Whether on land or water, the key to keeping morale high was refusing to let boredom get the best of them. They were traveling without access to news, media entertainment, or the companionship of other people. Even with the most verdant surroundings and a religious respect for nature, paddling every day could become tedious, and too much tedium invited a host of other emotions: frustration, annoyance, anger. So the crew came up with a number of ways to amuse themselves. Hobart and Cox, paddling at opposite ends of the same canoe, worked with their canoe to perfect the Ojibwa stealth stroke (lying all the way down in the boats so only their arms protruded) and snuck up on flocks of floating birds. They invented other new strokes, like the Rodney, where Cox held his paddle with one hand and Keith Gorse, sitting behind him, reached over his head to push it down into the water. Sometimes they sang popular songs or told stories. The two canoes of the gold module—one driven by Hobart and the other by Stillwagon—had to work harder to keep up, since they had seven men between them instead of eight. Campbell was in the swing position, alternating between the two boats. But even one man short they managed to make more noise and merriment than everyone else. They’d dubbed themselves the Paddlin’ Madeleines.
In the evening chores were divided up among members of the same module, so the men who had spent the day paddling together often spent all evening together as well. There were no formal rules dictating who everyone had to spend their time with; some men formed tight cliques while others bounced between groups of friends. But the module structure tended to limit movement, since each module had its own chef, its own fire, its own shelter. It produced a strong sense of camaraderie between members of a module. They talked about anything and everything. Many came to know one another like family members. The adults particularly enjoyed seeing the way the teenagers had changed and matured since the start of the trip. They may have been typical high school students at the outset, but the past two months had made them into men.
Cox and Hobart, who were friends before joining the expedition, had grown even closer as the trip went on. Like all the best duos, the two had temperaments and personalities that complemented each other. Hobart was tall, with curly, fawn-brown hair and big glasses that magnified his blue eyes. He wore a patch embossed with a musical note around his neck since he was in charge of the musical portion of the crew’s performance. He also led some of the science projects, including creating a map using 17th-century tools and collecting water samples wherever they traveled. Hobart was friendly and generous with advice without being overbearing, which made him a popular confidante. Before the trip he hadn’t had much self-confidence, and it was a defect he’d always felt. As the expedition progressed, Hobart seemed to be gaining an ever-stronger belief in his abilities. He liked the trust the young men placed in him and was flattered to be thought of as a leader. Cox, on the other hand, was short, stout, loud, and opinionated. He was impatient and had a temper, but also the best sense of humor of anyone on the trip. Even when he was at his most frustrated, he was often cracking jokes.
Almost every evening, usually after all the others had gone to bed, the two men stayed up, entranced by the stars and the sound of the water and the firelight. Sometimes Cox read. He was a voracious reader and had adamantly refused when someone suggested they ban books while they were in Georgian Bay so as to be more wholly authentic. Sometimes they both wrote in their journals. Sometimes they talked. They also rehashed the day or discussed friends back home or what their futures held at the end of the expedition next April.
Like everyone else, the two thought often of loved ones they’d left behind. In January 1976, Hobart had divorced his wife, Helen, for a variety of reasons. Though he didn’t regret agreeing to come on the expedition, the strain of the upcoming eight-month-long voyage was one of the factors in their separation. Hobart wished things between them could’ve happened differently; he also left behind a three-year-old son, Seth, who wouldn’t recognize his father when they saw each other in December.
Cox had been married for six years to a woman named Pam, another teacher, and he constantly thought of her. However much he changed, she was sure to be changing even more. She’d been left on her own to pay the bills, earn a living, and keep herself occupied. Cox only hoped that both of them would be changed for the better.
Stillwagon, also married and with four children, felt guilty at times that he couldn’t share the experience with his family. “Last nite [sic] I got up during the nite [sic] and could not believe how the stars looked. I’ve never seen a clearer sky . . . It hardly seems fair that I have all these great experiences w/out you!” Stillwagon wrote to his wife, Rowena. Fialko wrote letters of his own to his fiancée, Linda, and thought of her frequently. They were going to be married in June, two months after the conclusion of the expedition. He felt bad for leaving her behind while he had the experience of a lifetime. But they’d known at the start of their relationship that this expedition would happen. The expedition was actually part of the reason they’d started dating—he met her when he went looking for a teacher who could translate some documents from French to English when the expedition was in its earliest stages.
