and began exploring Ontario’s rivers, but that you already know from a previous post entitled ‘Sharing Opposite Ends Of A Canoe’.

During my final year at university, I was delighted to be offered the ground floor of a vacant church house rectory for very modest rent. To show my appreciation, I took it upon myself to shovel the snow from the walks and driveway so that the church choir could practice in the basement. One particularly blustery winter day I was ready to concede defeat to the blizzard when I noticed a pickup truck drive by, reverse, then enter my laneway. Lowering his plough blade, the driver cleared out the entire parking lot with just a few passes. I was momentarily confused as the cab window rolled down and the cheerful driver shouted out “there you go Father!” Having noticed the black T-shirt under my coat, the helpful driver had mistaken me for a priest. Chuckling as I watched him pulled away, I waved back and heard myself shout out “bless you my son”. Every storm thereafter I was sure to wear my black T-shirt in hopes of a repeat performance. (2)

Church House in Background with my 1976 Chev Impala In Drive

Fond memories of that church house remain as I would venture out between London’s infamous snowstorms to mail resumes to prospective employers or head to the library to satiate my appetite for Canadian history books which I consumed daily. A wood panelled office wall offered an ideal place on which to assemble topographical maps in order to study a panoramic layout of next season’s canoe routes still under consideration. Brian would drop by and the two of us would pour over top maps, review Ministry route descriptions and calculate logistics prior to committing ourselves to any particular river.

Map Room In Church House
(Planning the Next Trip)

Then there came that first spring day when the promise of change was undeniable. Bright, blinding sunlight melting dangling daggers of ice, drop….. by hesitant drop. Discoloured remnants of roadside snow banks, themselves melting into miniature rivers in search of the Thames via some nearby drainage grate. An uncommitted springtime breeze, continuously fluctuating between warm and cool in an attempt to make up it‘s blustery mind. The ever-present sound of gurgling water, swelling streams with icy runoff. Each element was yet another invitation to brush the snow from the canoe still lashed to the car’s roof and wet the paddles for the first time this season.

No doubt eager to rid herself of two restless babbling urban adventurers, Brian’s girlfriend Nancy offered to pack a sac lunch, then chauffeur the two of us beyond city limits in search of a suitable jump-off site. As much of the Thames flows through privately owned farmland, we were judicious as to where we would put in so as not to anger salivating guard dogs, amorous bulls or gun toting farmers.

In our eagerness, I swear we could push our canoe over the riverbank’s muddy ledge, chase after it with leaps and bounds, then hop aboard in one continuous motion even before fully buoyant on the water. Afloat for the first time this new year, it wasn’t long before stiff joints, soft hands and a tender tush offered reminders of past winter’s stagnation. Free of schedules, we were content to pull a few leisurely paddle strokes then lean back with eyes closed and smile at the sun, all the while drifting aimlessly on the current. The refreshing breeze carried upon it the earthy aroma of muddy banks still veined with rivulets in their own tortuous quest for the river. Songbirds twittered from once naked tree limbs, now sporting a vibrant green coat of buds. Winter had finally relinquished its hold on this new spring and we had seized the first opportunity offered.

Thames River

Although several seasons were welcomed with a short jaunt on the Thames, 1980 remains most vivid. I associate that trip with Pink Floyd’s recently released epic ‘The Wall’ as it blared from the car’s speakers while in search of a suitable launch site. Those British lads accompanied us ‘in spirit’ as we continued to hum their tunes upon the river. It was in 1813 that British travelled this same stretch of the Thames ‘in body’, for in that year British North America remained engaged in war with the United States. The rather incompetent Major General Henry Proctor abandoned British occupied Detroit when confronted by General William Henry Harrison. Proctor, reluctant to make a stand, gathered his troops and to the dismay of his ally, Shawnee Indian Chief Tecumseh, withdrew up the Thames. Proctor finally did make a feeble stand at Moraviantown(3), west of London, however it was a decisive win for Harrison and the Americans. British & native warrior casualties were numerous and in the aftermath Tecumseh lay dead while Proctor faced a court-martial. Years later (1841), William Henry Harrison was inaugurated as ninth president of the United States while British North America survived to become Canada in 1867.

