by Margi Preus
ON TO LAKE SUPERIOR
After a long portage around some very big, terrifying rapids, the full joy of the voyageur’s life was revealed to me.
At last we were on big, beautiful, and dangerous Lake Superior.
We traveled swiftly in our birch-bark canoe.
She glided through the water without a sound.
She wove around rocks as if she knew the way.
She kept us dry on rainy nights.
Some days the wind howled out of the north, cold and bitter. There were cool days and days of driving rain. On warm days the air was fragrant with pine. There were days of fog and days of dazzling sunlight.
They were all good days.
THERE IS FOG
One morning the fog on the lake was as thick as Jean Louis’s pea soup. And for a change our canoe was first in the brigade. The other canoes paddled in a line, each bow close to the stern of the canoe ahead. It was up to Jean Gentille to navigate the entire brigade through the fog—to keep us from running aground, or smashing into cliffs or submerged rocks.
But how?
The voyageurs, poor humans that they are, possess a sadly underdeveloped sense of smell. They don’t hear so well, either. Moi? My hearing is excellent and my sense of smell is so well tuned, I can find pine seeds under three feet of snow. This was a job for me!
I abandoned my post on the top of Jean Gentille’s head and climbed onto the bow to put my ears to work. I would scold, scold, scold if I heard waves splashing against the shore, or the sploosh of a turtle sliding off a rock. That meant we were too close to danger.
At the same time, I held my nose high, twitching with the effort of smelling all that needed to be smelled: Blossoming chokecherry trees and peppery lupines, a chickadee nest in a birch tree. Deep in the woods in a north-facing depression, an old patch of snow, as yet unmelted. Otters have been here, I thought. Steer clear! Otters are not to be trusted. A mink has made a little den among some roots along the shore. Nothing smells as smelly as a mink. Unless it’s an otter.
“We are too close to shore!” I barked. “Steer away!”
Jean Gentille directed Jean Méchant to steer away.
At last the fog began to clear. Just in time, for I was exhausted by my efforts. So fatigued was I that I tumbled off the bow right into the lake!
My crew just laughed as I sputtered and gasped. That water was cold!
But kind Jean Gentille scooped me up with his paddle and set me inside the canoe.
I shook myself dry and climbed back onto his head.
WE ENCOUNTER LA VIEILLE
No sooner had the fog lifted than the old woman, the wind, picked up. She blew so wildly, she pushed the water into huge, fierce waves that splashed into the canoes and threatened to sink us all.
The brigade was dégradé—forced ashore by wind and waves. One by one the canoes entered the shelter of a small cove, where the voyageurs disembarked.
Jean Louis went off to hunt seagull eggs.
Jean Henri moved some boulders around, just for the fun of it.
Jean Gentille, of course, pulled out a book.
Across the lake, along the horizon, lightning made jagged streaks against the sky. A few moments later, thunder roared.
Jean Gentille looked up from his book and said, “Did you know that light has a finite speed? It doesn’t travel instantaneously as we have always assumed.”
“I never thought any such thing!” Jean Luc said.
“That’s because you’ve never thought anything!” Jean Méchant laughed.
“It says in this book that sound also has a finite speed,” Jean Gentille went on, “slower than light.”
Lightning flashed, closer now. A moment later, the deafening roar of thunder.
“Perhaps that explains why one sees the lightning first, and afterwards hears the thunder,” I said, pointing my tail in the direction of the storm, then covering my ears with my paws.
Jean Gentille looked at me. “I wonder…,” he said. “I don’t know why, but Le Rouge has made me have a thought.”
“Again with the thoughts!” the others groaned.
“Perhaps that is why we see the lightning first, and afterwards hear the thunder,” Jean Gentille said.
I beamed. My fur glowed an incandescent shade of orange.
“Perhaps what the lightning and thunder is trying to tell us is that we are about to get very wet!” cried Jean Luc.
Everyone leapt up and raced around scooping up the gear. Then it—and they—all went under the canoes while the heavens opened and the rain poured down. As for me, I found a hole in a tree where I could curl up nice and dry.
SPIFFING UP AT HAT POINT, LAKE SUPERIOR
We had been traveling for many weeks when the others began to speak of “the Great Rendezvous.” From what I gathered, this was a very important event—a big party waiting for us at our destination: the trading post at Grand Portage on Lake Superior. I learned that all the many goods we’d carried with us would be traded for other things. I couldn’t wait to find out what the other things would be!
Before we got to Grand Portage, the brigade stopped at Hat Point to clean the canoe and spiff themselves up. Some men trimmed their beards, some scrubbed the soot from their fingernails, and they all rubbed bear fat into their hair so it glistened. They put on their best shirts and brightest sashes and tucked big feathers in their caps.
While they were spiffing themselves up, I did the same. I gave my coat a good going-over, picking out all the nits and gnats.
Finally, with shining faces and glistening hair (and fur), we set off for Grand Portage.
