West to Grande Portage

by Joan Donadlson-Yarmey

  Phillippe’s legs were so stiff he almost fell over the side. His arms ached and refused to do his bidding. He saw that Jerome and Claude were in the same shape. He was amazed at the experienced voyageurs. They were already unloading the bundles and other items from the canoes. One of the first things out was the cooking kettle.

  “Phillippe, Claude, and Jerome, go gather wood for the fires,” Pierre called.

  The three youngest voyageurs straggled into the nearby bush on rubbery legs. They found dry branches and small logs and carried or dragged them back to the camping spot. They dropped more than they carried. The cook sent them back three times for more.

  The men were half way through unloading the canoes. Andrew had moved his bag of personal items, a canvas and poles, and the box of ledgers to a grassy spot. As a representative of the owner he was not expected to sleep out in the open so he was the only man who had a tent. He pushed the front and back poles into the ground at an angle so there was an X where they met at the top. He set a pole from the ground to the X as a support. After he laid a fifth pole in the crook of those two X’s he tied the four ends together. Then he attempted to drape the canvas over them.

  Phillippe thought about going to offer to help but the cook needed more wood. When he came back with another armload he saw the Andrew had managed on his own. He had secured the corners of the canvas to the bottoms of the poles and was inside his small tent. He had a candle burning and Phillipe could see his shadow against the side.

  The cook had dug a hole in the sand. He laid the branches inside it and started the fire. He placed rocks in a ring around edge of the hole. When the fire was burning and there were some glowing coals on the bottom, the cook set the pot of dried peas he had prepared the day before on the rocks. He stirred it until the mixture was heated through.

  The men turned the canoes over on top of the cargo to protect it. They were also then able to check for damage and make repairs.

  “We need poles for tomorrow,” Pierre said. He sent two men into the bush to find saplings that were long enough to use for pushing the canoes through the water when the current was too strong for just paddling.

  When their supper was hot the men crouched around the pot and ladled the mixture into their mouths with their wooden spoons. There were also some biscuits that they could dip into the peas to soften and eat. Water was gotten from the river for drinking. After the meal the men took out their pipes for a smoke. A ration of liquor was passed out to those who wanted it. Phillippe and Andrew were the only ones who refused.

  Some men began to sing. The more tired ones dropped down in the sand with their head under the canoes. Andrew washed his spoon in the river then went inside his tent. He did not come out until day break.

  Phillippe’s eyelids were drooping. He found a soft place in the grass beside Jerome, pulled his blanket over him and was asleep.

  Chapter Seventeen

  It seemed like just a few minutes after lying down Pierre was yelling. “Get up! Get up, men!”

  Phillippe was startled awake. He recognized his uncle’s voice but could not figure out where was he? Was he staying at his aunt and uncle’s place in Montreal? Was something wrong with Marguerite?

  It took a couple of moments for Phillippe remember he was with the brigade. When he opened his eyes, he saw that it was still just between daylight and dark. It was too early to be getting up, earlier than when they got up on the farm. But some of the men around him were already on their feet rolling up their blankets. Were they not tired?

  Phillippe moaned as he struggled to get up. Every muscle in his body ached. He could hardly move. He saw that Jerome and Claude were in the same predicament.

  “Get up!” Pierre yelled. “We do not have time for you to lie about.”

  Phillippe saw Andrew crawl out of his tent. He did not look happy. He walked down to the river and splashed water on his face. Florian ran up and pushed him face first into the river, much to the laughter of the other men. Andrew came up sputtering and coughing.

  “Hey,” Phillippe yelled. He limped as fast as he could to the river.

  Andrew stood dripping water. “What did you do that for?” he demanded.

  “Just initiating you to the life of a clerk on the voyage.” Florian laughed. “How does it feel?”

  Pierre strode up. “Get to work, Florian.” He looked at the men grinning beside the canoes. “And you, too. And I do not want to see a stunt like this again.”

  Andrew ran his hands through his hair. He wiped the excess water off his face with his wet sleeve then went back to his tent. He found a towel and dried his face and hair. He then took down his tent and packed his things ready to put them in the canoe. Phillippe was surprised that he seemed unfazed by the prank.

  The men turned the canoes upright and pushed them into the water. The freight was quickly loaded. During the night the cook had added biscuits to the peas and the combination filled the kettle to the brim. The mixture was so thick that a stick could stand upright in it. He placed the kettle in one of the canoes. Andrew added his folded tent, bedding, bag, and box to the canoe and climbed up on top of the bales.

  Phillippe and the other men took their places in the crafts. The departure was a lot quieter and with no fanfare like the day before. There was no one to wave and cheer, no guns firing, no church bells. It was just the men mumbling or yelling and Uncle Pierre giving the order to head out.

  Phillippe picked up his paddle with tender and bruised hands. His arms were so sore that they would not move as he commanded. He could not keep his paddling in line with the others. He kept banging his paddle against the side of the canoe.

  “Do not worry,” said the man behind him. “By tomorrow it will be over.”

