EASTMAIN JOURNAL -- 1973
John B. Edmonds --1974
Revised: October 2003

LAC MISTISSINI AND RUPERT RIVER

There is a river, the streams whereof make glad the city of God.
Psalm 46:4

MISTISSINI, ABATAGUSH BAY...29 June 1973

With all our supplies stowed (except for Bruce’s tobacco, which somehow he forgot) we eased (and I do mean to say eased) gently, carefully, off from Mistassini’s Post’s dock; pointed our bows north out of Baie du Post; and paddled for Abatagush Bay. The water just off Mistassini Post is relatively narrow, and part of the settlement sits on a narrows. But as one enters Abatagush Bay the water widens. Although this is a small bay on a great lake, the shores are soon distant. And the hills stand far removed to the East and to the North. The Cree had told Albanel of spirits in those hills when he first traveled this water. Mistassini for many was access to a strange land northeasterly whose spirit-inhabited hills rose to the Otish Mountains -- part of Labrador’s vertebrae.

Though dawn had only just broken, the wind rose slightly as we entered long Abatagush Bay. Our day’s travel ended abruptly when Bruce and Sti took on more water than they really wanted or needed. A few waves lopped over the gunwhales; then more; then they swamped. The rest of us got to them, their canoe, and their freight. We hauled the whole mess to a miraculously accessible campsite. We made camp and waited for the wind to chill down a little. It didn’t. Morning turned into afternoon. Then, an early supper, and warnings of a pre-dawn departure next morning. We were fast asleep long before dark while the wind still blew.

BEFORE THE BIG CROSSING...30 June 1973

We were on the water and moving well before dawn. This is how you cross these lakes when the wind gets argumentative. Early! Early! Early! The wind had indeed abated -- for a time. As dawn broke we headed north on Abatagush Bay, through the narrows, out to the island chain running north and south through the great Lake Mistassini.

When the water opened to the west, we traveled, then, to the last island before the Big Narrows or the Big Crossing to the western shore. And there, although it was not yet noon, we paused lest the momentarily tamed wind rise early in the afternoon and catch us midway in The Crossing.

For the rest of the day one could sleep or read or swim or gaze off into the endless North or South or towards the remote and hazy West. Our Crossing to the western shore was six to seven miles, in a straight line -- with forty miles of open water, anyway, on each side. Our canoes were low in the water. They were heavily loaded. Whatever they carried would last us all the way to Eastmain. We had already figured all of that out. We knew we had to be careful. The Crossing would be completed before dawn. It would take one and a half hours, anyway. We would take the course by compass and try to run a straight shot. Our island was the closest piece of rock to the Western shore.

Mistassini is a place between other places. Mistassini lies as a gateway to other more northerly routes. To the West are the old fur trade routes on The Martin and The Rupert. As soon as we were on The Rupert we would be on a highway to The Bay.

Mistassini is flat water, a lake that ties ties routes together, and serves as a hub or intersection.

Mistassini has great winds that have the power of life and death. There are spirits in the hills and in the winds. And one treats them with respect and petitions their good nature.

Mistassini lies between the white man’s world and the bush. You can drive into Mistassini. You have to paddle out.

Mistassini was our last link with civilization, as we had known it. We were entering another world, another civilization.

And some of us, anyway, were nervous. I wished I could stay longer and listen to the secrets of The Lake. But tomorrow brought the Crossing. And we had to be ready. And we had to be careful.

RUPERT BAY...1 July 1973

Up the next morning. In the dark. Cold snack. Packs rolled, tumped. Canoes loaded. The only light was the flashlight.

A heavy mist had carpeted The Lake. It lay flat against the water rising as much as ten to fifteen feet. If there had been any light, and if I had been standing on The Island, I might have been able to look over it towards the distant Western shore. When we paddled the water, however, we paddled right through the wet mist. Our only contact with each other was by voice -- or the sound of the paddle working the water -- the splash and the hiss, in unbroken rhythm.

We paddled quietly. We talked just enough so that everybody knew where everybody was. And we stayed close. There was no wind. There was only silence. The needle of the compass glowed in the dark -- between the two dots indicating the course. I just had to keep the needle in the right place. Someone was keeping time. That was the only way we could measure our progress. After what seemed enough time, we paused, wondering what to do next. We still could see nothing.

Then we heard the birds nearby, getting ready for the dawn. Another few paddle strokes and we touched land. We could relax. Gradually the outline of the forest came into view as the sun radiated predawn light.

Having reached the safety and reference of the shore we moderated the pace so that we could move steadily without tiring. We hoped to cover as many miles as possible before the weather stopped us.

No need to hurry. But no need to stop. The lake was a mirror. Not a single ripple. Immensity in repose. Animate and terrible as it could be, to us it was kind and gentle. The flat surface cleanly divided the powers of the waters from the powers of the air. And we moved safely in between.

More than gentle, actually. Peace radiated from the depths. Debris lay motionless on the surface. As we skimmed along, we passed timbers and driftwood, insects, pollen, leaves, all going -- nowhere. We might have been in a New England mill pond or an isolated beaver pond. The water was still. And the new white light of dawn diffused in the mist.

Some people have had to wait four or five days to make that Crossing, waiting for the wind to abate. We muttered our thanks into the evening’s tea.

We camped on Rupert Bay a half hour’s paddle from the isthmus portage to The Rupert. It was only early afternoon, but it had been a long, though safe, paddle.

Some day I may return to the great Mistassini. His moods may be different then. And who knows what other spirits lurk in those hills? It could have been different. To us The Lake was kind.

PASSING THE RUPERT SPLIT TO ESKER PORTAGE...2 July 1973

As soon as we had crossed the peninsula from Rupert Bay to The Rupert itself, with the Isthmus Portage, we shifted from lake to river travel. We didn’t have to worry about wind, now, in quite the same way. O, wind can be a problem on the open stretches and the straight-aways. But generally you can get around it, if only in the early morning.

Rivers bring out other habits of travel. You stay close to the shore -- unless there is a specific reason not to. You won’t drown standing on the shore; neither will you get taken by the current. And it’s the current you worry about. It’s the current you have to learn to work with. There were never any descriptions or explanations of the current that ever made sense to me or that helped me to understand what was being talked about. You just have to be in it and feel it to learn how to work with it.

Small creeks and small rivers have water and current -- just like big rivers. But there’s one basic difference. In a small stream, if you don’t like where you are going, if you are strong and especially if there are two of you, you can work against the current -- outmuscle it. You can’t do that on a big river. You are going to go where the current wants to take you. If you know where you want to go, and you know that early enough, you can use the current to bring your canoe to the right or left, and you will be in the right place at the right time. But it’s always the current that brought you there. And it brought you there, because you used it artfully -- never because you were able to work against it. You just can’t.

So, each of us has to work out his or her own understanding of and relationship with the current. That, like all relationships, takes time, experience, and patience to build.

And we were learning. The canoes were slow and low in the water with their heavy loads. One of the canoes hit a rock and tore the canvas. We were learning just how low in the water we were.

We stopped for lunch and patched the canoe. We weren’t rushing. We were in a perfect garden. The water was pure -- antiseptically pure -- as it swirled past the canoes on its race to The Bay. An odd trout swam lazily under the canoe. The surrounding countryside was rolling with many eskers. The land looked as though it been burnt several years ago. There were no charcoaled stumps to be seen. But the vegetation was stunted or sparse. The spruce were intermittent and small. The riverbank had been carefully manicured just for our arrival. Today it was out own private resort.

We paddled past rolling mounds of gravel carpeted in green, past the white scrubbed rocks, over emerald water sluicing and whispering past an odd rock: wild and savage, beyond our control, taking us to Esker Portage where we camped that night.

To get to Esker Portage we paddled up into a bay that paralleled The River. We unloaded and carried then back towards The River, climbing up on to a ridge which was where the trail lay -- until the end of the portage where we climbed down and walked out to The River itself. Carrying over the esker one could see the white foam of The River below. The Jack Pine were sparse along the walk, affording the view, allowing the air to circulate, and keeping the bugs somewhat at bay.