Among the younger crew members there were fewer romantic attachments. Most enjoyed the adulatory attention of young women in the towns they visited. Those who remained in relationships with girls back home had their own methods for dealing with homesickness and heartache. George LeSieutre, whose girlfriend, Annie, had started college classes at the University of Illinois, wrote dozens of letters and made phone calls to her dorm whenever he could. Sometimes he played his harmonica to keep from getting blue, and he always wore the silver Saint Christopher medal she’d given him before leaving. It was getting tarnished, but he was reluctant to take it off for a polish.
The next day, as long as the weather was fair, two of the other romantically attached young men would get to see their girlfriends. Lieberman, who was dating Baumgartner, and Fredenburg, who had started a relationship with Palmer, were excited for more than just the food that awaited them. And Reid Lewis would get to see his wife, who would probably be relieved that the men had made it out of the wilderness unscathed. But however necessary her presence was as head of the liaison team, the fact that Lewis had so much contact with his wife when no one else could seemed to be just another way that he was different from the other adult crew members.
The following morning the men were finally greeted by good weather. They paddled for Killarney, the town where they’d planned to meet the liaison team several days earlier. The women were jubilant to see the men after worrying about their location. Jan and Marlena admitted they’d considered sending out a search party if the men’s arrival was delayed much longer. It had been a nerve-wracking forty-eight hours, but the women never really thought the men were in serious trouble. After all, they weren’t entirely like the original voyageurs, whose risk of injury or death was much higher and the distances separating them from people who could help much farther. With the modern voyageurs, everyone suspected injuries would occur. But death seemed beyond remote.
Near Blind River, Ontario
October 11, 1976
Wind, rain, and waves battered the fleet of canoes. All morning the paddlers had muddled through the dismal mess of water. Whatever luck had been with them during the first few days of beautiful weather in Georgian Bay had long since disappeared. Maybe Gitche Manitou was testing them—or maybe it was simply a bad time of year to attempt traveling through northern lakes. On its own, getting wet was a common enough occurrence and could be ignored for the length of a day’s paddle. But getting wet and being exposed to a cold wind was more than miserable. It was dangerous. Already some of the skinnier men like Clif Wilson and Jorge Garcia, who paddled in the same canoe as Wilson, were shivering and pale. If they spent much longer on the water, they’d risk hypothermia.
Hobart consulted his maps in the back of the canoe. The group had stopped at the tip of a spit of land to decide what to do next. The boats lurched o
ver four-foot swells. The occasional breaker splashing in over the sides sent men reaching for bailers to dump the water back out. With a howling wind coming from the southwest, there was no way to avoid being exposed to waves. Behind them there were several islands they could paddle around for shelter. The rocky shoreline would make landing hard, but not impossible, especially since the wind and waves wouldn’t be pushing them forward. Around the point ahead of them was a bay that stretched back for slightly more than a mile. They could paddle two miles to get to the opposite side of the bay, but that might be risky due to the direction of the waves. If they went straight into the bay, they’d have to hope for a soft landing site because the waves would be coming from directly behind them, forcing them ahead at uncontrollable speeds. Landing on rocks at high speeds could easily damage the canoes, and counting on a landing spot that wasn’t rocky was a gamble in Georgian Bay, where the shoreline was often granite boulders.
“Given what I can see of the terrain, I don’t think we should head into the bay,” Hobart said. Instead, he thought the crew should backtrack and find a sheltered landing spot to get the canoes out of the water. Not a wonderful prospect for the night, but probably safer than paddling into unknown waters. Many of the crew members agreed with his assessment, even if it meant turning back and camping on the cold, wet rocks for a night. Just when Hobart thought they’d come to a decision, Lewis said something to the men in his canoe, and they started paddling. In a moment, they’d disappeared around the point.