  But I have to get through today, Phillippe thought.

  * * *

  After an hour, Pierre called for a smoke break. He sat and took out his pipe. His back was not as painful this morning, which was unexpected. Maybe he was not too old for this. He snickered. He was only fooling himself. This was his last summer. He watched the shoreline as they drifted backwards on the current. He did not like to take long pipes on the paddle upstream on the Ottawa River.

  “Put them away,” he called, knocking his tobacco out over the side of the canoe. He tucked his pipe into his pouch and stood.

  “Paddles up.”

  The voyageurs began their constant motion of dipping blade in the water ahead, pulling the water back until the blade was at their hips, lifting the paddle up and out of the river, pushing it forward through the air, and plunging it back into the water. Over and over and over. Standing at the back of the canoe he was able to see the fluid movement of his men, something he had not thought about when he was paddling. He felt a deep sense of pride for the years he had been a voyageur and a deep sense of sorrow at the loss of this part of his life. So he would make the most of this last paddle. He burst into song and was joined by the rest of the brigade.

  As I walked near

  A lovely clear pond

  Surrounded by bush

  I saw beautiful blue water

  I stepped in to bathe

  I have loved you for so long

  You are always in my thoughts

  Under the green leaves

  I dry myself off

  So high in the trees

  I hear a robin sing

  Such a lovely sound

  I have loved you for so long

  You are always in my thoughts

  Trill, robin, trill

  You have a happy heart

  I wish I had the happiness

  The pure happiness

  Of that trilling robin

  I have loved you for so long

  You are always in my thoughts

  I have lost my true love

  For I left her for another

  She cried and said goodbye

  I watched her walk away

  Then went to my lover

  I have loved you for so long

&n
bsp; You are always in my thoughts

  I knew I made a mistake

  But it was too late

  She will not see me

  I feel regret in my heart

  I know I deserve it

  I have loved you for so long

  You are always in my thoughts

  When this song finished, a voyageur in another canoe began another one and so they continued until the next pipe.

  “How far do we paddle between pipes?” Andrew asked when they were floating on the water.

  “About five to seven miles.” Distance was measured not by miles but by pipes.

  “How many pipes until we eat breakfast?”

  “Why?” Pierre asked as he opened his pouch. “You should not be hungry. You are not doing any work.”

  “No, I am not hungry,” Andrew said irritably.

  Pierre smiled as he lit the tobacco. It did not take much to get a rise out of Andrew.

  “So, how many?”

  “We will eat at the next pipe,” Pierre said. “I want to paddle about fifteen to twenty miles before we stop.”

  “Why?”

  “We are going against the current of the river so we are slower than I like. We have to paddle as long as we can to make up time. And speaking of time, get ready.”

  The pipes disappeared and the paddles were lifted. They paddled and sang for another hour. Twice Francois pointed out rocks which they maneuvered around.

  When they stopped for breakfast, they moored their canoes in the water and went ashore. The kettle of peas, fat, and biscuits was reheated over a hastily made fire. Everyone reached into the thick mixture with their spoons and ate until they were full.

  Pierre could not afford to let them waste much time during the stop. As soon as the men were full, they had a quick smoke, then they and the kettle were back in the canoes. The paddle upstream made for a long day and not much travel.

  * * *

  “Rapids,” Francois called from the front of the canoe. “Portage time.”

  Phillippe felt a clenching of his stomach. He could barely move to paddle and now he had to walk and carry some of the cargo.

  Pierre turned the canoe towards the bank and the others followed. The men jumped out before they hit the shore. Again, to Phillippe’s relief, he and Jerome were assigned to hold the ends of their canoe. The rest of the paddlers grabbed the supplies, bundles, and everything else and hauled them out of the canoe to shore. Andrew carried his tent, bag and box with him.

  The swarm of mosquitoes and flies was immediate. The men ignored them as they worked. Once everything was piled on shore Bernard found the sack of large net slings. He wrapped one end of a sling around his forehead and the rest fell down his back. He held onto the sides at his neck while Francois picked up a bundle by its ears and hoisted it into the sling. The sling stretched down to Bernard’s thighs. Bernard grunted as he adjusted to the weight. Francois picked up a second bundle and set it on top of the first so that it leaned against his shoulders. Bernard leaned forward to offset the burden on his back and started trotting down the well worn path around the rapids.

  Phillippe watched, fascinated and appalled. His uncle had regaled him with the romance of being a voyageur. Occasionally, he had mentioned a friend who had suffered an injury or who had died but those stories had paled in comparison with praises of the parties, the freedom, the travel, and the comradeship. Now that he was actually seeing how strenuous a life it really was, it was understandable why many of the men were afflicted with hernias, or suffered from spastic backs before they were forty. It made perfect sense why many of them died young.

  He swatted and slapped at the mosquitoes.

  This was the life he had chosen.