Thames River

With afternoon sunlight receding, we put to shore at what ever town lay next ahead. Even in Canada, townsfolk don’t often see two muddy river warriors portaging a canoe along city streets, hull raised overhead, patiently waiting for the traffic light to turn green. Dividing upstream pedestrian traffic flow with our overturned bow, we went in search of a phone booth in order to recall our chauffeur. Cellular phones were still a few years away and their practicality would not be realized for yet another decade. Bulky and limited in range, the first cell phone was nicknamed “the brick” for obvious reasons. So massive they could be considered ballast and at best might require a separate portage trip or at worst, swamp a canoe. Had one been available, I would have left this ‘brick’ at home or perhaps, still humming their tunes, offered it to Pink Floyd - “all in all, it’s just another brick in the wall…”

…and with that phone call our excursion came to an end. At home that night, I reflected on this under-appreciated river which flowed through my back yard. The Thames had been a witness to history. It offered recreational pursuits to those who wished to explore it’s waters and riverside parks. It drained the fertile farmlands of south-western Ontario and fed the ever dwindling northern Carolinian forests along it’s banks. Daily, townsfolk, lost in thought battled traffic along side it’s banks while students criss-crossed campus in a frenzied race to class, oblivious to the Thames as it continued it’s perpetual 273 km (170 mi) journey west to Lake St. Clair.

The Thames River was designated a Canadian Heritage River in 2000.

London Ontario Nightscape

The Maitland River

(Ball's Bridge to Benmiller Ontario)

Celebration of spring’s rebirth could never be confined to tripping the waters of one lone river. The Maitland River offered an alternative daytrip for our season opening shakedown cruise.

Londesboro Road At Maitland River Jump-off

Brian & 15' Starcraft Canoe At Ball's Bridge
Drab Spring Day on Maitland River

A short drive west of London, we would deposit one vehicle at the community of Benmiller, then continue along Londesboro Road with the other car to where Ball’s Bridge spans the waterway. Shimmying down the grassy embankment below the bridge, Brian & I would throw a daypack into the canoe set ourselves adrift. A gentle afternoon paddle along the Maitland helped to get our ‘sea legs’ back, while hoisting a few ‘cold ones’ along route attempted to sabotage that same endeavour.

Ball's Bridge - Maitland River

Drab Spring Day On Maitland River From Ball's Bridge

The Maitland shares many characteristics with the Thames River to the south and the Saugeen to the north. Draining the farmlands of south-western Ontario, the Maitland meanders through fertile valleys and meadows as it makes it’s way westward to Lake Huron. Although canoeable between the towns of Wingham and Goderich, our chosen section was an abbreviated elbow east of Benmiller. Flowing between elevated gravel banks and earthen cliffs, red-tail hawks patiently circled, hovering on thermals while in search of their next meal. Maples, birches, ash, poplar, cedars and spruces frequently framed the picturesque shoreline. Pulling out at the community of Benmiller, we peered downstream and debated extending our trip a few kilometres further to where the town of Goderich overlooked the river‘s mouth. Shallower below town, the flow picks up speed and offers an exhilarating ride to the lake, particularly with springtime run-off. A raised ledge spanning the river just below the rather remote yet luxurious Benmiller Inn & Spa presented itself as the only visible obstacle. Not wishing to engage in another car shuffle, we lashed the canoe to Brian’s roof and headed home to London where textbooks, classes & exams waited to greet us.

Ledge On Maitland River Below Benmiller Ontario

(1) Photo of UWO Campus somewhat as it appeared when I attended in the 1970’s. Note University bridge crossing the Thames in the foreground. (Below)

(2) This story was published in the Toronto Star January 26th, 2007 in a column entitled ‘Acts Of Kindness’.