PART II
THE GREAT RENDEZVOUS
GRAND PORTAGE
My heart was thrumming as we rounded the point and beheld the stockade that surrounded the trading post. From my place on top of Jean Gentille’s head, I saw buildings inside the stockade and many tents outside.
The long sand beach was lined with dozens and dozens of canoes belonging to the brigades that had arrived before us.
On shore, voyageurs were carrying gear, mending canoes, chopping wood, and tending campfires. Such a swirl of people!
Soon our canoes joined those of other brigades on the beach and we began unloading our cargo. And by “we” I mean the other Jeans.
“What do we do with our goods?” Jean Luc asked.
“We carry all our cargo to one of the warehouses inside the trading post,” said Jean Gentille, “where everything will be unpacked, sorted, repacked, and weighed.”
“So then we pick up what we came for and go home?” Jean Luc asked.
“No,” growled Jean Méchant. “First we work.”
“Work?” Jean Luc squeaked.
“Work,” the others all echoed.
“We portage bundles, bales, and kegs over the grand portage to Fort Charlotte,” said Jean Paul.
“And portage other bundles and bales back,” added Jean Jacques.
“It’s only seventeen miles round trip,” Jean Henri casually mentioned.
“Then we do it all again,” said Jean Paul.
“Several times!” Jean Henri added enthusiastically.
“When we’re done with that we do whatever else the bosses here tell us to do.”
“Cut firewood.”
“Repair buildings.”
“Repack items.”
“And so on,” said Jean Claude.
“Six days of work…,” said Jean Paul.
“Oh,” Jean Luc said, sounding disappointed.
“Then six days of fun!” Jean Paul finished.
“Singing!” sang out Jean Jacques.
“Eating!” Jean Louis smacked his lips.
“Tests of strength!” Jean Henri bellowed.
“Fighting!” Jean Méchant growled.
“And
reading,” Jean Gentille said with a happy sigh.
SIX DAYS OF WORK
While my crew was portaging, sawing up firewood, hammering nails, and doing whatever the bosses told them to do, I left Jean Gentille hatless and went exploring.
First I visited the camp of the northmen, who came from farther inland. When my brigade traveled back to Montreal, the northmen would paddle the other direction—west and north—on the smaller waterways, to ever more remote trading posts. There they would spend the winter. They were hardy fellows, and braggarts. For reasons that escaped me, they didn’t have to do any work when they got to Grand Portage. They lounged around and made fun of the mangeurs du lard, the pork eaters, which is what they called us. As if we were spoiled schoolboys!
I visited the nearby village of the Anishinaabeg, too. The smoke from their campfires smelled deliciously of wild rice, smoked fish, and sweet maple. Their smaller canoes lined the beach—light, strong, waterproof, and beautiful. The Anishinaabeg were the inventors of the wonderful craft that had carried us and our cargo over a thousand miles so far.
And finally I snuck into the stockade, hoping to find out what we were going to get for our trade goods. I visited a blacksmith’s, a cooper’s, and a carpentry shop, and I managed to get inside the mess house where the clerks and partners of the North West Company took their meals.
These gentlemen in top hats and tailcoats were the bosses who ran the whole operation, and they ate well! Their table groaned with platters of roast pork and smoked fish, kettles of venison stew and bowls full of fresh vegetables.
Personally, I think they overreacted when I only wanted a small taste of a few of these things—I suddenly found myself outside, swept there by a broom-wielding cook.
And I did not discover a single thing about what we would receive in exchange for our trade goods.
SIX DAYS OF FUN
When the work was done, my crew joined in the festivities outside the stockade. All day and all night, the voyageurs feasted; they danced; they bragged; they fought.
Fists flew. Scrapes, scratches, big black eyes. Broken teeth. And noses, also broken, sometimes for the fourth or fifth time.
Did I mention before that these men were not always so smart? Brave? Oh, yes, very brave! Strong? My, yes, very strong. Smart? Sadly, not very smart.
The only one who didn’t have a broken nose was Jean Gentille. That was because he kept his nose in a book. Reading by firelight at night, and daylight by day.
One morning he was reciting to me from plays by an Englishman named Shakespeare. “To be or not to be,” he began.
What kind of question is that? I wondered. Either you are or you are not, is that or is that not so? Also, who wanted to philosophize when we had yet to find out what we would be getting in exchange for our goods? I was so anxious to find out that I had a hard time staying still.
“What is wrong with you, Le Rouge?” Jean Gentille asked.
“What is wrong with me? What is wrong with me is curiosity!” I squeaked and chattered. “We have traveled all this way, weeks and weeks we have been paddling—well, you have been paddling—and over many grueling portages. (I assume they were grueling.) These goods we (you) have carried all this long way I know are meant to be traded, but traded for what? For what? For what? For what?”
“Ohhhh,” groaned Jean Paul, who had been asleep nearby. “Can you make him stop that noise? My head hurts.”
His head hurt from staying up well past his bedtime, not because of my chattering. I wanted to explain that to him, but by now I realized that these men either could not or would not understand me.
