The Littlest Voyageur

by Margi Preus

  “But you have done all that!” Monique protested. “You discovered me. We have explored all along these wild shores, and could explore them more if we slowed down a little. And as for tasting the untasted, try this.”

  She popped a very tasty something into my mouth—a little nutty, a little fruity, a little salty, a little sweet.

  “What was that?” I asked. “I have never tasted anything like it!”

  “Now you have tasted the untasted,” she said. “Perhaps you should be satisfied.”

  But I was not.

  MORE DAYS PASS IN WHICH WE CHASE MY CREW

  We were now speeding along. I believed we were sure to catch up to the brigade. Monique and I had made a canoe.

  Oui, c’est vrai. A canoe.

  It was exactly like a real voyageur’s canoe—only smaller. Quite a bit smaller.

  We had made it from a fallen strip of birch bark, sewn together with strips of willow we had chewed soft. Our paddles we had nibbled from a cedar plank.

  Our canoe was beautiful and we loved her as we might love our best friend.

  She guided us through the water without a sound.

  She weaved through the rapids as if she knew the way.

  She kept us dry on rainy nights.

  Oui, bien sûr, we loved her!

  In the big canoe, I did not paddle. In our small canoe, I paddled! Oh, how I paddled!

  And at the portages, I carried my weight. If Monique didn’t carry it, I even carried the canoe.

  We traveled night and day, stopping only to gather nuts and seeds to stave off hunger. At night we traveled by lantern light. Of course, we always let the fireflies go before they got too tired.

  WE LOSE TRACK OF THE TIME

  Days went by in a blur of color:

  Red maple leaves.

  Golden tamarack needles.

  Burgundy oak leaves.

  Yellow aspen leaves.

  Waterways in shades of green, aqua, turquoise, cobalt.

  And the sky on fire with the blaze of sunset.

  THERE IS A BIG WIND

  I did not know where we were, perhaps on a route of our own devising. We could not make progress because a big wind pushed us backwards across a lake. Our little canoe tossed helplessly on the waves. Snow began to fall.

  “Monsieur,” said Monique, “il neige—it snows.”

  “Oui, oui,” said I. “I see it.” How could one have seen anything else? It fell so fast and thick it was like fur.

  We paddled to the shore and pulled the canoe up onto the ground.

  I stared out into the blinding snow. It piled up and up. Monique wore a tall hat of snow. She shivered and blew on her tiny paws.

  “The wind, she howls,” Monique said. “The snow, she swirls.”

  “Vite! Quick!” I said. “Turn the boat upside down!” We did so, and I encouraged her to crawl underneath it.

  As for me, I stood for a few more moments looking east, wondering how far we were from Montreal. If I had caught up to the brigade, if I had traveled triumphantly into Montreal with them, would I have earned a red cap and a red sash? Perhaps I could have been a voyageur after all? I guess I never really gave up my dream.

  But in my heart of hearts I knew that even if I had returned in the voyageurs’ canoe, I would not have earned anything. I was not really a voyageur. In the big Montreal canoe, I did not paddle. I did not cook; I only ate. On the portages I did not carry much. Well, I admit, I carried nothing. I understood that they were right and I was wrong. I was not cut out to be a voyageur.

  I shook the snow from my fur and crawled under our tiny boat. Monique had made a soft carpet of leaves. She had laid out a fine meal of seeds and dried mushrooms. It was cozy and warm. Outside, the snow piled up, but on top of the canoe, not us. We could hear the wind howl, but not feel its bite. Life was not so bad—Monique was there, curled up and already snoring.

  I began to feel very drowsy.

  PART III

  THE LITTLEST VOYAGEUR

  SPRING 1793

  SOMETHING WONDERFUL HAPPENS

  In the spring, Monique and I launched our canoe once again. We paddled many days, heading west. Getting back to Montreal was not so important after all.

  All along our way, squirrels and chipmunks, mice and voles ran out to greet us.

  “What do you carry in your boat?” they asked.