This was my introduction to The Rupert. Whether Albanel found it enchanted, I don’t know. Anyway, we were off his route now. He had traveled the South Branch. A. P. Low had been here. Today it was all ours: to behold and to ponder, quietly and with respect.

ESKER PORTAGE and on

Regardless of whatever scenery we admired, there was one swirling reality constantly underneath us -- the current. All of us knew something about rapids and rivers. But to most of us this was a new reality. Eddies, side and back currents, would come to mean something only as each of us got personally introduced and created our own relationships. The current is as contradictory as horses racing and standing stock still, as perverse as waves appearing and then disappearing and then reappearing all over again, as helpful as the current that will carry you safely between standing waves the size of garages, as treacherous as the current in your last rapids -- ever. It helps to know this creature well, before you get too close. That’s what we did on the Upper Rupert.

Donny and Wart found themselves going down the wrong side of one rapids, turned the corner, saw terrible rocks and spray down below -- as well as everybody else, on the other side of The River, all looking a little worried. So they paddled back up stream. I don’t know how. And I really don’t know why the current allowed that. Then they took the right course. Then, Ted, just to show them that there WAS a way down, even on the WRONG side, showed them how it was done, and broke his brand new paddle in the effort.

Sometimes the current likes to spin canoes around 360 degrees, in roughly one half second, just to make sure everybody is alert. Gradually people learn that you really never fight the current and win. If you know how to work with it, it will help you -- most of the time. If it doesn’t want to help you, that’s a good thing to know -- before and not after. Portages are made for cussing and swatting bugs and wishing you were never here. And they keep you safe.

THE LAST OF THE RUPERT on a CREE SITE, 8 July 1973

Our progress, so far, though no disaster, was a little slow. We carried heavy loads, and we were still getting in shape. Also we noticed that the water level was really high. Water was flooding grass and other vegetation. Alder bows along the shore were brushed and buried by the moving water. The high water made for some more intense rapids -- especially one set of three where we let down and carried.

Jon had mentioned those rapids when he described his trek of the preceding year. He had thought we would be able to shoot the top set on the right, as he had. I was able to do that, but the rest of the section let down from the top. In order to shoot I found I had to swing wide of the shore to clear some rocks. And that brought me perilously close to the main current racing out in the center. After he had shot the top on the right, Jon had moved across the 100 yards or so breadth of The River. And he had portaged on the left. But this year there was no break between the first and second set of rapids: just horses racing straight down the course. There was no way to cross without a swamp. And even without a swamp, we would never have found safety before being swept into the third set of rapids which were truly magnificent -- and frightening. Had we portaged the second set on the left, we might then have been able to sneak past the third way over to the left.

But none of that was now a realistic option. We decided to let down and portage -- all the way on the right.

The let down was complicated by the side current which sent waves laterally from the middle of the stream against us, like a surf, as we tried to inch the canoes along the way. There was no way to stand on shore, which was overgrown with bushes reaching down into the water. We had to wade sometimes up to our chests in the cold swirling water. Sometimes, to let a canoe down around a rock (call it, boulder) we would let the canoe drift out into the stronger current, let it start to gain momentum as the current began to grab it, then catch it with the bow line, and bring it back towards the shore -- where, except for the tossing lateral waves, there was no danger.

Much of the time, if there was any current, at all, along the shore, it was in the form of a back eddy -- water from a huge spiral of water moving with considerable force upstream and along the shore. For some, it was their introduction to back currents. They thought they would be letting down: holding the gunwhales and just letting the canoe down the current. Here, in the back eddy, we were actually hauling the canoes against the flow, as we progressed down The River.

Finally the water became too rough altogether, as the main current began to brush up against the shore, grasping anything possible -- the stampede of horses throwing their eight foot manes into the air, catching the sunlight, tossing clouds of spray, sparkling and roaring and dancing, and sending us into the bush -- to look for a portage where there was no portage and which we would take by our own sense of direction and create on our own path where there was no path -- until wet with sweat and half eaten by bugs we would put down our loads at an old Cree site at the foot of the rapids -- and then realize that the Cree had done the same thing we had done: got off The River when it got rough and found his own way through the bush by virtue of instinct and intelligence and the sound of white water growling a quarter of a mile away -- and until The River was safe once more. We camped here at a native site and pondered our next move.

THE HEIGHT OF LAND

MISTACAWASSEE LAKE, 13 &14 July

We were making progress, but it was slow. We began to think seriously of a shortcut I had studied during the winter -- a shortcut that would take us to the divide between The Rupert and The Eastmain watersheds more quickly than I had originally planned.

Instead of traveling The Rupert to its junction with The Misticawassee Creek which we would then ascend to the divide, we headed north from this now furious river through a chain of lakes, which brought us directly to The Misticawassee, thereby avoiding some very heavy rapids further along on The Rupert and also a few days travel on The Mistacawassee, itself. When we had done, we were ahead, and no longer behind, our schedule.

Soon I wished we had not taken the shorter route. Not knowing what we were to meet when we reached The Eastmain, cutting the route a hair short seemed prudent, at the time. We definitely did not want to be caught short on time on The Eastmain. Considering what we knew then, we made the right decision; we were being cautious; we didn’t know The River; we didn’t want to be rushed. After the trip was done, however, we knew we had given ourselves more time than we needed. I’ll always wonder what those missed rapids are like. I’ll always wonder what the rest of The Rupert is like.

Our route included a bit more of The Rupert, even with the short-cut, than did A. P. Low’s, when he crossed the divide to The Eastmain. Low apparently left The Rupert at Woollett Lake, turning north and west there, and heading over a series of lakes, ponds, and streams, until he arrived at Tide Lake -- also our first point on The Eastmain. Low would have left The Rupert four or five days before us. And while I cannot believe his route across country was any easier than ours, he would have arrived at Tide Lake and Neoskweskau -- the HBC Post there -- earlier than we could hope to.

By the time we neared the end of our route on The Rupert, approaching our turn to the North and to Eastmain water, we had learned something of the ways of The River, something of the spirit that moves through those waters, something of its moods, a little of the bush, a lot about each other. We had entered a sanctuary protected -- up to this point -- by its isolation. And we had about four more weeks to our visit: to listen, to learn, to wonder, and to move very carefully.

Now, for the first time of the trip, we were on creeks and small ponds. The Mistacawassee, against which we paddled and portaged, was gentle enough to let us climb the divide. Portages were well cut, initially. As we neared and then crossed the divide, we were into burnt country, and the portages were sometimes no more than lightly walked trails. Walking was simple enough -- in the absence of any real bush. Our main challenge was keeping to the trails, such as they were, and not wandering off course. Sometimes there was no trail to be found, and we would portage simply by reckoning. Either The Cree had different routes, or he traveled as we did: picked up his load and walked in the right direction, more or less, until the next water; paddled to the next portage; then picked up his load and walked again; and then paddled to the next.

Before the divide, as we ascended The Mistacawassee, we came across some small deadwaters or lakes --- in particular, Misticawassee Lake, itself, a long narrow lake with many narrows and high rock cliffs along some of the side. Paddling through the mist of a chilly morning we observed snowy owls, flying, perching on rocks or branches of scrubby trees, flying again, and perching a few feet away. They were alarmed by our intrusion, but they lingered long enough to check us out closely, before flying off, out of sight.

The country was quiet compared to the noisy and relatively dangerous Rupert. We could relax more while traveling. The weather turned dirty for a day. As we felt our schedule no longer a concern, for the time being, we used an extra day for rest on quiet Misticawassee Lake.

THE EASTMAIN RIVER, Above Great Bend

BELOW NEOSKWESKAU, 15 July 1973

The divide came imperceptibly: small lakes, small portages, sometimes no streams along side the portages, and then a portage along the back of an esker through scrubby Jack Pine angling down a hill, and down that through twists and turns in a combination of creek, pond, and swamp. Then the water began to broaden, and the trees fell away from view. And we looked out on Lac de la Maree -- Tide Lake -- where, as Andy remarked, the tide is nearly always out. And, out it was, when we arrived, though there was enough water to get us down to Neoskweskau.