(3) Referred to as ‘The Battle of Moraviantown’ by Canadians and ‘The Battle of the Thames’ by Americans. Moraviantown (Sometimes Moravian Town) is located some 65 Km (40 mi) southwest of London Ontario.

Longitude & Latitude Co-ordinates:
(Cut and paste co-ordinates in red into Google Earth to view Location)

Thames River at Riverside Drive & Wharncliffe Rd (Frigid Blue Reflection Photo)
42°58'51.72"N, 81°15'49.13"W

Thames River At University Bridge - University of Western Ontario
43° 0'28.46"N, 81°16'4.08"W

Fanshaw Lake Conservation Area
43° 2'48.30"N, 81°10'45.49"W

Forks Of The Thames (Downtown London Ontario)
42°58'53.47"N, 81°15'26.62"W

Springbank Park, London Ontario
42°57'28.00"N, 81°18'34.04"W

Moraviantown, Ontario (War of 1812 Battle site)
42°35'21.08"N, 81°53'50.12"W

Ball's Bridge - Maitland River (Huron County)
43°43'24.64"N, 81°33'23.83"W

Benmiller Ontario (Huron County)
43°43'10.23"N, 81°37'28.38"W

French River Revisited (1984)

2007-08-10T12:14:00.020-05:00

French River Revisited

Wolseley Bay to Big Pine Rapids And Back
(June 22nd & 23rd 1984)

“Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer's day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.”

Sir J. Lubbock

“The mark of a successful man is one that has spent an entire day on the bank of a river without feeling guilty about it.”

Chinese Philosopher

There’s still time…..wadda ya think? Having completed our canoe trip on the Spanish River we were homeward bound along Hwy 69 when it occurred to us that there was still sufficient time to switch nationalities and revisit the French River. Sharing another day with a river certainly had greater appeal than waiting for the work week to resume, huddled in front of a shuddering air conditioner. Turning east on Hwy 64, Brian and I recalled the sweltering day we hitch-hiked this stretch of blacktop on a previous French River excursion. Hitch-hiking had been such an overly optimistic expectation as we continued our march along the gravel shoulder of county road 528 for much of it’s length. Curious locals and cautious vacationers occasionally sped by offering a cloud of dust in lieu of a ride. Sand & grit from the roadside made it’s way into my stiff new hiking boots and abraded my skin while my perspiration leached away the leather tanning dyes. It wasn’t until I arrived home that I realized the combination had tattooed permanent orange-brown socks onto my feet.

Hwy 69 French River Marker
(Reads: 'Historic Site - Canoe Route To The West')

Depositing our car at Wolseley Bay, the eastern most cottage community on the French River, we tossed a quick overnight pack into the Grumman then pointed our bow south. I again recalled a foggy morn from a previous trip where it was almost impossible to see from bow to stern - only the haunting call of a distant loon pierced the wafting mist. In contrast, this bright afternoon had the gentle surface chop flashing with sunlight. Westward through Little Pine rapids brought us into the river proper where a short distance downstream, we beached our canoe on the north shore of Big Pine rapids.

Big Pine Rapids Looking Upstream - North Shore

On each passing I felt humbled by this corridor of water flowing between two massive granite banks. Through this narrow passageway, notable explorers travelled westward, pushing back the frontier as they opened up the continent. Samuel De Champlain, Étenne Brûlé, adventurers Radisson & Groseilliers, Jean Nicollet discoverer of Lake Michigan, Pierre De La Vérendrye who opened the west and Cavelier De La Salle having built the first Great Lakes ship, the Griffon. All had at one time passed through these rapids and perhaps camped on the very spot we would choose to erect our tent.