  And we told them: We had pine seeds and acorns. Musky mushrooms of many flavors. Dried blueberries and rose hips. The bright fallen feathers of blue jays, redpolls, goldfinches—lovely décor for nests. And for warmth, the cozy down of the geese of Canada.

  The animals wanted to trade our exotic fare for the nuts, seeds, fruits, and berries they themselves had gathered. They had seeds from flowers we had never seen. Snail shells filled with sweet maple sap. We traded with them and continued on our way.

  One day, after many weeks of travel, Monique and I were on the lakeshore counting hazelnuts when I saw a paddle flashing in the sunlight. But it was only one paddle, and as the canoe grew nearer, I saw that it contained only one person.

  You can be sure I did a few somersaults and double flips and a cartwheel or two when I saw who was in the canoe. Why, it was Jean Gentille, paddling alone!

  I dashed out onto a branch overhanging the water and called to him. “Jean Gentille! Jean Gentille! Jean Gentille!” I chattered. (If you say it many times in quick succession you will get an approximation of what it sounded like.)

  Jean Gentille looked up, and when he saw me, he smiled. “Bonjour, little squirrel,” he said.

  Little squirrel? Didn’t he recognize me?

  “It’s me, Jean Pierre Petit Le Rouge!” I said emphatically.

  “You remind me of a squirrel I once knew quite well,” he mused.

  Out of sheer frustration I executed a double axel with a tail spiral. Couldn’t he see who it was? I? Me? Moi?

  “That little squirrel sure was a nuisance,” he said.

  What? My tail sagged. My ears drooped.

  “Even so,” Jean Gentille continued, “I really liked him. You know, it sounds funny to say, but he might have been the best friend I ever had.”

  I melted into a puddle of red fur.

  “And because of him, I have given up the fur trade,” Jean Gentille confided.

  I sat up, ears perked. Was it so? Could it be?

  Jean Gentille continued, “Should you ever see a squirrel by the name of Le Rouge, tell him that thanks to him I am in a new business now. Look!” He gestured toward the bottom of his canoe.

  I took a peek and what did I see? Books! Books of all kinds and descriptions, books on any subject and in any form, including a new genre called the “novel.”

  “The idea is, you can borrow a book, then when I come by the next time bring it back and get a different one. The trade is a little slow,” he said, “but it’s picking up. I’m quite sure the book-canoe is going to catch on.”

  Before Jean Gentille left I wanted to give him a keepsake. Monique had carefully patted and formed and felted my shed fur into a luxurious winter nest for the two of us. I ran to get it and then dropped it into the canoe for him.

  He picked it up, examined it, and plunked it upside down upon his head. “A perfect fit!” he proclaimed. “A beautiful red chapeau! Merci beaucoup!”

  Taking up his paddle, he said, “You know…though it seems unlikely, I’d say you were that same pesky but lovable squirrel. Could it be you, Le Rouge?”

  My heart was so full, I could only sing. I poured my joy into an aria full of runs and trills, with the kind of coloratura only a few can achieve. My voice echoed across the great north country and, for all I know, may be echoing still.

  Jean Gentille paddled away, his hearty laugh joining in to make the sweetest of duets. And then, because he still had the soul of a voyageu
r, he sang a little, too:

  Il y a longtemps que je t’aime

  Jamais je ne t’oublierai.

  Long have I loved you

  Never will I forget you.

  Monique and I traveled on. Everywhere we went animals rushed to meet us. They wanted to trade their fruits from the west for our seeds from the east. They offered the sweet rice that grows in northern rivers in exchange for succulent acorns that grow in more temperate climes.

  “This is a lucrative business,” Monique said to me one day.

  “ ‘Lucrative’?” I asked. She uses such big words.

  “We are doing well for ourselves,” she said. “Look at our boat. It is filled with hazelnuts, acorns, walnuts, dried fruits and berries, warm fur and soft feathers, and other such refinements. The value of these things back east will be high. I think we can travel with a bigger canoe next year.”