The shores of Neoskweskau slop gradually into the Lake, making several mud flats. The water level of the Lake is governed by the water level in The Eastmain. We began to realize that we had entered low water! We had notes from Andy and Jon -- from their previous year’s trip. We could tell from those notes that our water, this year, was significantly lower than theirs, then. In addition to that, and we did not know this yet, the water was falling. After the trip I checked in with Andy and Jon. They had been up around the Sakami -- north of The Eastmain. They had entered The Eastmain on the Opinaca and were about a week behind us. They saw our red paint on the rocks below Basil Gorge -- where we had let down. They judged that the water had fallen well over a foot in less than a week. Of course, if we had had a hard rain for a day or so, and we didn’t, we could have seen The River rise a few feet in a single afternoon.

We saw little at Neoskweskau -- only a shack for a weather station. We did not bother to get off where The Post had been. It was overgrown with brush. We looked for a place to camp at the end of the portage further ahead around some rather vigorous rapids. Had we stopped at The Post we might have discovered the cemetery as well as, perhaps, the remains of The Post. But our campsite at the rapids was more comfortable

When competing against rival fur traders The Hudson’s Bay Company decided to establish inland posts in order to intercept trade -- or potential trade -- that otherwise might have gone to the competition -- in this case, The Northwest Company, which was operating out of Mistassini. This was an expensive strategy, but in June, 1793, John Clarke was instructed to travel inland and build a post on Lake Mistassini. He only got as far as Neoskweskau -- Birch Point -- and built there. In the summer, anyway, the journey from Eastmain to Neoskweskau was particularly difficult; it was easier and faster to reach Neoskweskau from Rupert’s House, even though that route crossed from The Rupert over to The Eastmain. Clarke mentions the difficulty of ascending The Eastmain in one of the volumes of The Hudson Bay Record Society. In the winter, things might be different; the shortest route would be straight up The River from Eastmain.

The new post was opened and closed according to the fluctuations of trade in the general area and also the varying difficulties of supply and survival -- not the least of which, in February 1796, occurred when a fire ignited about 400 pounds of gunpowder.

In May 1796 John Clarke again ascended The Eastmain to reestablish the post at Neoskweskau. At one point, apparently just before it exploded, it was called Saint John’s House. In 1789 it was called Carlton House -- but not for long; the higher-ups in The Company would not or could not keep changing the names of settlements.

In 1815-16 there is this note from James Clouston:

“The depot for storing goods belonging to this district ought to be at Rupert’s House instead of at Eastmain. Ruperts River has by far less land carriage and fewer bad rapids than Eastmain River. Ruperts River is navigable with the same ease at all times, the water never being very high nor very low -- Mistassinni Lake being a reservoir which supplies it very regularly. Eastmain River is both difficult and dangerous when the water is high, as it always is in the spring. From Ruperts House canoes can come up in three days less time to Naosquiscaw and ten days less to Mistassinnie than from Eastmain.”
HBRS, p 308

Clouston had learned, in the nineteenth century, what Pere Albanel had learned in 1671: the proper route from The Bay to Mistassinni was from Rupert’s House and up The Rupert River. The Cree, of course, had known this forever -- and said so, in so many words, though Albanel had to learn the hard way to get the point.

"I further promised him as much tobacco as he could use on the way, and a second very considerable present upon our return, if he and his son would embark and guide us to Miskoutenagasit (Eastmain River) on Hudson’s Bay, twenty leagues along the shore. He began to laugh, and said to his son, ‘Come on, we shall not want for tobacco this summer.’"

Jesuit Relations and Allied Documents
Reuben Gold Thwaites, Editor
Relation of 1671-72
Page 169

Neoskweskau was supposed to be the post on this (Rupert to Mistassini) route. But it was built on the wrong route -- the one from Eastmain. Clouston finished his trip and recommended some time later that Newoskweskau and Nichicun both be closed.

He also recommended starting a new post -- south and east of Nichicun, perhaps, depending on further explorations. Nichicun could be supplied more easily than Neoskweskau, because there was more game -- larger game, the kind you can get in the winter.

“Although this post of Nitchequon be at nearly double the distance from the coast that Naosquiscaw is, yet the trade can be as cheaply procured here as at Naosquiscaw, country provisions being more plentiful. A whole deer can be bought from the Indians with about ten shillings value of powder, shot, tobacco and rum, and, excepting one year, as much has been obtained as was required for the supply of the people at the post. ‘Tis true the fishing is not altogether to be depended on, but as a spawning place was found out last fall which was unknown before, it is probable that other spawning places may yet be found out. Of the fish procured last fall, some will be remaining till the month of May comes in. The fish procured are extremely good. The quantity of European provisions used at Nitchequon post never exceeded fifty pound weight of flour (exclusive of the Master’s allowance) for a year to a man. This, with the quantity requisite to bring the supply of people at Naosquicaw to Nitchequon, would be very inadequate for the supply of people at Naosquiscaw, unless in a year when there happened to be many partridges about, but this has only happened twice during these nine years.”

HBRS, P 23,4 Letter To Mr Christie, April 1820

No new post was opened. In March 1821 The Hudson Bay Company and The Northwest Company merged. At the end of the 1821-22 season Neoskweskau was closed. Nichicun is still open.

NASACAUSO LAKE, 16 July 1973

Close below our first campsite on The Eastmain is Nasacauso Lake. We camped at Nasacauso the next night. It was only a half day’s travel, but we had time on our side, and we paid out the distance slowly.

Nasacauso is large and lies immediately adjacent to The Eastmain. A narrow spit of land separates the Lake from The River -- except for a narrow stream connecting the two. We camped on that small spit well up from the stream. For some reason we were protected moderately well from the wind. If I remember right, the bush was very thick, and maybe the wind was not that bad, anyway.

I walked that evening after the chores were done, taking an hour or so to mull and to relax and to be alone. Sometimes I have to take a break from watching out for everyone’s safety, and not a lot can happen after supper. Between the spit of land and The Lake there was a large marsh that was now dry and maybe never really gets wet except in the spring. There was a breeze; or at least the bugs weren’t bad. And I walked, listening to the quiet and to the birds. I lay down and gazed up into the deep blue sky. The birds pretty much went about their business, because I was not moving or bothering them much -- except by just being there. And the breeze whispered in the trees.

An osprey flew overhead. Above me. Then flew away. Then returned. Then flew in circles over my head. He never dived, never seemed to be trying to catch anything. Just flew back and forth and in circles over my head. He seemed as interested in me as I was in him. I would have liked to have talked and to have asked him ‘What’s up?!’ Then he flew off. And my eyes could follow him no longer.

I had made contact again -- with what, I’ll never quite know, really. Or, whatever it is or was, it had made contact with me. The Cree have figured all of this out and have a language, putting it into a system of thought. We don’t, and I wish we did.

Back to the campsite and to the usual of what has to be done: urging caution and respect for the forces that move us -- wind and water and our intelligence -- spirit.

PROSPER SPLIT, 17 July 1973

At daybreak no words were needed to get the gang moving quickly, efficiently, and with great purpose. The temperature and the humidity had combined in perfection to energize every single mosquito in the entire swamp. And they were ALL headed our way -- those, anyway, that hadn’t already arrived.

We got out of there fast. Then we had to be careful.

A few years ago, Robby Perkins, with whom I had tripped in the 60’s, also traveled The Eastmain. There were geese around. And, naturally, there was a wild goose chase. Geese rarely lose in this game. But, if they do, there’s a tasty supper on the way.

In this chase the geese went towards the northern side of The River. The guys chased them. THEN they realized they were on the WRONG side and at the top of Ross Gorge. The portage -- further UPSTREAM -- was on the left or south side of The River. Perhaps, by this time, the current was too strong for them to backtrack. Perhaps they thought they could save time by simply cutting their own portage, even if they could have backtracked. Whatever the circumstances, they landed and cut their own portage.

