The Last Voyageurs

by Lorraine Boissoneault

  While some crew members contemplated the absence or presence of native spirits in the territory they were about to enter, Father Loran turned to Christianity for divine assistance. He felt an especially close connection with Saint John Brebeuf, with whom he’d recently become acquainted. For the past three nights the crew had been guests at the reconstructed Jesuit mission at Sainte-Marie Among the Hurons. Brebeuf was a resident at the mission when it was destroyed in a battle between the Huron and the Iroquois in 1649. He and another missionary were taken captive by the Iroquois, who tortured then killed the French priests. For his work as a missionary, Brebeuf was canonized. A church called Shrine of the Seven Martyrs was erected in the early 1900s near the reconstructed Sainte-Marie Among the Hurons mission in Midland, Ontario, to honor Brebeuf’s work and that of the other Jesuit missionaries who had come from France to spread Christianity in North America. Inside the reconstructed mission there was also a tombstone for Brebeuf. It lay below a window, allowing rays of sunlight to illuminate the stony gray sculpture of the martyr.

  It could’ve been eerie sleeping on ground that was the site of a bloody battle several centuries earlier. Instead, the mission felt homey. It also matched the historic aesthetic of La Salle: Expedition II. The buildings were precise replicas of the originals, filled with tools of the era, handcrafted furniture, and bunches of dried tobacco leaves hanging from the rafters. None of the historic buildings were equipped with electricity, so at night the men wrote or read by candle- or firelight. The crew slept in the Upright House and stored their canoes and gear in the “non-Christian” area where unbaptized indigenous people would’ve once come. After the noise and commotion of Toronto and the accumulated fatigue of the portage, the mission was a much-needed rest stop—even if it was built on top of a battleground.

  The crew spent three days giving presentations and lolling in the tall grass around the mission, sewing clothes and moccasins beneath a warm sun. School groups and tourists who had come to the mission for a guided visit were treated to a surprise when their guides introduced them to the 17th-century voyageurs passing through before they continued on their way to the Mississippi River. One guide even said she was skipping the museum so that her group of elementary school kids could talk to the voyageurs. Doug Cole, the director of the re-created historical site, was so impressed with the crew’s commitment to authenticity that he offered the teenagers summer jobs for the year they finished the expedition, even though the positions were normally open only to Canadians. He also bought them dinner for their last night at the mission.

  In many ways, the men felt they had become true voyageurs: comfortable with the heft of a wooden paddle in their hands, inured to hardship, familiar with the rhythms of wind and waves. The days of painful blisters on their fingers and unease in woolen shirts were far behind them. This life of constant travel, rigorous physical activity, and campsites on beaches and in forests had become satisfyingly routine. And now that they’d be free of scrutiny from the public for almost a month, they were even freer to embrace their newfound identities.

  Shortly before noon on September 30, the voyageurs’ last day at the mission, the canoes were floating in the Wye River and loaded with gear. To the equipment they’d arrived with, they added bundles of dried tobacco and some modern foul-weather gear, including insulated diving gloves, yellow waterproof pants, and thigh-high waders. The boots were solely for the avants to wear when the weather grew colder, since they’d be required to jump out of the canoes into icy water. The justification for these concessions to modernity was that the crew would be traveling in weather that La Salle might have avoided, since they had communities to visit on specific days. The crew’s commitment to authenticity didn’t extend to putting themselves in as much danger as the earlier voyageurs would’ve faced, and the risks would only grow as the weather became colder. Trees around the mission were beginning to change color. The tall sunflowers in the mission’s garden were still standing, but their leaves had turned black and the buttery petals were limp. Canadian waterfowl and songbirds were preparing for their long migratory flights south. Though it felt warm now, all of nature seemed to be united in a single message: winter is on its way.

  The crew departed, however, under a sunny sky with the well wishes of the staff at Sainte-Marie Among the Hurons at their backs. The men faced their impending isolation from society with a variety of emotions: excitement, trepidation, determination. No doubt it would be different from the experience of having an entourage of enthralled people anticipating their arrival and departure every day. No one would be there to encourage them and stroke their egos. They would be alone with one another in the expansive northern wilds. Who knew what kind of men they’d be when they reached the other side?