  “A bigger canoe!” I exclaimed. “How can the two of us paddle a bigger canoe?”

  Monique just smiled.

  SPRING 1795

  LIFE IS MAGNIFIQUE!

  It has been two years since Monique and I began our adventure, and now we paddle a very large canoe. For we are no longer alone. In fact, our family has grown to be a whole brigade. They are: Marie Claire

  Marie Françoise

  Marie Martine

  Marie Véronique

  Marie Monique

  Jean Paul

  Jean Baptiste

  Jean Henri

  Jean Marcel

  Jean Jacques

  Jean Louis

  And the littlest one of all…

  Jean Gentille.

  But you know, although I am no longer the littlest voyageur, I am the happiest. For I travel with a fine brigade. And I am a voyageur!

  PRONUNCIATION GUIDE

  zh = the sound of the “g” at the end of “garage”

  eu = the sound in the middle of “should”

  onh = the beginning sound in “on” before you say the “n”

  allons-y: ah-lonh-zee

  arrêtez: ah-ret-tay

  bonjour: bonh-zhour

  c’est rien: say ryeh

  c’est vrai: say vray

  chanteur: shohn-teur

  chapeau: shah-poe

  chut: shoot

  dégradé: day-grah-day

  dommage: doh-mahzh

  en roulant, ma boule roulant: onh roo-lonh, ma boo-leu roo-lonh

  et moi: ay mwa

  grand portage: gronh por-tahzh

  hivernants: ee-vehr-nonh

  il neige: eel nehzh

  il y a longtemps que je t’aime: eel ya lonh-tonh qeu zheu tem-eu

  jamais je ne t’oublierai: zha-may zheu neu too-blyeu-ray

  Jean Claude: zhonh clode

  Jean Gentille: zhonh zhonh-tee

  Jean Henri: zhonh onh-ree

  Jean Jacques: zhonh zhahk

  Jean Louis: zhonh loo-ee

  Jean Luc: zhonh luke

  Jean Méchant: zhonh may-shonh

  Jean Paul: zhonh pole

  Jean Pierre Petit Le Rouge: zhonh pee-air peu-tee leu roozh

  la vieille: lah veeyay

  mademoiselle: mahd-mwa-zelle

  magnifique: mah-nyee-feek

  mais non: may nonh

  mangeurs de lard: manh-zheur deu lahr

  merci beaucoup: mare-see boe-coo

  mon bon ami: monh bone ahmee

  mon Dieu: monh dyeu

  monsieur: meu-sheur

  n’est-ce pas?: ness-pah

  non: nonh

  oui: wee

  oui, bien sûr: wee, byeh sur

  oui, c’est vrai: wee, say vray

  pardonnez-moi: par-don-nay mwa

  pièces: pyess

  ragoût: rah-goo

  rendezvous: rohn-day-voo

  sacrebleu!: sah-kre-bleu

  tête-à-tête: tet-ah-tet

  va-t’en!: vah tonh

  vite: veet

  voilà: vwah-la

  youpe, youpe sur la rivière: yoop, yoop sur lah ree-vyaire

  Canoe Manned by Voyageurs Passing a Waterfall by Frances Anne Hopkins

  ABOUT VOYAGEURS

  From the late seventeenth through mid-nineteenth centuries, voyageurs traveled the waterways of what is now the United States and Canada, transporting and trading goods for furs. Especially desired was beaver fur, used for a variety of hats that were popular in Europe at the time. So great was the demand, in fact, that the beaver nearly succumbed to extinction in North America by the late 1800s.

  The life of a voyageur was both difficult and dangerous, suited for strong, hardworking, and (if available) small men who could withstand bitter cold, searing heat, clouds of mosquitoes, and long portages across which they would carry two or more ninety-pound parcels. In crews of six to twelve men, they paddled their sturdy birch-bark canoes fourteen to sixteen hours a day, on waterways large and small, placid or wild, often singing to keep up their rhythm and pace. A good chanteur (singer) was paid extra, since the songs helped keep the men paddling forty-five strokes per minute and their heavily laden canoes moving along at about six and a half miles per hour. At this rate they could paddle fifty to ninety miles a day.