The portage they cut was good for a new portage. All seemed fine when they got back into their canoes. However, when they got out into The River and rounded the bend there were more swells. Both canoes swamped. Miraculously the canoes and canoeists survived. But some food was lost. Or, at least, they ran seriously short before staggering into Eastmain.

This is why I like the Cree portage. I know I’m safe.

And, wouldn’t you know it, as we paddled down on the islands atop The Gorge, geese came out of everywhere, honking and splashing, and heading off to the northern or right-hand shore. We were scarcely tempted. We had learned from another’s misfortune. We kept our course, found the stream off to the left before The Gorge, picked our way up the stream and away from The River, and found the portage around Ross Gorge: the first of the great gorges of The Eastmain.

Gorges can be spectacular. But they have to be walked around. The portages were designed for ease of travel and safety. Everybody (who knows about them) uses them. They can be cicuitous. Their path is laid out for ease of walking -- the quickest way around the gorge. And they put in at the right place. Sometimes, there will be two portages: a high water portage and a low water portage. They may well be on different sides of the river. In low water you may be able to sneak in closer to the rough water, before you walk. At Prosper Gorge, the one long portage can be broken into two sections; you may be able to negotiate some of The River for a stretch between the two trails. Often the actual trail of the portage is considerably distant from the water; if there’s a bend in The River, you cut the angle; if the terrain is rough, you may walk around that -- whatever it takes to get from point A to point B as quickly as possible and safely. Portages are not purposed to afford good views of the water. If there’s a good view from the portage that’s a bonus -- not a necessity. If you want to get a good view of the water, you may have to bushwhack and find your own trail.

The walk around Ross was not bad -- except for a hill where everybody lost their wind for a time. I had to rest often and swore I’d never do anything like this again. But the sweat and the aches and the bugs are never forever. And the end of the portage finally came. In fact we had two portages here; there was a small pond in the middle. That spiced things up a bit. And this was the best of all the gorge portages on The Eastmain.

When we were done, we realized we had completely missed seeing The Gorge. Only at the beginning had we heard the faint mumble of the waters somewhere far off in The River. The end of the portage had put us far downstream from The Gorge. We were tired from the walk and opted not to go back and explore. It would have taken a half day out of our stride, but it might well have been worth it.

Like Ross Gorge, Prosper Gorge is preceded by islands. We had our choice of sides this time and took the safer but possibly less scenic route -- to the south of the first and big island. We also decided to take a route around The Gorge that bypassed Propser entirely. There IS another route which actually goes right into The Gorge. We might well have been able to use this route in this low-water year. But we gave up our view of Prosper, keeping our margin of safety as wide as possible. Yes, I’d like to see this one, again, some day, as well.

While we were on the route around Prosper we got our first real taste of what fire does to the forest. The trail back to The Eastmain at the end of the bypass route was generally burnt. So was the campsite at the beginning of the portage, where we spent the night. All our swamp bugs had followed us, and they liked the burnt out area as much as they liked the swamp. And they loved us. Our only consolation was absolutely unlimited fire wood.

Man -- particularly the white man -- is a serious threat to the forest, when it comes to fires. But here lightning can do -- and does -- terrible things. One good storm system can ignite the forest over hundreds of square miles. What’s more, the ground burns. It’s all roots and fiber or dried out muskeg. And it smolders forever.

BAUERMAN FALLS, 20 JULY 1973

Another day and we were at Bauerman Falls. The River now narrows considerably, where The Bauerman River enters. Then there’s a very large rapids, with a horseshoe shaped ledge in the middle. Then, DOWN! And then a series of tremendous stacks racing on down the bend. The approach to Bauerman is tricky -- even in low water. (There may even be a high water approach further upstream.) We inched along the side of The River, sometimes getting out and holding the canoes with bow and stern lines -- lest the current hijack a canoe. The left-hand shore was our safety and our reference. To our right already were the monster stacks preceding the drop. The portage began at a sloping rock at the lip of the falls. Not a good place to be careless.

Even at the end of the portage was a huge eddy scraping the shore. It took a couple of tries to find a safe end to the portage -- where we could put in unmolested by the eddy. On my first try, I found a ‘loading’ place where the waves were still coming in like a surf.

We made camp on the portage; fished The River above and below The Falls; and shot pictures. The picture never does but so much. It records the place and the event -- but not the spirit -- for me, anyway. The picture does bring back the memory. And the memory brings back the spirit.

GREAT BEND

"Instead of the mighty wall of water falling into a river gorge and then flowing swiftly away, the greenish torrent was plunging downward into a giant pit. On one side of the pit was a waterfall. On the opposite side was a great dome-shaped hill of granite into which the water had bored a yawning cavern of undeterminable dimensions. Thus walled off from further escape in that direction the harried and compressed water was left with no alternative but to surge back out of the granite cavern in irregular convulsions into the churning violence of the pit itself. Caught between the two forces, the seething tide then flowed away at right angles to surge in wild release past the ledge upon which I stood.

"As a consequence of the conflict between an endlessly flowing torrent from the waterfall and the granite mountain which walled it in, a giant eddy had been created, an eddy of such terrifying proportions that only the clash between an irresistable force and an immoveable object could have set it in motion. At times the water swirled in the centre to an upthrust twirling cone. At other times it sagged down into a deep vortex, a roaring funnel into which anything floating upon the surface disappeared as though gulped into the throat of some monster of incredible ferocity and in satiable appetite."

James A. McRae
CALL ME TOMORROW
The Ryerson Press: Toronto
1960
pp. 155-156

The next major feature on The Eastmain River is Great Bend. To get there we had to get off The River. That is the Cree Way. Believe it.

If one were to look at a fairly generalized map of the three great Rivers flowing into The Bay from the East -- The Rupert, The Eastmain, La Grande -- one would notice they all have one thing in common. Not very far inland from The Bay each has a kind of a ‘loop’. On The Rupert the loop comes at Nemiskau; there is a lake there; but The River comes into the lake from the South and leaves from the North. There is a similar kind of a loop on Big River -- or Riviere La Grande. On The Eastmain, which lies between those two, that loop is Great Bend. In a rough kind of way all three loops line up with each other. Something was going on with the crust way back then. And, of course, it’s the nature of the crust that gives these East Side Rivers their exuberance. Remember that across The Bay, the Rivers in Ontario are falling about a foot per mile, evenly, on their last 200-300 miles. The Rupert accomplishes much of its descent in spectacular falls. The Eastmain uses gorges. Great Bend is in a class by itself.

As Great Bend begins, The Eastmain begins to work its way south as well as west. Then The River loops and works parallel to itself -- heading northeast. In this stretch there are rapids, chutes, and falls -- one after the other. Then, when they are just about over, The River turns west again and flows more of less straight to The Bay.

McRae ventured up into Great Bend -- from the south. We settled for the campsite at the foot of Great Bend.

McRae also mentions A. P. Low’s expedition. I think he mentions that one of Low’s boats was lost in a great hungry whirlpool. I couldn’t find that reference in Low myself. But I did find in Low a story of an HBC boat that had been caught in a whirlpool, and that all hands were lost. I can believe it.

Our route, then, took us off The Eastmain, for safety and for variety. We returned to The Eastmain on The Clearwater River. The Clearwater is small, beautifully clean. And the portages are well cut. The Cree take no chances.

PORTAGE TOWARDS VILLAGE LAKES, 21 July 1973

We got off The Eastmain at a very small stream which cascaded into a small and quiet cove off The River. Our creek didn’t roar and moan and growl. It babbled and giggled. There was a good portage around it to a small lake above. We wanted to get in close to the creek which was making such delightful noises. Spruce and balsam were standing guard. It took effort to get past them. I wondered if we were supposed to be there at all. We tried to be polite.

We looked for a place to camp, though it was early yet. We found no real camping ground but made do with the top of the portage. It was mossy and grassy. We fished the creek, looking for trout. Found none. Lost lures. Grabbed several pickerel and pike for an excellent supper, and enjoyed the afternoon.