With the roar of the rapids calling, the tent could wait. Tossing our gear ashore we made a quick scouting of the rapids and headed back upstream to set our approach to Big Pine. Numerous routes and options presented themselves and we explored all with repeated runs which consumed our carefree afternoon. Collapsing on shore we would dry out under the sun and the prevailing Georgian Bay breeze before regrouping for another bucking ride on the waves. I recalled our novice attempt at running these very rapids years earlier. Bravado prevailed over brains as we attempted to take a heavily laden fifteen foot Starcraft canoe down the chute. Big Pine had a different outcome in mind and gave us the ‘rocky finger’. Hanging up on a boulder, we spun broadside and quickly filled with water. Bobbing down the remainder of the rapids in the company of our scattered gear I lament to this day the axe and lantern I added to the historical artefacts that must lie at the foot of the rapids. Lesson learned although this French ‘immersion’ course I had not intended to take!

By firelight we reminisced about our previous adventures. Previously, friends had shared this river trip with us as far as the Hwy 69 bridge and on still an earlier occasion Brian & I had taken the French to Georgian Bay and beyond. It would be difficult to leave this old friend never knowing when we might return. But leave we did next morning, retracing our route upstream through Little Pine and back to Wolseley Bay where we would reluctantly rejoin the maddening hoards of civilization.

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Short Slide Show of Big Pine Rapids (1984)
(As seen from North Bank)
(Music: Knotty Pine - Gordon Lightfoot)

Sign Reads: "as for me, I labour always to prepare a way for those willing after me to follow it"

Google Earth Co-ordinates:
Copy & Paste Lat/Long Co-ordinates (everything in red) into the Google Earth search bar to be redirected to locations mentioned in this post.

Wolseley Bay Ontario:
Lat/Long - 46° 6'15.16"N, 80°16'3.31"W

Big Pine Rapids - French River:
Lat/Long - 46° 4'4.26"N, 80°12'21.10"W

Road Map Of French River (Big Pine Rapids) Location
(Click On Map To Enlarge)

“The song of the river ends not at her banks but in the hearts of those who have loved her.”

Buffalo Joe

Sharing Opposite Ends Of A Canoe

2007-07-23T23:38:00.000-05:00

Sharing Opposite Ends of A Canoe

"Canoes are simply too small to accommodate clashing personalities....Try to be tolerant of others' opinions, but remember that once on the water you're a captive audience."

Jerry Dennis, From a Wooden Canoe

I don’t recall our first meeting but it had to be during some science class at The University Of Western Ontario. Captivated by the discipline of microbiology Brian and I found ourselves taking many parallel courses. Somewhere between bacterial meningitis and viral hepatitis it became apparent that we shared a common love of the great outdoors and a desire to explore the less populated reaches of our country. Towards that end we simultaneously began testing both the waters of our new friendship as well as the seemingly ageless waters flowing as Ontario’s northern rivers.

Over the years Brian and I canoed numerous rivers and logged countless miles in the exploration of our province. We marvelled at nature’s wonders as we retraced the paths of early explorers and relived history. We basked in the sun and sat out days stormbound. We learned about ourselves and each other. Most of all we enjoyed our youth as we celebrated life…..

Regretfully, much like the river itself, time quickly flows by and can neither be grasped nor held for any appreciable length of time - only memories remain in it’s wake.
Physical distance, responsibilities of married life and the pursuit of careers should not have presented themselves as insurmountable obstacles to our excursions but in the end we somehow did find ourselves on different tributaries on that very same river of life. Where once our very lives depended on each other, now we have lost touch - something I truly regret.

Brian has become a very successful doctor and professor specializing in internal medicine with an interest in clinical epidemiology and gastroenterology. He leads a research team in clinical trials of new and evolving treatments. Now and then I catch a glimpse of him on the news or some television interview. Dressed in a nattily tailored suit and tie, I cannot help but recall the two of us hauling our canoe through knee-deep muddy portages or clambering over rocks and boulders as we swatted mosquitoes in pursuit of our next campsite.

Thanks for the memories Brian, it ended far too soon……….

"Travel only with thy equals or thy betters, if there are none, travel alone."

The Dhammapada

“Great care is required when choosing the two people most closest to you - your wife, and your canoeing partner"

Unknown Woodsman