  The canoes coming from Montreal were thirty-six to forty feet long and six feet wide in the middle. Built of birch bark, cedar, pitch, and spruce roots, the canoes were light and strong and able to carry five thousand pounds of cargo. It likely took several people two weeks or more to build a 36-foot canoe.

  It might not seem that paddling and portaging would be the most efficient way of hauling so much cargo 2,400 miles round trip, but at the time of the voyageurs it actually was. There were no roads, no trucks, no airplanes. And although Jean Henri foretells it, the railroad boom in the United States didn’t take place until the 1930s.

  In the days of our story, the voyageurs would have been working for the North West Company, and were French-Canadian, Anishinaabeg, and other nationalities. They were either “pork eaters” (the crew we follow), or “winterers” (hivernants or northmen). The entire round-trip journey from Lachine (near Montreal) to Grand Portage and back took from four to five months, including a two- to four-week stay at Grand Portage. Winterers used smaller canoes to travel the inland lakes and waterways into the interior of the United States and Canada, where they would spend the winter trading with the native people.

  The fur trade would not have existed at all had it not been for the Anishinaabeg, who lived and hunted in these regions. They were the master builders of the birch-bark canoe, and they supplied the furs to make the hats (and other items) that were so popular all over Europe. They also helped keep the hivernants and clerks at remote trading posts alive during the long winters by supplying them with fish, game, wild rice, and maple sugar. They traded furs and food for iron kettles, flint and steel, wool blankets and calico cotton, silver jewelry, tobacco, beads, and other goods.

  Tragically, some of the things the Europeans brought with them to North America—smallpox, for example—had devastating consequences for the Anishinaabeg and other native North American people. But for a time, the fur trade in this part of the country brought prosperity to everyone engaged in it.

  ABOUT JEAN PIERRE PETIT LE ROUGE’S SPEECHES

  Some of Le Rouge’s speeches are not exactly original. His speech to the voyageurs on this page foretells Henry David Thoreau, who in his book Walden said, “I went to the woods to live deliberately…. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life.”

  On this page, perhaps inspired by Jean Gentille’s readings of Shakespeare, Le Rouge rallies the fur-bearers with a version of Henry V’s famous Saint Crispin’s Day speech (Act 4, scene 3).

  ABOUT RED SQUIRRELS AND FLYING SQUIRRELS


  The trilling chirr of the red squirrel is one of the most distinctive sounds of the north woods. Weighing only seven to twelve ounces (as much as three Mars bars), these tiny squirrels are lively acrobats. At times they seem to be just a streak of red as they scamper along the tallest branches of the big pines collecting pinecones for their food caches. These caches, often underground, hold upwards of two hundred pinecones. Red squirrels have such a keen sense of smell that they can easily locate them even under three feet of snow.

  The oldest living line of modern squirrel is the flying squirrel. Although it cannot fly like a bird, it uses the furry, parachute-like membrane that stretches from wrist to ankle to help it glide between trees—with coasting flights recorded at almost three hundred feet. It grows to be around eleven inches long, including the tail, but weighs only two to five ounces. Like other squirrels, it eats nuts, acorns, fungi, and lichens.

  Both the northern flying squirrel and the red squirrel live in evergreen forests across Canada and the top of the continental United States.

  If you are ever in the north country, and you hear a happy chirr coming from a pine tree, look up. If you see a flash of red, it is likely that you have seen one of the great-great-great-great-great-grandchildren of Jean Pierre Petit Le Rouge, the littlest voyageur.

  RECIPE FOR BANNOCK

  BE SURE TO GET PERMISSION AND ASSISTANCE FROM AN ADULT.

  1/2 tsp. salt

  2 Tbsp. baking powderacid.*

  2 cups flour

  2 Tbsp. shortening (You can use butter, margarine, bacon fat, or oil.)