We looked forward to our quiet ponds and creeks

LICHTENEGER LAKE -- INCO Survey Camp, 22 July 1973

Up early the next morning in quiet country. A mist hung over the water. We headed for the Village Lakes -- two relatively shallow lakes connected by a short creek. A portage brought us into the first lake. We crossed that lake, looking for the connecting stream. The stream widened into a small pond midway between the two lakes. There we surprised an otter who didn’t want to get acquainted at all and vanished. We kept going upstream and entered the second Village Lake. As we paddled across that to our portage to Lichteneger Lake, we saw a camp on the left and investigated. It seemed to be an abandoned surveyors’ camp. Hundreds of barrels of fuel were stacked out in a large cleared area.

There were four or five ramshackle tents on platforms. The canvass had been ripped by the wind. Doors were left open. Equipment was spread around. It seemed that people had left in a hurry -- or didn’t care. The mess was chaotic. There were unwashed dishes in the kitchen. Cans of food lay about. Some of the bottles had burst. It was warm that day and flies were buzzing all over. Outside there was a meat cage. Rotten food had been left there.

If this was a sign of things to come, it wasn’t good. I was ashamed for them. They were people -- like me -- from another world. And this was the respect they showed. Probably they thought they were on a heroic mission: taming the wilderness. The wilderness doesn’t want to be tamed. The wilderness shouldn’t be tamed. We were privileged to be here. We were guests.

More than that, there was every indication this land was about to be taken away from the Cree -- or transformed into something they couldn’t use, at least in the old way. Maybe they could adapt; and maybe they couldn’t. They were about to enter the test. What kind of support was this? It stank.

We prowled around the camp until we were sick of it. We did cook up some soup, because there was propane left for the stove. Then off to the portage to Lichteneger Lake which we found hard to find. Finally we began the portage.

It was longer than any of the other portages this morning. And the air was getting warm. As I finished my first trip across the portage, I could see The Lake. Then a voice called out.

I couldn’t believe it! Across a finger of water, on a point, a man called: ‘How about a cup of coffee? Or a can of Pepsi?’

This isn’t what happens in the woods. We anticipated meeting NOBODY all the way from Mistassini to Eastmain. Robby Perkins had taken more or less the same route, and he had met nobody. Of course, he’s the one that ran out of food. We had food we didn’t know what to do with.

I yelled back that I’d be over as soon as I carried my second load. I hurried back for the wannigan and pleaded with the guys to keep their mouths ever more pure than usual, finished the second trip, loaded up with Eric, and headed over to the other side of the little bay that our portage had put us into. Some of the guys were already there and were waiting for me to catch up. I always used to be first without even trying. Not any more. Now people wait for me sometimes. I’m not getting used to it.

When we got to the other shore we introduced ourselves. Seemed that these people were a crew working for International Nickle Company. They were checking out possible leads with some kind of apparatus that picked up magnetic waves -- or something like that. They were wonderfully hospitable. As the section straggled in a great deal of pop got consumed. Bob Noble was the head of their crew and asked us to spend the night there on his campsite which was big enough with a little hacking here and there for all of us.

The INCO crew didn’t have a boat, so I took Bob out trolling, while Groucho and Wart cooked for everybody. Bob and I caught nothing on our fishing expedition -- and lost several lures. But he had a chance to talk about his past and why he had come to the bush to work. It was peaceful here. One could work hard and earn his way. In a way I envied him. But I wasn’t sure but that I’d tire soon of chasing mines.

Our chefs had commandeered the Coleman Stoves in INCO’s kitchen and had prepared a sumptuous feast of spagetti and sauce -- with REAL meat, this time. And spices. And pickles. And hot cocoa. And more pop. And who knows what else. Everyone had written a letter. The mail would go out on the weekly Otter in a day or so. We watched in awe as Bob called headquarters on his two way radio to say everything was ok. He asked us if we needed anything. Of course, we didn’t. You never do when there’s help at hand. Then the portable radio came out. When we got sick of that, Bob played his guitar -- old Gordon Lightfoot and Dylan songs. Harmonicas came out. And old stories. We talked about the trip. And the INCO crew talked about working in the bush and stalking magnetic waves. We turned in late.

While these folks probably were engineering the further destruction of The North, they were really nice people. And their campsite was immaculate.

CLARKIE LAKE, 23 & 24 July 1973

Then, on to Clarkie Lake. Breakfast brought REAL and FRESH fried eggs! And REAL coffee! (Of course, we were already and adequately supplied with proper tea.) We had some lake paddling. We were going downhill now; there were rapids to walk and to shoot. They were small rapids. We now were at the very top of Clearwater River, and it never gets very big, anyway. But there was plenty of water; this was a river and not a creek.

There was a string of rapids as The River descended to Clarkie Lake. We shot some, walked others. There was one that Eric and I shot but which everyone else walked. It had a very tight turn at the beginning. We turned a little too hard and headed in a lull of the rapids right into shore. There was no current right there -- for the moment -- got organized while Eric clutched a boulder that stuck out from the bank, turned around, and headed for the final pitch, threaded the needle between a VERY ugly standing wave and an even UGLIER rock, and finished the rapids without having hit anything and without having taken on any water. But it WAS tight; the others walked.

Another rapids was even steeper, but the waves were not too bad. One at a time we just bullied down the center, got a very rough ride -- bouncing and tossing in the waves. But there were no rocks and no problems.

The campsite on Clarkie had a large sandy beach with tent sites and a fire place back in a grove of pines. We rested there a day. The shallow water made for warmer baths. And there was endless sunbathing. Some half-hearted attempts to fish. But not many. Someone had a portable radio, and we tuned into the Watergate hearings. But they got tiresome, and we listened to the wind in the trees on a hot and sultry day.

GREAT BEND, 27 & 28 July 1973

After a few more deadwaters or smaller lakes, The Clearwater begins to drop and head straight for The Eastmain. There are rapids to be walked and shot. The weather on 27 July had turned rotten. The heat and steady West Wind of the past few days was gone. Now there were cold gusts of drizzle, and then there was steady rain. Our campsite destination was half a mile UPSTREAM from where The Clearwater joins The Eastmain. The campsite lies at the very foot of Great Bend. The poor weather and strong current kept us focused -- and not on the view. But what a view it was! Ledge upon ledge, one after another; massive rapids between the ledges as far as the eye could follow The River upstream. We were, again, dwarfs -- in a new (or ancient) world -- unimaginably foreign to our own.

We struggled along the shore upstream. Right up to the shore the current was not so bad. Sometimes, even, there was a helpful eddy whose back current would propel us upstream while the horses raced downwards in midstream. But we could not paddle into the campsite. We left the canoes in the bush -- placed carefully upside down, securely lashed to each other and to the trees, so that neither wind, nor rain, nor rising water could take them away from us. Then, in the driving rain, we made camp at Great Bend.

Our campsite was behind a massive flat rock that sloped gradually into the last rapids of The Bend. Giant haystacks in stationary formation patrolled The River before us. The River was over 300 yards wide here. Ten foot stationary waves separated us from the distant shore. To our left The River calmed, where The Clearwater entered, and then a hard left turn to the West as The River raced to The Bay. To our right: The Great Bend, or the last part of it, ledge upon ledge.

We pitched the tents in the thicket behind the rock, sheltered slightly from the wind and the rain. The kitchen and fly were placed on the exposed sloping rock, just up from the water. We used the largest rocks we could manage to secure everything safely. Then we gathered ANYTHING and EVERYTHING that could possibly burn and created a huge pile and lots more on the side. The rain was fierce. BUT, there was a fifty gallon drum of aviation fuel that some really considerate soul had left behind. Four or five gallons of that stuff on our mountain of logs and we had a rather tidy little kitchen fire going in no time. In fact, our fire did so well, that we ended up standing out in the driving rain -- and dried off. The fire turned the clouds to steam, and no rain touched that entire rock for the rest of the night. The fire WAS a bit brisk for the cooks who started their own fire under the fly -- or on the open/lee side of it. We got supper eventually. We were in no hurry. We would sleep tomorrow.