  Philip Edward Island, Georgian Bay

  October 6, 1976

  “There is magic in the feel of a paddle and the movement of a canoe, a magic compounded of distance, adventure, solitude, and peace. The way of a canoe is the way of the wilderness and of a freedom almost forgotten. It is an antidote to insecurity, the open door to waterways of ages past and a way of life with profound and abiding satisfactions.”6

  Ron Hobart had discovered the writings of environmentalist Sigurd Olson while studying biology at Gustavus Adolphus College in St. Peter, Minnesota. Reading those words for the first time had been a moment of profound recognition, like making eye contact with one’s soul mate from opposite sides of a crowded room. Never before had Hobart connected so intimately with the written words of another human. Olson’s experiences and views on nature, the past, and canoeing all resonated with Hobart and mirrored his own beliefs. The connection to Olson and the singing wilderness felt stronger than ever in Georgian Bay. Like one of the well-tuned strings on the guitar he played every night, Hobart felt in harmony with all that surrounded him. The granite mounds of the Canadian Shield, the splendid eruption of crimson and orange leaves on deciduous trees, and the soft whisper of wind blowing through the uplifted branches of the eastern white pines. Sometimes at dusk they sat around the crackling campfires and listened to the tremulous call of a loon crying for its mate. It was an eerie, beautiful symphony directed by a silent conductor, playing for whomever happened to be listening as stars appeared in the darkening sky overhead. In Georgian Bay, time no longer felt linear. Instead it seemed entirely possible that they might round the point of a small island and come face-to-face with La Salle and Tonty dressed in the finery of King Louis’s court.

  Each new day brought the men a deeper appreciation of the spectacular wilderness. No other part of their journey had felt so genuinely authentic. They rose before sunrise and broke camp, then paddled for several hours before stopping for breakfast. Fialko was charged with signaling when they would take a break from paddling. He had to rely on his own judgment without the benefit of a watch to call out the hour mark that meant they could rest for ten minutes. Occasionally Father Loran would turn around in their canoe to ask, “About time, isn’t it?” Fialko usually had to tell him to keep going. When he deemed it time for a break, both he and the Franciscan priest broke out their pipes and smoked while the canoes drifted across the water. In other boats the men chatted, closed their eyes for a few minutes, or pulled out their own pipes. When all the tobacco had burned down, it was time to move on again. The same practice had been used by the voyageurs, giving rise to the use of the word “pipe” to mean break.

  The day on the water ended when the sun sank below the horizon and the men found a place to land. They ate a meal of cooked peas or beans and drank water straight from the bay. They camped on the granite boulders so common to the area, sometimes erecting the three shelters on separate small islands. The shelter builders used rocks to hold up the tarps instead of the stakes they normally drove into the ground. Sleeping on stone could be surprisingly comfortable, especially after a full day of paddling thirty miles and unwinding around the firelight. Some of the cooks spent their free time frying up bannock, made from a mixture of flo
ur, sugar, and water. Others wrote in their journals or read books. Hobart often pulled out his guitar to serenade the crew with songs by John Denver. His favorite was “Rocky Mountain High.” I’ve seen it raining fire in the sky / The shadows from the starlight / Are softer than a lullaby. The lyrics seemed to describe the vast ceiling of stars above them.

  On the morning of October 6, Hobart followed his typical routine of consulting the charts in preparation for leading the fleet of canoes through the countless islands and islets. Since no one else was allowed to view the maps, it was left to Hobart’s judgment to pick their route. Making the task more difficult was the lack of detail on the charts. Often an area would be marked with “numerous small islands and shoals” without showing where exactly those islands appeared. Today was one of those days when it was impossible to tell what the terrain they’d pass through would look like. All Hobart knew was that they needed to make their way to Voyageur Channel, a protected passage between some islands and the shore that would shield them from wind and waves on the exposed bay. It had been used by paddlers crossing Georgian Bay for centuries. To get there, however, they first had to make their way around the Chickens.