Hobart and the others exchanged incredulous looks. What the hell had just happened? What were they supposed to do now?
“If he’s gonna go, we have to go,” Hobart said. “We can’t be separated.”
As soon as they made the turn into the bay, the boats were caught up in the grasp of rolling waves and rocketed forward. All around them were walls of rock. Hobart, already angry with Lewis for making a decision without consulting the rest of the group, was growing more and more concerned that they’d find nowhere to land. They drew closer to the shoreline, shooting forward in the surf. Waves crashed around the canoes and poured in over the gunwales. It felt like the rough ride they’d had on Lake Ontario all over again, only today it wasn’t sunny and the beach ahead wasn’t sandy, and Hobart hadn’t wanted to come this way. Just as it was looking as if the canoes were about to become splinters in the rocky teeth of the bay’s shoreline, a tiny sand beach came into view. The canoes flew onto it one after the other, tipping over on their sides and sending the crew sprawling, then scrambling to their feet to get out of the way of the incoming vessels. In minutes they had all safely landed.
Despite the fortuitous conclusion of the day’s misadventure, Hobart had never been so infuriated in his life. He volunteered to get firewood to start warming people up and stomped off to the woods with an ax. It felt good to turn the logs and driftwood into kindling. Cox, equally riled by what had happened, joined Hobart in turning branches into toothpicks. What had been the point of that maneuver? To put them a half mile closer to their destination, Blind River? Because Lewis had planned a rendezvous no one else knew about? Because he thought it was safe enough? Where exactly did he draw the line when it came to safety? Sure, everyone had known the inherent risks when they signed up for the expedition, but that didn’t mean they needed to purposely court danger. Hobart felt some sense of responsibility for the crew and would do whatever he could to prevent any accidents. And if that meant stopping earlier than they’d planned, so be it. Was their schedule more important than their lives?
When Hobart and Cox came back to the campsite with armfuls of splintered wood, Lewis was gone. It seemed he’d wanted to meet with the liaison team and that was part of why he’d been so determined to reach a landing spot that put them closer to Blind River rather than turn back to one of the sheltered areas they’d already passed. It would’ve been helpful if he’d filled everyone else in. Still, the thought made Hobart slightly calmer as he continued to help set up camp. A bit later, DiFulvio approached him. As the gouvernail for Lewis’s boat, he’d been part of the initial breakaway and had heard Reid discussing it with Ken after they landed.
“What’s this I hear about you being afraid to paddle?” he asked Hobart.
“What the hell does that mean?” Hobart said.
DiFulvio explained that he’d heard Reid and Ken making disparaging comments. Hobart’s temper flared right back up again, and he fumed for the rest of the night. I vow never again to put the crew in jeopardy because Reid wants to do some dumbass thing, he thought. This is where it changes. He wasn’t going to sit back and listen when Lewis made a decision for the group. They were supposed to decide things democratically. If he had to shout himself hoarse until they came to a resolution, he would do so. He was the navigator. He had a responsibility to see the men safely to their destination.
St. Ignace, Michigan
October 21, 1976
The snowflakes fell thick and heavy as an opaque curtain, momentarily blotting out the shoreline. The men were less than two miles from their landing site but so snow blind they had no way of knowing if they’d made any progress. The sky had been clear and sunny when they set out, then rain clouds rolled in, and now snow. Three seasons in one day. By the time they got close to shore, the clouds had rolled back and the sun was peeking through the flurries. To the crowd on shore at St. Ignace, the incoming voyageurs were like ghosts emerging from a storm.
In the ten days since they’d crash-landed on the beach outside of Blind River, the expedition had undergone several major changes. First, winter had roared in with a fury, bringing freezing temperatures, frost, and snow all within twenty-four hours. The crew had awakened the morning of October 15 to a silver layer of frost feathering across everything. Their leather moccasins had hardened into unwearable lumps, and any of the canvas ponchos that had been propped up on sticks to dry overnight were now solid enough to stand on their own. Everyone spent a few minutes in front of the breakfast fire coaxing malleability back into their leather shoes. Every day since then, they’d seen sporadic snow flurries. Thin icicles were growing along the gunwales of the canoes, and the air had a sharp nip. The snow roused everyone’s spirit. The crew agitated for a chance to take on a full blizzard, since it wasn’t yet cold enough to be unbearable. Lewis wasn’t as thrilled with the changing seasons, though not for reasons of personal discomfort. The crew was taking longer than ever to get moving in the morning. It was as if the cold had turned them into half-asleep bears, ready for several months of hibernation. And it was only October! At this rate they’d never get any paddling in by the time December rolled around.