One of the local engineers decided to visit and to check us out. He inspected our rig slowly, thoughtfully, methodically, and very soberly. None of us could decide whether to scramble for a camera or just keep standing there absolutely motionless. (We did get a picture of him a day or so later, in conversation with Bruce.)

Perhaps he wondered just exactly who we were, anyway. How did he know we weren’t here to make him into a hat? For some reason he seemed to trust us -- to a point. And we were really trying to keep our cool. So he stood there -- in the kitchen -- and waited for all the rest of the gang to come out from under their rocks -- or tents.

He had been working in the bush when we arrived. Or, at least that’s where he had come from when we first saw him. I suspect we were in his path to the water. Of course, the entire shoreline was his property, actually. This time, he had to make his path right through the kitchen. And he WAS curious. He also was clear about who owned the place. Eventually he strolled -- kind of waddled -- off in to The River. This was not the last we saw of him.

We rested the next day. The rain had stopped over night. Next morning there was not a cloud in the sky and it was cool. A real summer’s day in The North. An endless breakfast of pancakes, trout, walleye, and pike began to pile up in the kitchen. I caught a pig of a walleye.

Clambering along the shore was difficult. There were lots of rocks and ledges. We never got more than a mile from the campsite. As far as we could see The River was the same all the way up: water churning and tumbling over ledges. If we had taken the time we might have found McRae’s whirlpool. I do know of people who have gone through The Bend: Heb Evans and Dan Jardin. The water was low this year. We probably could have done it -- but wouldn't try on the first run.

CONGLOMERATE GORGE ......1 & 2 August 1973

The River now started to go through phases where it would meander a bit and then drop again over a ledge or rapids. In one rapids we came right up to the ledge and portaged a small island off shore; most of the water went by on the other side of The River -- away from us -- making the operation reasonably efficient and safe. Other times we had to get out and walk -- usually on fairly good trails. Sometimes we would shoot -- but not often. The rapids were getting truly enormous; the only hope of shooting safely would be to find a slick along the shore; and that was rare. Low water can do that; there's not enough water in the bed to cover the rocks on the side with a calmer slick. At the end of one of the walks our engineer friend greeted us again, I hope, wishing us well. Rather, he came up to talk with Bruce, who in the picture (this time) is in rapt encounter. You have to look carefully. All but the snout of our engineer is under water.

In a day or so we came down upon Conglomerate Gorge. We looked for the start of the portage -- well up from The Gorge itself -- out of earshot of the foaming waters and tucked away in a bay. We finally found the portage. There was no real way to blaze its start, as the trees were either scrubby or dead. Besides, it started up on top of a sand bank. Heaving our gear up to the flat ground above the bank, we noticed that the area was burnt out. The fire couldn’t have been but a year or so ago. The burnt smell was still very obvious, and carbon brushed off on you as you walked by the trees and bushes.

This was the first time I had walked for any length of time in a recently burnt forest. I had been over trails many times when all or most of the trees were dead. The last portage around Prosper Gorge was a burnt out area, but the fire there had happened some time ago. This fire around Conglomerate seemed as though it had been put out only yesterday, though I figured it had to have been about a year.

The portage around Conglomerate is at least three miles; maybe closer to four. There is a campsite about three quarters of the way through -- or further, if you take the earlier of the two endings. We planned to camp there for the night, so there was no great rush that day. That makes the long walks a little more bearable. At least when you are done, you know that’s it for the day.

About half way between the beginning and the campsite there were great pits dug in the sandy soil. We looked closer and saw that bulldozers had been there. But where they had come from and where they had gone, no one could say. There -- out in the middle of the bush in nowhere -- were gashes in the earth from giant machines. And, as mysteriously as the machines had come, they had left -- though I wondered if I didn’t hear, way off in the distance, the faint growl of diesel engines.

As we approached the campsite, the forest became green, again. The fire had not reached this far -- fortunately for us and for others as well. A small bridge of logs brought us over a tiny creek and a spring hole to the clearing in the forest that was to be our home for the night. Andy and Jon had left some wannigans behind. But we needed none and used them as tables and left them behind.

After making camp and a light lunch (as it was so hot) Ted, Rob, John, and I went looking for the end of the portage. We found two endings. One put in before some rapids right after The Gorge. And the other (and longer) ending put in well after those rapids. In order to shoot the rapids one had to cross the current of The River. The portage was on the left, and the path through the rapids was on the right. The cross-over from portage to rapids was supposed to be possible in moderate to low water. In high water the waves would be too rough, and the current so strong as to wash you into the next set of rapids before you even made it to mid-stream -- if you were even still afloat. The longer trail accounted for all of that. In going back upstream I guessed that the native would always use the longer option; it would have saved time.

As we approached the end of the trail what had been faint whispers of diesel growl were now becoming clearly discernible and sustained. The others heard it; it wasn’t my imagination. Sometimes we heard the diesels; sometimes we heard the rumbling of The Gorge; something was going on. As we got to the shorter end of the portage, we saw where The Gorge spilled out into calmer water. We saw a giant slowly moving eddy in the bay where we were. And high on the hill on the other side of The River we saw the land stripped bare and a hillside of gravel. Steamshovels, trucks, and bulldozers worked away like ants -- moving methodically, gradually molding the earth to some design, growling and tearing at living things in the process. We were too far away to see men or to call out to any. We walked along the shore down river. Then we realized that the earth was wounded on both sides of The River -- on our side as well; we were at the site of a bridge.

The road’s approach from both sides was well advanced. The concrete towers that would hold the steel beams were reaching for the sky. In time the noise would die away. Some of the scars would heal. The bridge would stand. Such is the cost of change and progress.

The River had been violated.

We clambered over to the site of the bridge, got on a road and headed down stream, and found ourselves headed for the construction camp. It was obvious that the longer trail of the portage had been obliterated. The water was low this year, so we should make the cross-over easily enough. In another year, with high water, the canoeist would have to make his way close to shore and portage those rapids over the ground the construction crews had cleared for the bridge. It would be tricky, perhaps, and extra work; but it could be done.

At the camp there were conveniences we never dreamed of in the bush. Hot showers, radio telephone again, helicopters buzzing around like flies, pickup trucks and jeeps racing around, people being busy. We were asked why we weren’t out working on the phone lines. And when we tried to point out that we had walked in to camp from our own campsite, we were told to see the boss. We did that and saw something of the office -- and of the maps showing the progress of the project in the wilderness. I inquired about getting a meal for everybody the next day, made arrangements with the kitchen. And we sat around and watched other people work. It was rather pleasant.

The bridge was still under construction. Down near the camp, however, was a barge held in place by a cable which stretched across The River. We watched the vehicles come and go across the waters rushing underneath. This was all below the rapids; but the current was obviously strong. There was something incongruous about the wild River allowing passage to anyone at will. Here we had been trying to find its secrets as we had descended. We would never cross its fury -- or get destroyed, trying. Now other men had thrown steel cables across to defeat the current; had blasted rocks to install bridges; had used the helicopter to cover distances in a moment. I looked at a construction journal that described the operation as a war on intractable wilderness. Yes, it was a war. And, in war, the opposing sides lose their identity. The men lost their humanity -- living with machines for 16 hours a day, seven days a week. Men could not hear the whisper and the roar of the water over the drone of the diesel. The men were intent on conquering nature -- or on getting their paychecks. And they could therefore never learn the more subtle secrets The River could share.

And The River had lost its dignity and its fury. It was to be dammed soon. It already was spanned. The River no longer could be a boundary -- between right and left or between north and south. The River no longer was to be feared, because man had cast his machines around it and had started to use it for his purposes -- as he has seen them. The River had lost its capacity to teach.

In any war there are only losers -- never a winner. I wondered how these men were the losers in this war. It was a war in the sense that it was executed very quickly. The people we talked with told us how fast they had accomplished their work; how soon they had arrived the preceding spring in the cold and had started work. But the speed served no purpose that I could see but to ensure that the road would be finished about the time others decided it was not such a good idea. I wondered what the Cree thought about all of this; perhaps he might wish to be consulted just a little further, a little more closely. I wondered how many dams, roads, and cities would have to be built on his own land, before his rights to the land were clarified. As we sat there looking at the construction -- or destruction, depending on how you look at it -- there was a case before the court: whether the entire project was legal in the first place. Some time later there was court order stopping the work. But the war goes on.