  The Chickens are a series of huge boulders that were dragged into the bay at the end of the last ice age. Left in the wake of the retreating glaciers, they became submerged when the lake formed. The exposed granite rocks protrude from the water like the backs of enormous white whales surfacing for a breath of air. Some of the boulders are low enough to see over, while others are tall and covered in pine trees. They stretch across almost two miles near the shoreline and extend out into the bay for a mile. In some areas the boulders lie close to one another, presenting an impenetrable labyrinth, while other boulders are far enough apart to allow passage for slim canoes.

  Hobart couldn’t tell from his charts whether it would be possible to safely travel through the Chickens. He didn’t want any of the canoes to become damaged by paddling over rough rocks that were closer to the surface than they appeared. Before setting out he instructed the crew to paddle out and around the boulder field. The route would mean traveling farther and putting their boats at risk in the larger bay. A cold drizzle was coming down, but the water was calm and there was little wind. Conditions could always get worse, but they wouldn’t be in the bay for long. It seemed safe enough.

  Hobart’s canoe was last in line to make the turn around the Chickens and out into the lake. As he steered the canoe from his gouvernail position, he noticed a small opening between the Chickens and the coast.

  “Hold on a minute,” he said to his crew. He whistled for the rest of the canoes and, one by one, they came back. Hobart pointed at the passage between the boulders and suggested they attempt to find their way through. Since he was navigator and had successfully seen them through everything else to this point, no one disagreed. With Hobart leading the way, the six canoes nosed their way through the dense array of boulders. The cold rain turned the granite splotchy gray and seeped into patches of moss that grew in rocky crevices. The droplets splashed gently into the water, creating a rhythm with the sound of paddles pulling the canoes forward. After half an hour of following a combination of instinct and chance the expedition reached the end of the Chickens. Before them was the entrance to Voyageur Channel. The shiver Hobart felt had nothing to do with the chilly weather. It was spooky. Almost like they’d been guided by the old voyageurs. He’d never been to this region before, could’ve gotten everyone hopelessly lost in the boulders and been forced to turn back, adding time and miles to the day and putting the crew at risk of hypothermia. Instead, he found a shortcut.

  Once more the words of Sigurd Olson seemed appropriate: “I have seen what happens when food and equipment are lost far from civilization and I know what it takes to traverse a wilderness where there are no trails but the waterways themselves. The elements of chance and danger are wonderful and frightening to experience and, though I bemoan the recklessness of youth, I wonder what the world would be like without it. I know it is wrong, but I am for the spirit that makes young men do the things they do. I am for the glory that they know.”7

  Although Voyageur Channel was protected from wind and waves, the men found themselves wedged between towering granite bluffs, Philip Edward Island on one side and mainland Canada on the other. It was the end of the day, and they had no idea where they could land. Cliffs as high as fifty feet forced them to stay on the water. That was always the risk in Georgian Bay—since no one had planned out the specifics of where the crew would be camping, campsites could be less than ideal. At last they happened upon a grassy hill with a hunting and fishing lodge at its peak. The sight of such a lodge wasn’t uncommon in the region. Most were empty at this time of year—the summer tourism season was long over. Still, best not to trespass without permission. Several of the crew jogged up to the lodge to check if anyone was home. The owners answered and welcomed them to Mahzenazing River Lodge, site of a former logging operation. Despite the scruffy appearance and pungent smell of the young men (the water was too cold for bathing, so everyone had done without for the past week), the owners happily consented to the voyageurs camping on their lawn. Perhaps the act of hospitality was inspired by admiration for the group’s odyssey through remote Georgian Bay, or maybe the couple were simply happy to see any visitors at all, no matter their odor, since the hunting lodge could be reached by only water or air. Whatever the reason for the friendly welcome, the men were happy to have soft terrain to sleep on, and even more grateful for the fresh bread and jam offered by their hosts.

