French River Ontario - 1979

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

© Copyright - All rights reserved.

Albany River 1983

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….