Time to head back to the campsite. We started to trudge back, up River, towards the bridge site. A pickup truck gave us a lift. It was a foreman picking up a crew to bring them in for supper. Bumping along the road in the back of the truck saved time. But there was dust, noise, and fumes. People ask me what’s so great about the bush. I say it’s what’s so terrible about those machines. But we were amused when the truck picked up its homecoming cargo and waited for us to take our pictures of the utterly spectacular view of The Gorge from the bridge. The driver looked at us in disbelief when we told him to go on without us. We spoke mostly English; he spoke mostly French. We were trying to tell him that we were camped up River. He was trying to tell us that there was nothing, nothing, no camp, up River. Finally, realizing that we would have to learn on our own, the hard way, he took off in a cloud of dust. We were able to get shots of the final plunges of The Gorge, the way water tumbled over rocks and sluiced around the islands and came together at the end in one enormous wave. And we took pictures of the gravel pits, and the developing road, and the scars on the hillside. And then we walked up along the shore into the base of The Gorge and looked more closely at the water and the rocks and how The Creator had put together the combination of rare beauty and power and mystery. And I wondered if the Spirit of The River would leave or die or sleep -- now that its precincts had been invaded by another culture and another mind.

Back to the campsite -- with stories growing longer all the time and stirring up genuine envy and curiosity. Up early the next morning and loads were carried across to the end. We loaded up in no time. And then we had to do the cross-over. It all worked well enough -- except for Bruce who cut out of the eddy too abruptly and promptly flipped over. Fortunately he was close enough to the shore so that canoe and freight came right up to the shore easily enough. He and Sti put everything back together, and tried again -- with success! An excellent time and place to learn all about eddies.

Another danger I had not anticipated lurked under a rock cliff. One of those massive trucks was about to dump tons and tons of boulders, gravel, and sand upon us. The foreman looked down just as the back of the truck began to lift and yelled at us in French. We waved. There was nothing we could do, really. It was not convenient -- or even possible -- to stop or back up. But the rocks didn’t come flying down at us as we passed by. And we got to the camp more or less in one piece.

Then showers, washing machines, and a prolonged and methodical lunch. The deal was: you can eat all you want in one sitting. I wasn’t that hungry. But there was plenty of fresh coffee and good conversation. The 17-18 year-olds got their money’s worth, and mine too.

There was an American who had flown helicopters in the Viet Nam War. He and many other pilots had come to the bush to fly helicopters -- at excessively high wages. He told us about the pilot who had flown in the war and who came to Canada to fly for civilian purposes. He had to get a civilian pilot’s license. When one does this, one goes for a ride with the Inspector. This particular Inspector had a routine he would pull on some of his prospective licensees. He would turn off the ignition. I don’t think I would like to be in a helicopter while all of this is going on. But pilots are supposed to know what to do.

The Inspector pulled his routine on this prospective pilot. However, when the Inspector had reached over and had turned off the ignition, the pilot reached over and removed the keys from the ignition and tossed them out the window. I’m not sure what happened next.

Filled to the gills, with pockets stuffed with cookies and cakes, we staggered out of camp and back to our canoes. We loaded up and headed down The River. I don’t think anyone was sad to leave the camp, though the showers were a luxury and the meal was a treat. But we didn’t belong there. And they didn’t belong there, either.

Our summer was to be with The River. And to know The River we had to leave behind all the things in the camp.

It was unbearably hot. We did not travel far on what was virtually a lake now. We found an abandoned surveyors’ camp that had been cleaned up and burnt out. In fair weather it would be good enough. We gambled and stayed there. The weather was holding. Had the wind shifted and the weather turned ugly, we would have been blown right into the water. As it was, we caught what few breezes there were in the heat and found respite from the bugs.

CLOUSTON GORGE 3 August 1973

Clouston Gorge lies not many miles below Conglomerate Gorge. And we had no real obstructions, to speak of, on the way down. The weather, now, however, had become really hot. There had been no rain since that excessively wet day we reached Great Bend. We expected the weather to break any moment with one of those spectacular thunderstorms typical of The North. Also, we anticipated West Winds (a head wind) on this stretch of The River. The West Wind is the prevailing wind up here. And when The River widens out into long spans of dead-water there is nothing to stop the wind from rolling right into your teeth. We had planned extra time for precisely this reason. If the wind decides to blow, you may well have to get off the water by noon -- or earlier, unless you luck into a sheltered stretch and can dodge your way along the shore.

These days, however, the wind was blowing in from the East! That only happens when there is a really bad storm brewing or blowing and when the North Wind gets a little disoriented. But we were getting an East Wind -- a steady tail wind. And I could not figure out why, until someone told me later that the great heat was causing The Bay to evaporate, giving off moisture and heat into the atmosphere. This was setting otherwise stationary air into motion and sending it upwards in a column. We were at the bottom of a giant percolator. And the air was helping us move towards The Bay.

The tail wind was pleasant enough; it speeded us up. And we weren’t eating much because of the heat, so our supplies were holding out really well. (One really has to eat, when it gets cold.) But the heat was oppressive and enervating. We would get up early and travel until noon; pitch camp, hopefully, on a portage; and spend the rest of the day sleeping off the heat. When evening fell, we would stir again, and perhaps bring the canoes over the portage. Early the next morning we would complete the portage -- long before the heat struck again, and quickly because we were down to light loads.

This is what we did at Clouston, then, when we finally found the portage itself. It took me forever to find the portage, because I kept looking at a mess created by some surveyors. Eventually I realized that no portage lurked anywhere near the blazes *they* had made. Before we got out at the portage we had a chance to see some of the first pitches of The Gorge. But it was getting hot, and we wanted to make camp.

In his report, A. P. Low mentions a black bog on this portage around Clouston -- and so has everybody else that I ever talked to. Evidently, when the rain or snow go into the bog, they stay there forever, because there is no way out. The Bog is a monster saucer, made of solid rock -- with bog-like things growing in it: mosses, bushes, and no trees. The construction people said they dynamited bogs to blow out the muskeg. We didn’t carry dynamite. The hardy portager, rather, under a canoe or wannigan, jumps from clump to clump of (relatively) solid vegetation. If he misses a clump, he then goes down -- and up to his nose -- in muskeg. Then, while he tries to extricate himself, his buddies take pictures for posterity and for him to enjoy -- later. Nobody jumps into the muskeg by choice -- not even to help. The canoe will float, even if nothing else (including portager) will float. The Clouston Bog is especially notorious because of the flavor and aroma of the muskeg. Even the kindest and gentlest of muskegs is most memorable, in a seriously unforgettable way. Such memory cannot be described politely. And, Clouston’s Bog is neither kind nor gentle. That muskeg has been there a long time. And the water has nowhere to go.

We decided to take our first trip, of just canoes, across near sundown. The whole section decided to walk the trail, even though only the sternmen were carrying. The others brought cameras (to record scenery or a sternman’s catastrophe) and also maps so that we could find our way across the Great Black Bog of Clouston Gorge.

The portage began at the back of the campsite. Soon the trees around the campsite thinned, and we entered the Bog. It looked as though it had once been cleared, then abandoned and never used again. There was no real trail across this great expanse. And people generally were able to chose their own paths. Since there had been no rain for over a week and since there had been such heat, the Bog had been boiled dry. Nobody really got very wet -- or very boggy. The footing was not always sure, and it was good to get back to firmer ground at the end of the portage. But the Bog dozed while we walked. And we were grateful. I don’t think that Bog ever sleeps -- except maybe in the winter.