  It had been a relatively short day on the water in spite of the prolonged search for a campsite. Only nine and a half miles covered, thanks to the shortcut through the Chickens. Unfortunately they were still eighteen miles from Killarney. The small town was the crew’s first stop since entering the territory, and a brief return to civilization was appealing for several reasons. First, Sam Hess needed a doctor. The fire starter had been chopping wood when a stray shard flew into his face and struck his eye. He could still see a little out of the injured eye, but it was swollen and bloody. Stillwagon didn’t trust his limited skills as a medic to treat the injury and prevent infection. He wanted a real doctor to take a look. Next, the crew was running worryingly low on food. They’d planned on reaching Killarney and the liaison team three days earlier to resupply, but several days of high wind and waves had delayed their progress. Who knew what the liaison team was thinking at this point. There was no way for a message to be sent to them.

  Second, the crew was surviving on rationed portions of beans and oatmeal, and could probably manage for a few more days at least. No one was about to starve. But hunger had become an incessant, bothersome companion. The men joked about boiling up pots of moss for a nourishing stew the way voyageurs of old had done, or foraging in the woods for pinecones and rose hips. The possibility of hunting or fishing was discussed more seriously. Georgian Bay supported a profusion of wildlife: raccoons, bears, beavers, deer, fish, and fowl of all kinds. More than enough to feed a ravenous crew of twenty-three men, if they could only figure out how to catch them. Though they carried two ten-pound bags of lead shot for the muskets, hunting was deemed too lengthy and impractical a process unless it became absolutely necessary to prevent starvation. The blast of firing was likely to scare away anything with legs, and few of the musket men had practice aiming with the loaded guns. They only ever shot blanks straight into the air. Fishing was the more feasible option. Fialko and Mark Fredenberg managed to catch several pike and perch with makeshift spears, but the fish were hardly enough to be a feast. And they hadn’t been the most toothsome addition to their meal, though that was a failure of the preparation rather than the fish themselves. They’d removed the heads and scales then put the whole fish on spits, but some of the sticks they used turned out to be full of pine sap that leaked into the flesh. The resinous flavor wasn’t appetizing.

  If they could’ve caught and eaten the massasauga rattlers that abounded in
the area, they might never be hungry. The splotchy brown snakes slithered through the foliage and basked indolently on sun-warmed rocks, making themselves easy targets. But they were also venomous. The few close brushes crew members had with them made everyone overly cautious around the snakes. Ken had woken in a panic one morning when he felt sweat trickling down the side of his face and was convinced it was a small snake. Once a snake had slithered between Cox’s legs when he and Hobart were walking through the woods, sending him straight in the air. Cox landed with both hands held out like guns, making pewpewpew noises at the departing serpent.

  The only real option for assuaging their hunger was to snack on dwindling boxes of golden raisins and the last of the bannock—and pray to whichever gods might be listening that they wouldn’t be delayed from reuniting with the liaison team much longer.

  Even with Hess’s injured eye and everyone’s empty stomachs, the men reveled in the beauty of their surroundings and the simple joys of living outdoors. Distraction from discomfort wasn’t hard to come by. One afternoon photographer Bart Dean, who’d decided to travel with the crew part of the way through Georgian Bay, found a dead fish and tied a string around it to use as a limp sword. He called for Chuck Campbell, the once-shy teenager who had since grown comfortable with voicing his opinions among the crew. Back at the beginning of the expedition Cox had jokingly given Campbell a moniker celebrating his habit of wearing every sack and sash he could find for performances, resulting in a strange, jumbled collection of apparel. Adding to the name’s suitability was the fact that Campbell loved wildlife, whether it was living and breathing or in the final stages of rigor mortis. Dean decided to celebrate Campbell’s affinity by knighting him. He swung the dead fish over Campbell’s shoulder and officially dubbed him with the name Cox had earlier bestowed: “Roadkill.” The newly christened Roadkill wore the fish on his shirt for the rest of the day.