A HORRIBLE DISCOVERY IS MADE
“Allons-y!” shouted Jean Méchant. “Everybody from our canoe, let’s go!”
“What are we doing?” asked Jean Luc.
“It is time to prepare our goods for the trip back to Montreal. We leave tomorrow.”
This was it! The big moment. I couldn’t help but squirm with anticipation.
“Le Rouge,” Jean Gentille scolded, “all this crawling about on my head is making my scalp itch!”
“Pardonnez-moi,” said I jumping off. “Excuse me, but I am excited!”
And why was I excited?
Because, at long last, I would find out what we would receive in exchange for our goods.
It made me want to sing!
I trembled with excitement as I scampered up the trail.
I could not help a few acrobatics on the way.
I chirped!
I barked!
I threw in a few somersaults.
We came to a building.
“Is this it?” Jean Luc asked.
“This is it,” Jean Méchant said.
“This is it!” I squeaked, and when the door opened, I flew inside ahead of the others. What would I find? Buckets of pine seeds? Piles of acorns? Boxes of mushrooms?
But I saw none of these things. Instead, what did I behold?
The skins of dead animals.
To the front of me.
To the back of me.
To each side of me.
And even above me.
The skins of wolves, martens, bears, lynxes, raccoons, minks, and beavers hung from the rafters. Especially beavers. Beaver pelt after beaver pelt. Dozens—no, hundreds—of pelts, furs, skins.
And traps. Dozens of metal traps. Traps that shut with a sickening snap! A splintering crunch!
What could it all mean?
We had come such a long way for this?
Perhaps some horrible mistake had been made, I thought. But, no! I saw the man behind the counter counting out skins.
“What is this place?” Jean Luc asked, looking around at the furs and all the other trade goods.
“This is the trade store,” said Jean Méchant.
The rafters were hung with pelts, and furs were stacked on tables. Shelves were piled high with blankets, bolts of cloth, beads, and silver jewelry. There were birch-bark boxes and baskets full of wild rice and maple sugar.
“Here the Anishinaabeg come to trade, bringing furs, fish, game, wild rice, and maple sugar, and here we pick up our furs for the return trip,” explained Jean Gentille. “These furs will be packed into bales, weighed, and bundled up for the long voyage to Montreal and beyond.”
“B-B-B-But…,” I stammered. I ran along the shelves to talk to them. Perhaps I knocked a few beads off as I went. I might have spilled a little wild rice. Maybe a few silver trinkets clattered to the floor.
But was that any reason to chase me?
Around and around the store I went, with several voyageurs close behind. I scampered up into the rafters.
“Shoo! Shoo!” the voyageurs said.
“Shoo! Shoo!” shouted the man behind the counter. “Or do you want us to hang your sleek red suit from the rafters, too?”
The men’s laughter cut like daggers.
Off I went, a blur of red.
I darted.
I dashed.
I wove in and out of the furs.
Up and down the walls I went.
Here came the men after me. But it was a small space crammed with goods.
Jean Louis tripped.
Jean Paul slipped.
Jean Claude bumped into Jean Méchant.
Jean Méchant bumped into Jean Jacques.
Jean Jacques bumped into Jean Luc.
Jean Luc bumped into a big pile of cast-iron cooking pots that all tumbled down with a crash and a clatter.
Just as Jean Henri was about to snatch me by the tail, Jean Gentille scooped me up and carried me outside.
“Lucky for you,” he said, “that you are not a beaver. For, you know, the Englishmen must have their hats. The hats made from the fur of beavers are so popular in England and Europe that every fellow there must have one or two or thre
e.”
I groaned.
“Also lucky for you that you are so small, Le Rouge,” he said to me. “Your pelt is not very valuable. Otherwise, they would be more serious about trying to catch you.”
At that I had to sit down with my head between my knees.
LATER THAT NIGHT
Outside the stockade, dozens of campfires lit up the night. Someone produced a fiddle. There was another fellow who played the fife. The voyageurs sang, and in the flickering light of the fires, the dancing began again.
As for me, I could not enjoy the party. Even though I am red, I was—how do you say?—blue. What was I doing here, so far from home? How I longed to be in my own little nest in the treetop over the Ottawa River. How I longed to see my friends. But the only way to get home was with the voyageurs, and I could not go with them knowing what I knew now.
I made up my mind about what I must do. Into my handkerchief—okay, it was a part of Jean Gentille’s pocket that I had gnawed out of boredom—I placed all my belongings:
an acorn
a small, perfect pebble
a tiny shell
a crumb of bannock, given to me by Jean Gentille and a pawful of pine seeds.
“I am going into the woods,” I chirred to my crew, “to live deliberately.”
They didn’t seem to be paying any attention to me.
“I will go confidently in the direction of my dreams,” I continued. “I shall let my whiskers grow long and leave my fur ungroomed. I want to live deep and climb high, to see far, to suck the sap from the tree of life. Or, short of that, the tree of maple. Don’t try to stop me!” I told them, holding up my paw. “I’ve made up my mind.”