Finding our way across The Bog, however, was possible only with a couple of reconnaissance trips. There was no real trail; and there were no real blazes. We basically guessed our direction and went that way. And soon enough, on the far end of the Bog on the other side, we found where the trail resumed. A large piece of red plastic -- or something like that -- was tied securely to a tree, so that others might find their way more easily -- once they were close enough to see it.

When we got to the end of the portage we had a chance to look at the bottom of The Gorge, which came rushing into the same dead-water where the portage had put us. The end of Clouston is one long straight-away. The water was much higher in the spring. You could see how the spring water -- and ice -- had cleaned out The River’s bed. More pictures in the late afternoon sun -- of very small people looking at very big water.

BELOW CLOUSTON GORGE

An early rise was to move us right along. And move we did. But some of us had become ill. It might have been some bad water somewhere along the way. It might have been a bug at the construction camp. It’s hard to tell. These bugs are common at the end of a Bay trip. I suspect they breed in the swamps and will catch you if you have not built up an immunity. The bugs never last but a day or so. They only slow a person down for a short while. But they hurt a section, because everybody gets his own personal bug at a different time. We could not really stop every time one of us got sick, so we plodded on -- Eric, John, and a couple of others notwithstanding. I actually think the heat was as much to blame as anything else. We weren’t used to it. And the long portages were tough in the heat.

ISLAND RAPIDS 4 August 1973

A half day’s travel brought us to Island Rapids. We spent two nights there hoping the bug would get tired and go away. Fortunately, that’s just what happened. Island Rapids has a large flat rock right in front of the campsite. We could wash, take shallow baths, lie in the hot sultry breeze. In the afternoon of our rest day we portaged the canoes and went to take pictures of the water again. The rapids is part rapids and part falls. The water churns around a series of islands. While we could look at only a few of the channels, we could see the force of the water as it pitched and churned and raced for the avenues of least resistance. There is supposed to be a Cree grave there somewhere which I think Ted did find; but I never saw it.

TALKING FALLS

We then figured on an easy half day to Talking Falls: to stop there for lunch and also for the night. Andy had told me that this was his favorite campsite on The River. We still had plenty of time because of the unexpected fair weather. As we came down on Talking Falls, however, we (or rather I) brushed just a little too close with disaster. I was looking for a run through a rapids right before The Falls. There was supposed to be a run on the extreme right hand side of the rapids. And we approached the rapids, cautiously, on the right hand side.

But the run was all dried up. (I didn’t realize, yet, just how low the water had fallen.) There was nothing on the right hand side except mean looking boulders popping up above the surface of the water. If there were a run in there, there would be some very tight turns, and we would do damage for sure. I was still in the canoe all this time, looking at the rapid from the top. Eric and I worked our way more towards the center to see if there might be a better way. There wasn’t. But we didn’t learn that until too late. There was nothing out in the center but a ledge. And before we could back away, we got sucked into the current.

We then straightened the canoe with the flow, paddled like hell, shot the ledge straight on, so that at least our momentum would carry us as far forward as possible. We slid over the ledge -- ten feet or more. The canoe filled with water and rolled over. I had to swim forward under water to get out of the down current. Eric popped up immediately; he was just enough ahead of me. If we had not worn life jackets, we might not have survived.

The canoe just sat there in the water in front of the ledge for quite some time. The vertical eddy was holding it in place. Eric headed right for shore. I held onto the wannigan which contained my camera and $300 in cash. I wasn’t going to give that stuff up without a fight. Everything else started floating down-stream and towards Talking Falls which lay about a hundred yards on below.

As soon as Eric and I knew we were getting into trouble we waved the others back and over to the shore. Ted and John, who were next in line and who had sensed trouble, portaged their canoe on the run. The others hit the shore wherever they were and started bringing down the canoes as fast as possible. Ted and John put in right below the ledge and went for the canoe (priority #1). They parked it in an eddy, near the shore -- where it would stay for a little while. Then they went for the packs, tent (which tends to sink in situations like this), and other wannigan. They got everything -- except that second wannigan, which went over the Falls. The canoe had been floating peacefully in circles in the eddy, but it now was restless and heading for The Falls. John, Ted, and now Rob, got to it and hauled it back to shore.

I should never have allowed the current to get me this way. My negligence was in part due to the fact that I was using excellent trip reports, and I was starting to go into a lull; I wasn't checking them carefully enough against the existing conditions. The water was lower this year; and it was falling every day. That threw me off, but more than that, I was getting complacent about the water. That’s always dangerous. We were lucky. The River gently reminded us of who really is boss around here.

We were lucky that we didn’t have any real damage. We only lost what little food there was in that second wannigan -- along with some tools, fishing lures, and some air photos specific to the immediate area. We found the wannigan down below, washed up on shore, not far from another of Andy’s old wannigans! We did lose the tumpline; and that WAS a loss.

Then a helicopter came flying in overhead. I think the pilot was shocked and curious. He might have expected anything; but I don’t think he expected to see a pack of river rats loitering on the side of The River. We gave him 'thumbs up' and checked our personal gear to see if there was any damage or if anything got soaked. Nothing to worry about. We were lucky.

I did not know it at the time, but The Falls has a history of its own. I did try to listen to Talking Falls, as we approached. Maybe that’s why I was so absent-minded! I wanted to hear the talking, if, in fact, that was there. If the Name 'Talking' came from The Cree, it meant something. I wanted to find out what it meant. Before our soaking plunge I was close enough to hear The Falls. (We were that close.) The noise of The Falls faded and returned, antiphonally, with eerie regularity. I remember that. It was like whispers rising and falling in the distance -- calling out and answering.

We did not take the time to listen to The Falls from below. But The Cree has. And that is how The Falls became known as Talking Falls.

Traditionally the Cree families summered on the coasts of The Bay: to fish, to socialize with other families, to trade, and to get away from the bugs. In the fall, families would head back into the bush to their own traditional winter camping grounds. The camping grounds were carefully sited to intercept the migrating caribou herds, and to enable the hunters to harvest what was needed for survival. One of these winter camping grounds was located at Talking Falls.

This was the scenario -- UNTIL the winter of 1892-3. For some reason the caribou simply never showed up. I have been told recently that the problem came from the previous summer’s forest fires.

This particular winter, then, there were no caribou. About 85 people had headed out from Eastmain for the winter hunt. About 15 returned. The rest perished. There were reports of cannibalism.

The next summer, of course, people went looking to see what had happened. Tents were still there. The people never left their camping ground. They perished there.

McRae writes in his account of his own trek up the Eastmain (looking for diamonds!) that the Cree thought that the spirits of the deceased, then, were there at Talking Falls. And they were talking. And for a long time, the story goes, no one would dare go beyond The Falls.

BASIL GORGE

Still with that strange East Wind on our backs we reached the top of Basil Gorge a day earlier than we had expected. We worked our way down to the beginning of The Gorge and watched the big rapids at the start. But the portage began well upstream from The Gorge. We camped at the beginning of the portage that night. A fine long walk the next morning would bring out the best in everybody. An old tradition was remembered. On the last portage, the bowman carries the canoe. And this was the last certain portage. The walk was long but simple enough. The Opinaca -- one time called the Straight -- River joins The Eastmain just before Basil. Andy and Jon would be coming down that route not long after us. The trail around Basil, then, was well used.

Taking our time we polished off this last of the long walks and camped at the end of the portage the next night high above the water. The campsite was a grove of red pine, had its own spring, was large enough for a battalion, protected us from foul weather which we never had, and was close to the water to ease our departure the next and final day. We worked around the rapids below Basil carefully. This was not the place to screw up!

And then the long paddle to Eastmain.

A day or so ago we had noticed several DC-3’s flying back and forth from north to south. No one could say what all that air traffic was all about. But after we had left Basil the wind may have shifted a little. Now there was a good deal of smoke in the air. It was coming from the North. We worried about Jon and Andy who were heading down from the North. We figured -- and were later proved correct -- that L.G. II was being evacuated.

The wind never rose to block our way. A few shallows were passed. Then Eastmain came into view.

Any worries about safety were now over. We had made it without mishap -- well, without any serious mishaps.

But the trip was over. We were in another, stranger, world.