In addition to the arrival of a new season that brought with it harsher, more dangerous weather, the crew was also adjusting to a reshuffling in the ranks. Back in Blind River, Father Loran made a permanent departure, ceding his spot to Sid Bardwell. The priest said he simply couldn’t stay warm and maintain the energy to paddle all day long, and his back continued to bother him. Instead of paddling, Father Loran would travel with the liaison team and do advance work while continuing to perform masses for the crew and their audiences. Bardwell would join Fialko’s canoe for the remainder of the trip. He’d finally gotten his wish. No more back-and-forth nonsense. He was a milieu, part of the red module, and could say good-bye to hotel beds and fast food.
The first week as a permanent crew member didn’t go quite as smoothly as Bardwell had hoped. It was actually something of a living hell. Freezing cold every night, no sun to speak of, bland food for dinner, cornmeal in the morning—not his favorite breakfast to begin with, made that much worse when you had to eat it every day—and tempers always flaring. Hobart, Cox, and Stillwagon always erred on the side of caution, wanting to avoid bad weather and hypothermia. Reid and Ken took the other side of the argument. They needed to keep moving, keep ahead of schedule, press forward. Bardwell thought Lewis might just send the crew out into a tornado, the way he talked. But for all the annoyances, Bardwell was happy to be experienci
ng hardships with the crew. Now he could join in their commiseration. He wasn’t just watching the men go through terrible weather and frigid nights—he was part of it.
Last of all, the crew had said a final farewell to Canada. For the rest of their journey they’d be paddling American waterways. They exited Canada on October 18 at a minuscule town called DeTour Village. The customs office was in the living room of a private home, and the woman who checked their paperwork and welcomed them back to the United States was also the town’s reporter. She took pictures of the canoes down by the water and interviewed a few of the crew members for a story before they set off onto Lake Huron. The Georgian Bay experiment was over.
It had been a successful one in many ways. The prolonged isolation from civilization had given the crew a deeper sense of connection with the original voyageurs. They had new experiences to share with people along their route. They’d also proved that modern men could survive on essentially the same rations the voyageurs would’ve had. Many of the crew members had lost weight over the three weeks they were in Georgian Bay. Others who had been skinny to start were gaining weight in muscle. Their various interdisciplinary projects were also moving forward. Water samples had been collected, maps drawn, and the official journal had grown by several thousand words.
But the time spent far from society had also revealed some defects in the group. Their language had grown more than a little salty out in the wilderness where no one was around to hear them. They’d have to tone it down now that they’d be traveling through populated regions again. More troubling than curses were the ever-deepening divisions. Fialko had hoped Georgian Bay would forge them into a true team in a way they hadn’t yet become. Instead, the mistrust in leadership led to increased discord between the adults. Hobart and Cox were perpetually poised to go on the attack against the Lewis brothers. Fialko felt torn by the conflict. He respected everyone on the crew as individuals and disliked the amount of arguing that went on between them. They all had fair points to make, and he didn’t envy Reid’s position. There was no winning as leader of the expedition and its main media representative. Those two identities were too incompatible. Lewis was either trying to perform stunts that put the crew in harm’s way to get a good photo, or he was being dictatorial with the crew’s schedule and daily progress. In some ways, he seemed to be turning into the embodiment of La Salle: aloof, overly demanding, and unable to relate to his men. Fialko only hoped all the adults could come to some sort of truce. That said, Fialko sided with Hobart and Cox on one issue: it always made him nervous to be traveling based on a schedule rather than the elements. This was especially true now that they were paddling through minor snowstorms.
The Last Voyageurs Page 14