  Each of the other voyageurs stepped up to don a sling and have Francois load it. They, too, took off at a fast pace. Phillippe worried about what he would do when it was his turn. He knew there was no way he could carry two of the bundles. He doubted that he would even be able to stand upright when one was loaded into his sling. He could barely stand now after the long paddle. His legs felt as if they had gone to sleep.

  Phillippe went to a bundle near the end away from the others. He grabbed it by the ears. When he tried to hoist it up, it scarcely moved in the dirt. His body ached as he heaved at it again. This time he was able to lift it off the ground a few inches. This was not going to be good.

  “Take the kettles, tarpaulins, and ropes,” Pierre said to Phillippe.

  Phillippe gratefully grabbed a stack of folded tarpaulins. Jerome loaded kettles in his arms and Claude draped ropes around his neck and arms. They scurried along the trail following the departing men. They tried to move as fast as the seasoned voyageurs but they continually had to step out of the way of a man coming up behind then. They tripped over roots and dropped items, but the three boys did not quit. They knew voyageurs were not soft.

  Phillippe could hear the rapids before he reached an opening overlooking them. There were three crosses stuck in the ground. He saw the men ahead of him pause, cross themselves, then continue. He was tempted to stop and look down at the rapids but there were too many men on the trail. He met Bernard and the first few men who had already dropped their two bundles off at the clearing and were on their way back for more. They did not walk. They were sweating and panting and were being followed by clouds of insects but free of weight, they jogged

  When the three boys reached the clearing with the stack of packs, Phillippe dropped his items in a pile and collapsed on the ground. He could not move. Jerome and Claude did the same. The veteran voyageurs grinned at the three boys on the ground.

  “Do not let Pierre see you,” one man said. “He will make you carry twice the load.”

  Phillippe moaned as he climbed slowly to his feet. He was Pierre’s nephew, but he knew he would not get any special treatment. He stumbled as he walked back to where the canoes were waiting. He met Andrew on the way. He was carrying his things in his arms. Phillippe had hardly enough strength to nod. Andrew looked at him pityingly.

  “I wish I could help you,” he said.

  “I have to do this myself,” Phillippe replied.

  When the three had completed their second trip with the loose paraphernalia, one of the men pointed at them. “You boys stay here and make sure no Indians try to steal any of these,” he said.

  Phillippe looked at the other two. He remember the story Uncle Pierre had told of meeting the two Indians on the trail and pinning them down by throwing the bundles at them. He had thought it was just a tale.

  The boys flopped onto the ground and watched the steady stream of men and bundles. Each man was expected to carry seven or eight bundles on every portage.

  “I think if an Indian came now, I would not be able to stop him from taking anything,” Claude said.

  “Yes,” Jerome said. He pulled out his pipe and filled it. “This is much harder than I expected.”

  “It is not the fun your uncle made it out to be,” Claude said to Phillippe. “It is making farm work look more appealing.”

  Phillippe grimaced. “I have been listening to his stories since I was a child and never once did I imagine how much paddling there was in one day. Nor how heavy the packs actually were. But I still would rather be doing this than planting on the farm.”

  Phillippe watched Jerome and Claude smoke their pipes. They made it look so easy and enjoyable, just like his uncle did each time he lit up. Barely able to work his hands and arms, Phillippe opened his pouch and took out his pipe. He had never smoked before and had not touched this one, wanting to wait until he was on the river. He was failing miserably at paddling and portaging. He had to find something he could be good at. Maybe this would be it.

  He placed some tobacco into the pipe bowl and tamped it down with his finger. He found some dry grass and put it on top. He worked the striker breathing in deeply as the dry grass ignited the tobacco.

  When the smoke hit his lungs he immediately started coughing. The men who were carryin
g the loads laughed heartily.

  “Do not worry, it happens to all of us the first time,” one said before heading back for another load.

  That did little to make Phillippe feel better. He knocked his pipe on the ground and watched the offending tobacco smolder in a small pile. He never wanted to try it again, but he knew he would. This was one of the rituals of the voyageur and he had to carry it on.

  “Make sure your tobacco is all out of your pipe,” Jerome said. “You do not want to start your pouch on fire.”

  Phillippe checked the bowl. It was empty. He returned it to his pouch then ground the tobacco into the dirt with his foot.

  Finally, men began remaining at the clearing. The last of the goods were here and now they had to wait for the canoes. They stretched out on the grass and lit their pipes.

  “What are those crosses for?” Phillippe asked.

  “Those are for the men who died on these rapids,” Florian said.

  “How did they die?”

  “Before the war with the English, five independent voyageurs returning from Grande Portage decided they did not want to waste time portaging these rapids. They were going with the current and tried to run them in a small canoe. The canoe capsized and three men drowned.”

  “What happened to the other two?” Jerome asked.

  “They managed to make it to shore and were picked up by the next brigade that came along.”

  “Did you know them?” Phillippe wondered if they were still alive.

  Florian smiled. “I have only been going west for two years, but I did paddle with one of them my first year. Unfortunately he was killed in a skirmish with an Indian at Grande Portage.”